All the troutbums I know have fairly     normal lives; most even have jobs or at least someplace to go every morning. They have houses that need painting and yard duty and all the other stuff that passes for responsibility; retirement planning, college funding, car payments, you know REAL LIFE.

 This July Liz and I took our annual trip to the St.Joe River in Idaho for a week and met a guy that has pretty much cut the tether to our reality. I give you to the great Dutch Holland USN Retired.

            Dutch was camped next to us with his dog Faith. The first evening we had a terrific thunderstorm with all the trimmings, lightning, thunder and a hard rain. I had returned from fishing early but had not escaped the deluge. Dutch waved me over from under the awning on his trailer, produced a coffee cup of Mr. Johnny Walker and we made our introductions as the storm boomed through the canyon.

 Dutch had been on the road for fifteen summers camping and fishing, moving his home every two weeks as the forest service rules allow.

 He’d had five wives, he said;” and had bought more washers and dryers than Sears.”  He said that he was still mostly friends with his ex’s except the last one that wanted his canoe so he chain sawed it in half and left her half on the yard of his last real house in Las Vegas. Getting the picture?

He told me that once after some miss understanding he was required to take a test to find out if he had a drinking problem. “I got nine out of ten”, but with questions like: Do you ever drink in the morning. “On liberty”. Have you ever gotten drunk two days in a row? “On liberty”. Finally he told the Lt. Commander,” This test is obviously not for sailors.” He did say he could cut his drinking in half anytime by leaving the water out. You don’t find yourself in the presence of this kind of genius often.

 No, mostly folks have rules about every detail of their lives. Moderation is the thing, yet here on the banks of the St.Joe I meet a 70-year-old wild man burning the candle at both ends.

We loaded up our gear and headed out the next morning for a few hours of fishing on one of Dutch’s favorite runs, a beauty of a spot with a deep green trough full of cutthroat. He had a bit of a problem getting to the water with his bad knees, I assume the knee problem came from begging for forgiveness, but I could be wrong.

 This is always the moment of truth: can the guy really fish or just talk fishing. It wasn’t long before the Dutchman had a half a dozen little beauties to hand and graciously gave me his spot while he sat and enjoyed a smoke. We swapped off like that for a couple hours going through each other’s fly boxes and pretty much whooping it up like kids.

On the way back to camp I stopped at place I have had luck catching some big fish over the years. I told Dutch he really needed to tie on a heavier piece of tippet material just in case he turned a lunker, but he just gave me a smile. On his second cast in the fast water he got his chance, a huge cutt measured in pounds came out of the water like a Polaris missile and straight down on his fly. Of course the leader and fly separated instantly, Chief Holland survivor of two wars, five marriages and numerous encounters with the Mother ship just stood shaking his head.