and kicked, but it was obvious I had to pull myself back up to the snag against the current or I was oing to be there until the fall monsoon. As I struggled with the rope with both hands, one also holding my rod, MY FLY REEL FELL OFF THE ROD. It disappeared into the rapids, trailing line back to the stripping guide. I let go of the rope and began pulling on the flyline. The reel just kept unreeling as it proceeded downstream. I found that by frantically pulling with both hands, first flyline, then backing, I could just make slight headway at retrieving the reel. So, while dangling suspended and taking on water in the current, I hauled away hand over hand, stripping miles of line and backing from the reel. Just as the reel neared grabbing distance, and I was about to lunge for it, MY FLYBOX FELL OUT OF THE VEST POCKET AND PROCEEDED TO FLOAT AWAY. I stopped hauling for the reel and lunged for the fly box, filled my waders, and would have overturned and probably drowned if my "safety" rope had still not snubbed me upright in the fast current. I flopped and fumed, but the box floated placidly away downstream never to be seen again. That simplified my predicament by 1/3rd as rapidly as it had complicated it, except that now my waders were filled. I did eventually retrieve the reel, even re-wound the backing and flyline, and released myself from the snag, discarded the "safety" rope, and proceeded, unhappily, downriver, looking for the fly box. Greg pulled out his "Float Tube" at Valley River as planned. I sloshed out in my "Rivercrosser", rubber Seal Dri waders ballooning with water like the Michelin Tire-man. My wife listened carefully to my story, and announced that, at 9:30 PM, she was starving, and had every intention of proceeding with Greg and his wife, to the restaurant for dinner, with or without me. Eventually I went into the men's room, took off all my clothes, WRUNG THEM OUT IN THE SINK, dried off with paper towels, all without one word of explanation to the 4-5 visitors who came and went. I redonned the garments which stopped dripping long enough for us to get seated by the maitre'd, and then began puddling again immeduately. I did my best to order and enjoy dinner, eruditely, a gentile fisher-person. That is, honestly, the last time I have used that "rivercrosser". Since there can only be a few of the old things still in circulation, I consider it my sacred duty to keep guard on this one to be sure it never gets loose, and wet, like the gremlins, again. I have three Float Tubes, to be sure I never, under any circumstances, have to use the "rivercrosser". FLOAT TUBES. Even the slight ambitiousness of THAT name worries me. Trump Doyle, McKenzie Flyfishers, July 1989
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