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Guides, as a rule, take their hats pretty
seriously. Now, I will agree there is nothing quite like being nuzzled up to Mr. Johnson,
while he is holding up that twenty pound steelhead, but when you look at the guide in the
picture, you notice the hat. That’s because the hat defines him. From the French
Pierre to the Indiana Jones jungle safari, hats are like signatures, every guide has one.
Personally, I am a ball cap, guy. Not the tall front Caterpillar hat type, but rather the
Babe Ruth low cut, that I can pull down to my ears and feel the top of the hat, cap. Why
do I like them? I don’t know, really. I like a cap because it is cool in the summer,
with enough bill that will shade my polarized glasses. Something that I can bring in under
my hood when it rains. I hate a hat you have to worry about, when a gust of wind comes up.
And its got to be green, the more olive the better. Makes me feel like the fish can’t
see me. I tend towards colors that blend with nature. By the way, who ever came up with
that red bandana around the neck for pictures thing? Its only, like obvious, you are
trying to add color to the shot.
I remember passing Bob down below Deer Creek one day. He had this red handkerchief on his
head. Looked like a misplaced diaper. As I floated by I said, "Sorry about your head,
Bob." My lady client let out a giggle. Bob never said a word, he just glared as we
floated by.
Anyway, there are lots of hats, and Jackson decided he needed a new image. He decided on
this Australian bush hat. You know, the one that decided at the last moment, not to be a
cowboy hat so it flipped one side up, like something smashed into the side of it and
stuck. Jackson’s was a double whammy because not only did it have the mashed up side
but a pheasant kill on the front. Now that’s a hat!
Accomplished anglers can walk with a purpose, but guides and bull riders can strut like a
rooster. You can generally tell them apart though. With a guide, you could bounce a ball
between his knees and actually hit him. So there we were, just outside of the little
cowboy town of Epharata. We were guiding some gentlemen on Lake Lenore, and we stopped in
the fast food mart for a morning brew. Jackson comes strutting in with his new Aussie hat
on. As he passes a couple cowboys at the coffeepot, one of them turns and says in a high
cutesy voice. Ya Whooo?"
Jackson tried to ignore them, but I started laughing so hard I had to lean up against the
candy machine, to keep from falling down. For the rest of the day, every time Jackson
would let out a war whoop when one of his guys hooked a fish, I would answer back,
"Ya Who?"
A couple years later, I was floating the Sauk in early March. There was frost on the oars
and a nasty east wind blowing off of Glacier Peaks. It was a pretty but very raw morning.
I was rowing, with Jackson and long time angling friend Bill Jam sitting in the front of
my 14’ drift boat. We were looking for steelhead. I pulled my waterproof bag from
behind me and asked if either were interested in a pull of hot chocolate. Jack declined
but Bill said sure, and I poured him and I a steaming cup. I had just tucked the thermos
back in the bag and was stowing the bag away when Jackson says, "You know, Maybe I
will have a cup."
I answered, "Jackson, I just put the thermos away!"
"Well , its a mans pergo..perav...pervo.." he stammered.
"Prerogative, you mean, prerogative." I corrected. "Besides, it’s a
Woman’s prerogative."
Bill looks at Jackson and adds in a little voice, "Ya whooo?"
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