Salmon River Steelhead: Part 3...Crossing the Line?

Back in the day fly fishing was a gentle sport, ideally practiced by gentle men and the occasional gentle woman. Unheard of were addicts, bums and maniacs; no beadheads, no coneheads, no rubber legs, you had your dry flies and wet flies and streamer flies and fish porn portraying gonzo jokers, fly rods clenched in teeth, wasn't even a dream; nobody talked of ripped lips and a pig was the main ingredient for New Year's Day dinner.

Some would say "since then we have indeed crossed way over the line." Others would argue...well, otherwise. Nothing to get all fussed up over...beads and cones and plastic lures and strike indicators (believe it or not some of us still call 'em bobbers) and all the rest of it is just...well, just the way it are these days.

Progress my man, simply progress.

Such were our thoughts as we floated the Salmon. As it were grinning fiendishly, much like two kids drooling the candy counter. Hooked steelhead, one we figured every 30 minutes or so, lunged and leaped to rid themselves of us, or perhaps more to the point, the hook point currently imbedded in their jaw--no doubt stinging like hell. Like is it really "fly fishing" rigged as we were with plastic beads pinned to our leaders with toothpics, weighted down with slinkies no less--yes the gear head sort--all of course set just so in the current beneath our bright pink/orange bobbers? 

I know our conclusions but what do you think? Let me know, never mind how hurtful your angst.