BOB KORNEGAY: Never judge by what’s on the cover

I knew I was in trouble when the imported brandy came. It was spend-the-rent-money stuff, the sort only a Frenchman can pronounce. The servant frowned when I poured mine into my coffee. My host, with whom I was to fish the next morning, smiled and continued his African safari story. I only half listened. I felt as out of place as a ‘possum in a ballroom.

I was a poor redneck in a parlor full of wealthy gentlemen sportsmen. I was there to interview my host for a magazine story, a magazine widely read by hunters and fishermen of above-average means. Frankly, the situation seemed to warrant another shot or two of brandy, but I was too scared to ask the scowling server for a refill.

When the other guests said goodnight, I was shown to my quarters. My bedroom in this “cabin” was a study in opulence. The house itself probably cost more than my entire subdivision. I prayed I wouldn’t leave hairs on my pillow when I awoke. And God forbid I should drool on the sheets.

In the morning, at breakfast, I was told my host, Mr. Rathman, would meet me in one hour on the trout stream that ran through his property. I ate hurriedly and drove to the assigned rendezvous point. I checked my waders for leaks and gave my attire a thorough going-over, hoping my appearance wasn’t too shabby. I assembled my fly rod and counted out an assortment of dry flies. The sound of an approaching vehicle cut through the babble of the mountain creek a few yards off the footpath.

Mr. Rathman, who yesterday drove a gray Mercedes, rattled up in a 1978 Ford pickup riddled with scratches, dents and rusted-out holes. The truck gave off a squeaking groan as it braked to a stop. The pipe-smoking, tweed-clad fisherman I was expecting turned out to be a sleepy-eyed, unshaven mountain man with a chew of Levi Garrett wedged into one cheek. Far cry from the dapper man at the head of the table the evening before.

“Mawnin’, Robbut,” he greeted, reverting to that nasal mountain twang common to nearly every high-country dweller south of Pennsylvania and north of Clarkesville, Georgia. The practiced diction of the corporate boardroom had fled overnight, it seemed. The man had roots and had returned to them.

I mumbled some incredulous, unremembered greeting and saw his eyes twinkle when he noticed my fly fishing gear and the waders I’d saved two months to buy.

“Fancy rig you got there, son,” he said. “You comfortable in all that git-up?” My host was clad in overalls, beat-up wading shoes, and a sweat-stained baseball cap dating from an era when the Atlanta Braves were perennially in the cellar.

Somehow still dignified in this surprising ensemble, the silver-haired tycoon reached into his truck and removed a cheap fiberglass spinning rod to which was attached an old Mitchell 300 reel. From a paper bag he produced a can of whole-kernel corn. Pointing to a rock jutting out over the creek, he indicated we would fish right here.

Dumbfounded, I sat down beside him, but not before I took off my fancy attire and made myself as comfortable as he appeared.

“Just ‘cause it’s a fly rod doesn’t mean I can’t tie on a hook and fish corn or worms with it,” I said, indicating emphatically that I was by no means an “uppity” trout fisherman.

In the time it took to catch a dozen fat rainbows between us, I conducted one of my most enjoyable interviews ever. During that interview, I learned an important lesson.

It makes little difference what a man is at any given time, so long as he never forgets what he was.

Contact outdoors columnist and writer Bob Kornegay at [email protected].