As noted in an earlier column, for a week in early December my wife and I baby-sat our niece's kids on Bainbridge Island, Wash.

In addition to a day steelheading on a coastal stream, I wanted to spend some time fly fishing in Puget Sound trying to catch my first sea-run cutthroat trout.

Prior to the trip, I had checked the Net, called an outdoor writer friend and tied some flies on stainless hooks.

One day when the kids were in school, we drove to a nearby town where I found a fly-fishing shop. The shop was sterile, like a box store, but well-stocked with medium gear, not much entry-level stuff, and a few over-priced high-end rods and reels.

I introduced myself to the owner (I assume) and told him I wanted to catch a sea-run. I'd already researched a few fishing spots, so I wasn't asking for his hot spots. I just wanted confirmation that I would have my best luck fishing incoming tides.

"We have guided trips," he offered instead. "And there's some flies over there in that bin that will catch trout."

When he asked where I was from, I answered, "Montana".

"Well," he replied, "the more you spend, the more information you get, just like in Montana."

Whoa. I don't know if he had a bad experience in a Montana fly shop or not, but that was my cue to boogie-on out of his little fly shop.

What a terrible thing to say to anyone who walked through the door of his business. I've read we tell one person if we like the service, three if we don't. Well, I've told more than three.