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The only thing that disturbs his local fishing pals is Lempke's recent habit of referring to May flies in Latin. Some years back, he decided to learn the Latin names to keep the myriad May flies straight in his head. He began reading up, and with periodic trips to his doctor in Idaho Falls, who helps him with Latin pronunciations, Lempke can now roll off the names with ease. He often prefaces a sermon at the local filling station on this or that May fly with the words, "Well, I hate to say this, but I don't believe those were Baetis propinquas." Or Ephemerella infrequens. Or Epeorus albertae. But Lempke reserves his finest pronunciation and greatest admiration for Ephemerella grandis, a.k.a. the green drake. "They're damn pretty, for bugs," he says.
As the anointed curator of that insect and related matters, Lempke each day gives advice to fellow fishermen on everything from his wife's recipe for barbecued brook trout to the best rooster necks to use for dry-fly hackles. He serves up his opinions with conviction but also with a gentle good humor, a high threshold for fools and the open-mindedness of an expert. At 66, he says, he still has plenty to learn from the river. "There are no set rules," he says, standing in the Snake, eyes darting upstream. "These are living things. I really think fish are individuals. They have some way of communicating with each other. People want to make fly-fishing complicated. I've read books that make it seem like you've gotta be a Ph.D. to go flyfishing. Everybody's looking for the secret. I don't think anybody will ever find it. At least, I hope they don't."
Lempke casts, and his fly lands just above the spot where a fish has left widening ripples. He picks up his line and casts again. Three times, four times. On the fifth cast, the green drake just barely nicks the surface when an olive back emerges, and with an almost imperceptible disturbance, the fly vanishes. It is a big fish. Lempke sets the hook.
Alongside the stream, the neon lights of the handful of motels and restaurants wink on. A heavy truck, loaded with cut pine, rumbles past on U.S. 20. Off to the west, Bishop Peak turns indigo. As the darkness unfurls, Lempke stands in a spot he has stood in a hundred times before, watching his fish move downstream. He pauses for a moment, then, feeling the pressure on the line, moves downstream. "Look at the son of a gun go," he says to no one in particular, and pulls his hat closer to his skull.
—By Russell Leavitt