The Legend had been guiding on the Frying Pan River for over thirty years, though few people knew his real name. Everyone just called him “The Legend.” His reputation stretched across the Rockies like the river itself—strong, steady, and impossible to rival. He knew the Frying Pan as if it were an extension of himself, every eddy, every riffle imprinted in his mind like a map. Anglers traveled from all over, hoping to catch even a fraction of the trout he seemed to entice on any given day.

That morning, as the light fog lifted from the river, The Legend sized up his new client. Derek was a typical novice—his gear mismatched, his waders still too clean, and his boots clumsy against the rocks. The Legend had seen a hundred Dereks in his day, all eager to impress, all about to be schooled by the river’s subtle demands. So the day began.

They waded into the river, the cool water pressing against their legs, and The Legend led Derek to a deep pool, affectionately known as M1, a prime spot for trout. He figured he’d spend most of the morning untangling lines and showing Derek the proper way to cast. He had his usual speech prepared about committed backcasts and the art of reading the water. But before he could offer a single word of advice, Derek did something that made The Legend pause and mumble, “WTF”?

Instead of lifting his rod in the traditional way, Derek swung it low, almost as if he were side-arming the cast. His line unfurled in a sweeping arc just above the water, not cutting through the air, but gliding along the surface. The fly settled with such delicate precision that The Legend had to blink. The trout must’ve thought it was the real thing because, before The Legend could process what he was seeing, Derek hooked a fish.

“What was that?” The Legend asked, genuinely puzzled.

Derek shrugged. “Just seemed easier than what I usually see.”

The Legend shook his head, sure it was a fluke. But then Derek did it again. And again. Fish after fish. Each time, he made that strange, low-flicking cast, and each time the trout responded. It was like watching someone break every rule of fly fishing… and somehow perfecting the art in the process.

By mid-morning, The Legend was in awe. He prided himself on mastering every casting technique there was, but this—this was something new. Something that seemed impossible, and yet, the results were undeniable.

Finally, The Legend couldn’t resist. “Mind if I give it a try?”

Derek handed over his rod, and The Legend mimicked the cast as best he could, the movement feeling foreign in his hands. It took a few attempts, but eventually, he found the rhythm—the subtle, horizontal flick, the way the line danced just above the water. It was like discovering a secret he hadn’t known was there, hidden just below the surface all these years.

For the rest of the day, The Legend practiced the technique, refining it, testing it in different parts of the river. The fish responded with the same enthusiasm for his fly as they had for Derek’s. By the time the sun dipped low behind the mountains, The Legend knew he had witnessed something that would change fly-fishing forever.

They called it the “Frying Pan Never, Ever Do that Flick,” a name that stuck as more and more anglers noticed The Legend’s new method. He taught it to his clients, and word spread quickly. Soon, other guides were asking him about it, trying to understand what made it so effective. Within a year, it was being used on rivers across the country, revolutionizing the sport.

Though the “FPNEDTF” or the “Legendary Flick” for short was associated with The Legend, he never forgot where it had come from. Derek, the rank amateur for somewhere The Legend can’t recall, had introduced it without even knowing what he’d stumbled upon. In the end, The Legend’s mastery of the river had been challenged by something as simple as a fresh pair of eyes—and it was a lesson he carried with him for the rest of his days on the water.