My Dad fishes in an old button-down shirt — sometimes white, sometimes blue.  The long sleeves ward off the Michigan mosquitoes and nothing comforts like worn cotton.  His sartorial signature is part Scottish frugality and part providing an old favorite with a better fate than a finger painting smock.  I wear t-shirts on humid August days in the mountains of Virginia and fleece on chilly mornings in Pennsylvania, but in Michigan I always return to the button-down -- partial to a white, frayed Brooks Brothers number until someone accidentally threw it out.  Donning a button-down, along with washing my face and combing my hair, constitutes getting presentable for the Saturday night steak dinner on our annual Opening Day trips to the Au Sable. My Dad fishes in khaki pants — usually accented with several colors of paint.  I like the intricate, wrinkled designs patterned on khakis that have stewed in a pair of waders on a hot day and the fact that wet khakis darken, which helps identify wader leaks.  Better yet is the crusty hand and musty smell that khakis acquire after a cool summer breeze has wicked away the sweat and wader leakage.  Plus, what goes better with an old button-down than a pair of wrinkled khakis? My Dad’s vest dates from the 1970's—thankfully, the earlier part of the 70's before polyester nearly undermined western civilization.  It is a model of simplicity, designed only to hold a couple of fly boxes in the front and a bunch of fish in the back.  The fly patch is entirely threadbare, and he has customized it by tying a pair of drug store half-frame glasses to it with a shoelace.  Despite a fairly acute interest in gear, I would rather part with the trusty Adams fly than my 20-year-old vest.  My Dad doesn’t wear a hat — he grew up before skin cancer and gonzo sports marketing.  I have a favorite khaki-colored baseball hat adorned with sweat, fish slime, and beer.  The demotion of this hat from its number one spot had a statistically significant correlation to the expiration of my bachelorhood, though a less seemly cap in a nice, serene navy blue has been approved for everyday wear.  Even my favorite draws scorn from my fancy-topped opening-day companions, who regard their headgear as the absolute linchpin of their angling ensembles and would rather sling garden hackle than fish naked-pated or gimme-domed.  Mike’s hat, with its smallish brim and vertical crown, resembles those worn by the “kid” in westerns.  Brant’s too is vaguely western, and is worn jauntily at the not-so-subtle angle favored by men who smoke Churchill cigars and drive large SUVs. Dad wears Redballs and continually complains about how long it takes me to get in and out of my stocking-foots.  He can wear Redballs because he essentially fishes two or three streams in Northern Michigan with relatively flat gradients, fine gravel bottoms, and easy car access.  I fish the Appalachian mountain creeks, big Eastern tailwaters, Michigan freestones and I do a lot of hiking.  These stockingfoots are of a breathable material, manufactured by a well-known outfitter, and though they keep me dry are otherwise unremarkable.  Unless, of course, the remark concerns how the three Au Sable amigos all wound up, without consulting one another, with the same waders, albeit in three different styles -- boot-foots, boot-foots with laces and stocking-foots. Dad sports gas station polaroids and spots fish ten times better than me.  I have been through fit-overs, clip-ons, wrap-arounds and glacier glasses in smoke, rose, amber, copper, you name it -- and I still can’t see the damn fish.  Although I am now committed to wearing sunglasses, the only benefit appears to be fewer stumbles on submerged logs. I suppose there is no profit in analyzing anglers based on their outfits.  No matter how idiosyncratic, there is often a method, whether functional, stylistic, or superstitious, to the madness.  In almost any endeavor, I’ll back the ruffian whose equipment is held together with duct tape and baling wire over some fop using shiny, top-of-the-line stuff, which frames the interesting fact that my dad catches lots of trout and I often don’t.  He mostly uses a couple-of-decades-old spinning rig, except during the Hex hatch or when we go out for a little after-dinner dry fly action. Where is my payoff for reverent leader checking, line polishing, vest packing, fly sorting, and the like? While the equipment fussing is certainly enjoyable, especially for those of us that don’t get to the stream often enough and that use tackle puttering and catalogue dreaming as a surrogate for the real thing, it often has a maddeningly low correlation to success.  For my Dad, new spinning reel line in the spring or one of my second-hand leaders is all he needs before he just goes out and catches fish.  Maybe the next time I should simplify?  I’ll take the old fly rod and just one small fly box. But, what if that time turns out to be the only night of the mythical seventeen-year locust hatch and I’m caught without any size 9 mahogany and chartreuse, rubber-legged, Crystal-Flash-Kiwi-Mutant-Ninja Cicada Emerger patterns? Hatches Magazine Subscription Price: $6.95 for each issue The Premiere issue is ready for shipping & the Fall 2008 issue will be available September 1st.