When I was 14 years old, my family took a road trip to Yellowstone National Park.  It was not too long after the terrible fires had swept the park, but it was still some of the most breath-taking country I have ever seen.  While there were many high points to a trip that included bear watching, Old Faithful, the natural hot springs, the Grand Tetons and far more than this cerebral cortex can access at this time, there is one aspect of the trip that left an indelible mark.  Allow me to provide a little background.

I am the son of a fisherman.  Predictably, this makes me a fisherman as well. 

My youth was filled with campfires, propane lanterns, stringers, lures, salmon eggs, sleeping bags, a GMC Jimmy and a fiberglass canoe that was made in my grandfather's shop.  My wakeup calls often came in the form of coffee breath and dew-soaked tent walls on cold Northern Arizona mornings.

Having spent my childhood catching and not catching fish in lakes and streams all over Arizona, I became quite adept at my craft.  There were those days when the fish just wouldn't bite, however.  No matter what Mepps, Z-Ray or Panther Martin I would tie to the end of my line, the fish just smirked.

On this trip to Yellowstone, my father and I decided we would add a new skill to the tacklebox.  We would learn how to fly fish.  No longer would we struggle through those days when only the old pro with the magical cast would catch his limit.  We outfitted ourselves with new tackle, new rods & reels, and dove headlong into our pursuit of trout.  Browns, Brookies, Rainbows ... whatever species was foolish enough to navigate our waterways.

The very first cast with my new fly rig was upon a beautiful stream.  My effort did not match up well with the scenery, however, as the line became a tangled mass of spaghetti.

After patiently retrieving and unraveling my mess, I made a second attempt.  This one was better, but still not in the spot I had targeted.

I lifted the line out of the water, drew my arm back to recast ... and buried that Peacock Lady right in my nose!  Unable to pull the barbed hook out, my parents had to load us into the truck for what was then the longest hour of my life.  On the way to the emergency room, my sister, her friend and my best friend all shared furtive laughter at my expense.  I was furious and terrified at the same time.  Fortunately, the ER doc was amazing, and pulled a magic trick involving the use of another line as a fulcrum to pop that fly right out of my nose.  My ordeal turned out to be more humiliation than anything else.  The only damage done to my ego.

Red with embarrassment and somewhat gun-shy, I managed to climb aboard a guided boat the following day to go fishing again with my father and my buddy.  This time on Yellowstone Lake.  We were offered the choice of lures versus flies.  My friend chose lures.  My father and I chose flies.  I'll never forget my pal pulling trout after trout after trout after trout out of that spiteful lake while my father and I got skunked.  Not one fish on the unfamiliar tackle between the two of us after 4 hours of flogging.  My friend was grinning from ear to ear for the rest of the trip with yet another anecdote at my expense.

Fortunately, I was undeterred.  I practiced with that fly rod.  I took it down to Lake Margherite in McCormick Ranch back home in Scottsdale and angled for blue gill and bass.  I practiced dry casting in the front yard.  I took it as my sole rod on many future trips.  Eventually, I became pretty darn good with that rod.  Over the years, my father and I have had some monster days once our new skills became properly honed.  Now, we are the ones who often catch dinner while fellow anglers flounder with limited tackle and skill sets.  My friend has not smiled nearly as broadly on the few occasions we have gotten together at the lake recently.

For those among and around us who would question the merit of adding new skills such as blogging and search engine optimization to the portfolio, I say you are working for today without planning for tomorrow.  Results may or may not be immediate, but they are more likely to follow the agent that never stops learning.

For those who would be intimidated to endeavor to start blogging, I say don't worry about getting skunked from time to time.  It's all part of the learning process.  While the skills of yesterday have served me and many other agents well, this is a brave new world in which we live.  To catch tomorrow's fish, you have to start adding skills to your tacklebox today. 

So go ahead and bury that hook in your nose, it'll pop right out! 

Paul Slaybaugh is your source for Scottsdale AZ Real Estate.  Selling Scottsdale, Phoenix and Paradise Valley AZ homes since 1999, Paul is always willing to injure himself to improve his service!  One call to Paul for all of your Scottsdale Real Estates needs, and you'll be hooked!  Quite figuratively, I assure you.