Trout fishing has a mystique all its own.

To a certain elite fraternity, it is less a pastime than a calling, one just a notch below breathing itself. It is a world of tippets, line mending, hatch matching, whisper-soft presentations, and rods so light they seem better suited for conducting chamber music than hauling in fish. It is the magic of a trout rising to a dry fly in a slick seam, or the sudden jolt of a hand-tied streamer disappearing near a shadowy eddy.

In short, it all looks wonderfully refined.

So naturally, I figured how hard could it be?

I was determined to find out. Webster defines a neophyte as a beginner or novice, and that is exactly the trail I found myself following. Still, I had no doubt that in due time I would master the art and become known far and wide as The Royal Coachman of New Mexico. With a little luck, I felt certain I was only a few casts away from legendary status.

The first thing I noticed about trout fishermen in books and on television was that every last one of them looked impeccable. They never appear rumpled, sunburned, or like men who have crawled through brush and mud to reach the water. No sir. They are always dressed as though a trout might judge their wardrobe before deciding whether to eat the fly.

So I did what any aspiring legend would do.

I went shopping.

That was my first descent into despair.

One glance through a fly-fishing catalog was enough to make my eyes glaze over. The sheer assortment of clothing, rods, reels, gadgets, boxes, waders, flies, vests, and accessories was enough to make a man believe that trout could only be caught by a properly outfitted financier. Money, it seemed, could be no object if one hoped to join the ranks of the famous.

I went straight for the jugular and just about maxed out my American Express card.

First came a pair of $600 waders, guaranteed to keep water out and heat in, or maybe heat out and water in. I never quite got that straight. They featured boots apparently tested by Himalayan climbers on Everest, quick-release suspenders that looked capable of towing a pickup, and enough layered protection up front to make a Marine feel underdressed.

I was impressed.

Then came a 56-pocket fishing vest for $140, four fly boxes for $180, a collapsible landing net that seemed capable of doubling as a portable tent for $300, a 9-foot IM26 fly rod marked down to a mere $600, and a matching graphite reel with weight-forward floating line, backing, and tapered leader for another $400.

Naturally, I topped it off with $450 worth of handmade, guaranteed-to-catch-trout flies and a “Fly Fishing for Dummies” video for $60, produced by none other than B.A. Nutz, who at one time had apparently served as barber to Santa Fe fly-fishing legend Gray Spentwing Wolff.

I was like a kid in a candy store, only the candy store accepted credit.

Then came the wardrobe.

This was the clothing that would transform me from average Joe Blow into a streamside aristocrat. I now know how Clark Kent must have felt changing into Superman, except Superman probably spent less. I bought a folding Swedish hat adorned with three flashy peacock feathers for $210, two silk-and-twill fly-fishing shirts for $380, utility pants with 13 pockets for $220, a gray-and-silver windbreaker for $110, two lightweight sweaters for $160, and a pair of moccasins for around the campfire for $200.

I even bought a hand-carved rainbow trout pipe for $120. The salesman tried to sell me a custom lighter to go with it, but I told him I did not smoke. I just figured the pipe might add a little atmosphere while I discussed my legendary exploits with other anglers.

I was ready.

For three weeks, under cover of darkness, I watched the video and practiced in private. I fine-tuned my casting, worked on my knots, and strutted around in my new outfit like an ambassador from the Kingdom of Trout. I also ordered four cookbooks devoted to preparing fresh trout, because my favorite fish to eat has always been trout, especially fried.

How sweet it was.

Then, at the last minute, it dawned on me that no true legend ought to arrive at the river in an old 1989 Sunbeam.

That led to my second descent into despair.

I bought a new SUV for $98,800.

This machine had it all: embossed leather seats decorated with fly-fishing symbols, a monstrous V-16 engine, winches front and rear, GPS, digital television, a foldout bar, and a stainless-steel rainbow trout hood ornament. It was, beyond question, the vehicle of a legend.

I remember the day well: June 29, 2002.

As I headed toward the river, I thought to myself, This is the day a legend is born.

Unfortunately, the grand arrival was somewhat muted by the fact that the only anglers in sight were two rough-looking fellows dunking garden worms.

Not wanting to make too much of the fact that they happened to be fishing in the same river as a future icon, I politely asked, “Catching any fish?”

“Been pretty slow today,” the older one said as he wrestled another nightcrawler onto his hook. “Caught about 12 rainbows, but only kept two of the bigger ones for supper.”

With that, he reached into a beat-up wicker basket and pulled out a trout so large I honestly thought it might have been folded in thirds to fit. I had never seen a rainbow that big in my life. It looked like an offspring of Moby Dick.

Momentarily rattled, I quickly regained my composure.

“Pretty good little trout,” I said. “Guess the bigger ones will start biting later this afternoon.”

As I walked away, I overheard one of them mention that he had only seen someone dressed like me once before, and that was when he went to the circus.

I ignored it and continued downstream toward a “secret” spot mentioned in the B.A. Nutz video.

Apparently, I was not the only angler who had purchased that masterpiece. There were 23 fly fishermen working that one “secret” hole. So I kept walking.

After about 45 minutes, I came upon one of the prettiest pools I had ever seen. It was quiet, beautiful, and blissfully empty. I chuckled to myself imagining the looks on those other fellows’ faces when I casually strolled past them later carrying a trout the size of a Labrador retriever.

Legends, of course, must remain humble.

What I discovered almost immediately was that casting in a real stream bears very little resemblance to casting in one’s backyard. It became painfully obvious that the state maintenance crews needed to get in there and trim those overhanging limbs. Before I ever got a fly onto the water, I lost eight flies and leaders to the surrounding trees.

Still, I finally managed to land one on the water and felt a tremendous swell of pride in my rapidly expanding skill set.

A few minutes later, I backed into a wasp nest.

The retreat that followed was swift, violent, and deeply undignified. Somewhere during the chaos, my peacock-feathered hat came off and floated downstream, which was unfortunate because it had cost enough to qualify as jewelry.

By mid-afternoon, trout were dimpling the surface.

Then, off to my right, maybe 20 feet away, I saw a tremendous roll from what could only have been a record fish. My cast, I must say, was sweet. The Rio Grande King streamer landed just a foot from the swirl. I gathered the slack and started a stop-and-go retrieve, just as instructed on the video.

Then it happened.

The bait stopped. The rod bowed in a graceful arc. A heavy fish surged deep in the pool.

It ran, changed direction, and headed downstream. I applied pressure exactly as the pros had instructed. My mind filled with visions of glory. I could already see the taxidermist blinking in astonishment as I laid this river monster on his counter. The town would probably rename that bend Coachman’s Pool. There might even be a historical marker.

This is the spot where the state-record rainbow trout was taken and the Royal Coachman legend was born.

Then the fish rolled.

To my amazement, this “trout” displayed a slick fur coat and buck teeth.

In all my life, I had never heard of anyone hooking a beaver while fly fishing.

It looked like a scene from Jaws, except with incisors. The beaver came at me chewing fly line like it had a personal grudge. I let out a shriek, stepped backward into a hole, and disappeared headfirst into the icy water.

By the time I surfaced and got my senses back, the beaver had chewed itself free and was swimming toward its den with my favorite streamer dangling from its ear like a trophy. Before disappearing, it paused just long enough to give me a look of utter disgust.

I crawled up the bank, stripped off my soaked clothes, and reached for my rain gear, only to discover it was size X-small.

I wear X-large.

That was another detail I probably should have checked before leaving the store.

It took a long time for the wind to dry my clothes, especially the long johns that were supposedly good to minus 100 degrees. While I stood there waiting, a young boy wandered by and on his first cast caught a beautiful rainbow in the five-pound range.

The kid was friendly enough to tell me he had taken it on a Blue Natt Graywing Special.

I dug through all four of my fly boxes and did not have anything even close.

Then came another setback.

A New Mexico Game & Fish warden stopped by and asked to see my fishing license.

Of all the things I had purchased, none of them, strangely enough, turned out to be a fishing license.

My pleas fell on deaf ears. The ticket was written. I was crushed.

Eventually, I called it a day and trudged back toward the parking lot. As I passed the two worm fishermen again, I noticed that one of them was now wearing a hat with peacock feathers suspiciously similar to the one that had floated off earlier.

Interesting.

My two-hour wait for Joe’s Locksmith Service in the parking lot was uneventful. Once Joe unlocked the SUV and retrieved the keys I had absentmindedly left on the front seat, he smiled politely and handed me a bill for another $100.

On the drive home, I stopped at McDonald’s for a hamburger. In the window was a sign advertising a rainbow trout sandwich special.

But I hate fish.

So what did I learn from this entire ordeal?

For starters, trout fishing is a whole lot harder than it looks. False casting, tippet sizes, wet flies, dry flies, hatch matching, line mending, and presentation all belong to a level of technical complexity that can leave a normal fellow feeling like he needs an engineering degree just to get started. Then there are the environmental hazards: rain, cold water, wasps, tree limbs, tickets, lockouts, and the very real possibility of hooking a rabid beaver.

That is a lot to ask from a man simply trying to become a legend.

After giving it considerable thought, I have decided that at this stage of my life I may be better suited to a less demanding and certainly less complicated sport, such as bass fishing or golf.

As a matter of fact, just yesterday I bought a couple of videos.