Max, enamored with the group, began swapping fishing tales and techniques with some of the members at the tables. For an outsider, words like ‘shooting heads,’ ‘steel tips,’ ‘nymphs,’ and ‘wooly buggers’ would be meaningless, but for these veterans of the sport they were engrossing conversation.

Bruce Price, a member of the club for the past eight years, spun tales of Herculean accomplishments by fellow members. Price said that some members are able to cast their lines over 190 feet--the fly-fishing equivalent to baseball’s 500-foot home run. "That guy over there," said the tall and bearded Price, "is second-best in the country--and he doesn't even practice." A couple of members of the club listening to the conversation shook their heads in disgust.

Next to the picnic tables is club’s metal storage bin which has its lid propped open. Scotch-taped on the underside of the lid were dozens of snapshots of various trips, tournaments and memorable fish. Inside the bin was a hodgepodge of fly-fishing equipment including a couple of spare fly rods for those who don't have their own to use.

Both Soininen and Price said that the club and casting pools are special because anyone is welcome to both.

"There are no cliques here," said Price, "these guys try to help anybody and everybody."

After Max and I said our goodbyes to the fishermen and started out of the park, we noticed a small amount of graffiti on one of the park signs, a subtle reminder of what waited for us beyond the park gate.