Entries in fly fishing writing (50)
Written by Larry Wells
(First published in Southwest Airlines “Spirit” Magazine, June 1996)
“It ought to be a guarantee that I am honest and sincere about this noble river, practically unknown to the world, when I confess that I have given up the Rogue, and the fishing lodges I own at Winkle Bar on the most beautiful and isolated stretch, to camp and fish and dream and rest beside the green-rushing, singing Umpqua.” ZANE GREY
Our guide Tim Caine arrives at 6 sharp, country rock playing on his jeep radio. “There’s coffee and muffins on the back seat if you want ‘em.” He’s in his late twenties, lean, tanned, a fish charmer who enjoys his work. By six-thirty the mist over the river has disappeared and the Douglas firs on the tops of the ridges are framed in golden light. Standing on the steep boulder-strewn banks with my fishing compadre, P.D. Fyke, I make out a ghostly shape in the clear water. “That’s steelhead,” says Tim. It takes an experienced eye to spot the fish under the foamy, rippling surface. The steelhead rolls on its side, and a bullet-shape flashes silver in the green water.
LINK (via:Hotty Toddy)
A blast from the past from Scott Carrier in Esquire.
The remote Yunnan Province of southwest China. A land of twenty-thousand-foot peaks and endless rivers cut through bottomless gorges, of jagged glaciers and cold mountain lakes. A fly fisherman's paradise. Or so we thought.
Fishing was Matt Reinemo’s top priority. Then, in quick succession, he fell in love with a non-fishing woman, got married, and became a father. Now along with his tackle box, he juggles a diaper bag. In Compass of My Soul, Reinemo searches for striped bass and peace of mind on the flats of his beloved Nantucket Island, suffers through luxury during a fishless weekend at a bed and breakfast, chases marlin offshore, and fights a losing battle to control the size and scope of a birthday party at home. Through remembrances of his own upbringing in things piscatorial, fishing adventures in Florida, the Bahamas, the Caribbean, and Costa Rica, and having observed countless fathers fish with sons in his years as a guide, Reinemo considers what it means to be a good fishing father, and somewhere along the way, a great dad.
I'm a few chapters into Matt's book and so far it's a really great read.
It's like rancid ice cream coated with honey and molasses and then sucked through a full pixie stick.
If I were stitting in a doctor's waiting room and wanted to flip through something which was very light and full of pictures, I might pick up something like this book.
If you want to learn how a self-proclaimed Alabama red-neck saw the light and became a liberal editor for the New York Times, it's your nickel.
And, of course, Gus ends up finding his meaning in the eyes of some backwoods hippie chick and has a religious experience (if you can call it that) while walking home from a long, incredibly drawn out trip down a river following a fish on his line.
When the reader is hoping for the "hero" to die your book sucks.
I gave this as a gift & he said the inside is upside down to the cover.
I'm completely confused why this book gets good reviews. It's not even a good picture book.
At this rate we'll never die.
And the writing is over-caffeinated, to put it mildly.
This book is NOT about flyfishing.