May the seasons fly toward spring

I recently gave myself an early Christmas present, a copy of Peter Kaminsky’s Fly Fisherman’s Guide to the Meaning of Life. Last night I got to the chapter on A Fly Fisher’s Essential Reading, and was pleased to note I’ve read a lot of the books listed:

• In Our Time, Ernest Hemingway, read;
• Trout Madness, Robert Traver, read;
• A River Runs Through It, Norman Maclean, read;
• Tarpon Quest, John N. Cole, nope;
• Fly Fishing Through the Midlife Crisis, Howell Raines, read;
• Superior Fishing, Robert B. Roosevelt, nope;
• Spring Creek, Nick Lyons, nope;
• Hatches, Al Caucci and Bob Nastasi, read;
• The Fly and the Fish, John Atherton, nope;
• Fishing with McClane, A. J. McClane, read

One or two of the “nopes" are going to go on a "to be read" list, but overall I’m pleased to see that I’m a reasonably literate fly fisher. Now, if my casting were as competent as my reading... but then I’d need to spend lots more time casting and less time reading.

these are dry flies, not ice flies

Photo by J. Harrington

In addition to having reached the Essential Reading list last night, today’s theme is brought to you by a significant drop in today’s high temperature compared to yesterday’s, with daytime highs consistently below freezing expected a week from now. Those conditions mean I’ll be doing lots more reading than casting for at least the next several months. That gives me two things to look forward to rather than complain about if I follow Yeats’ approach.

The Song of Wandering Aengus

By William Butler Yeats

I went out to the hazel wood,

Because a fire was in my head,

And cut and peeled a hazel wand,

And hooked a berry to a thread;

And when white moths were on the wing,

And moth-like stars were flickering out,

I dropped the berry in a stream

And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor

I went to blow the fire a-flame,

But something rustled on the floor,

And someone called me by my name:

It had become a glimmering girl

With apple blossom in her hair

Who called me by my name and ran

And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering

Through hollow lands and hilly lands,

I will find out where she has gone,

And kiss her lips and take her hands;

And walk among long dappled grass,

And pluck till time and times are done,

The silver apples of the moon,

The golden apples of the sun.

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