Let’s face it, there’s a certain danger in reading John Gierach's Trout Bum . His wit, self-deprecation, and sharp, effortless satire are entirely infectious. If you aren't careful, his words will inspire you to drop everything, wade into a freezing river, and try to outsmart a creature with a brain the size of a lentil. In my case, re-reading Gierach recently didn't send me straight to the river. It sent me digging through the dusty, spider-guarded corners of my garage. In the early 1990s, seeking a natural escape from Manhattan's concrete canyons, I decided to learn to cast a fly rod. I bought an Orvis Rocky Mountain —eight-and-a-half feet, three ounces, built for a five-weight line—and had absolutely no idea how to use it. To avoid aimlessly whipping the water like scrambling eggs, I took fly-fishing lessons from Al Cucci, co-author of Hatches , on the Delaware River. With his guidance, I fished renowned waters: the AuSable in New York and Michigan, and New Jersey...
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