Crazy for Rivers: Tales of Trout Fishing
By Bill Barich
3.5/5
()
About this ebook
So writes Bill Barich, and this charming volume captures the essence of obsession. The hours he spent on various streams became a meditation on family, friends, and the natural world. To anyone who remembers the infinite patience of a grandfather on a lake, or the romance of a mountain getaway with a new girlfriend; to anyone who can recall each fish caught on days that were far too hot, or way too cold, or on rivers too crowded, or in canyons too steep; to anyone who has appreciated the trust of an age-old fishing partner, or marveled at the beauty of a leaping troutto anyone, in fact, who has ever gone a little crazy for rivers, Bill Barich’s wonderful memories of a season on the water and a lifetime of fishing will seem both touching and wise. This little book is a gem.
Skyhorse Publishing is proud to publish a broad range of books for fishermen. Our books for anglers include titles that focus on fly fishing, bait fishing, fly-casting, spin casting, deep sea fishing, and surf fishing. Our books offer both practical advice on tackle, techniques, knots, and more, as well as lyrical prose on fishing for bass, trout, salmon, crappie, baitfish, catfish, and more. While not every title we publish becomes a New York Times bestseller or a national bestseller, we are committed to publishing books on subjects that are sometimes overlooked by other publishers and to authors whose work might not otherwise find a home.
Bill Barich
Bill Barich is the author of numerous books, among them Big Dreams: Into the Heart of California and The Sporting Life. He has written extensively for The New Yorker, as well as Playboy and Sports Illustrated. He has been a Guggenheim Fellow in fiction. Barich lives in Dublin, Ireland.
Read more from Bill Barich
A Pint of Plain: Tradition, Change, and the Fate of the Irish Pub Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Laughing in the Hills: A Season at the Racetrack Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Long Way Home: On the Trail of Steinbeck's America Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5A Fine Place to Daydream: Racehorses, Romance, and the Irish Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5An Angle on the World: Dispatches and Diversions from the New Yorker and Beyond Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsTraveling Light: A Year of Wandering, from California to England and Tuscany and Back Again Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Sporting Life: Horses, Boxers, Rivers, and a Russian Ballclub Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Big Dreams: Into the Heart of California Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Hard to Be Good: Stories Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratings
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Book preview
Crazy for Rivers - Bill Barich
TO YOU ALL
The many fine anglers I know and have fished with,
and those whose paths may never cross mine
except through the medium of these pages . . .
—On loan from Ray Bergman
Rise free from care before the dawn, and seek adventures. Let noon find thee by other lakes, and night overtake thee every where at home. There are no largerfields than these, no worthier games may here be played.
—H. D. Thoreau, Walden
One
That autumn, I went a little crazy for rivers. The weather was unusually mild in northern California, where I live, and I had some time to spare and couldn’t imagine a better way to spend it than in the high mountain country as the leaves began to fall. I fished the Merced and the Stanislaus, the Kings and the North Yuba, and I had some luck on them all and might have fished the Tuolumne, too, if nature hadn’t dealt me a setback. It was a good period in my life, calm and reflective, even happy. The days flowed by unbroken, in perfect sunlight, and often I found myself thinking back over the years and thanking the heavens I’d come to be where I was, knee-deep in a trout stream with a fly rod in my hand.
Some people are born anglers, but I was not, even though my father had a passion for fishing. When I was a boy, I used to hear him complain about his distance from a decent lake as he dodged the traffic between our Long Island home and his office in Manhattan. He’d grown up in rural Michigan, the last of twelve children. His older brothers had taught him to love the outdoors, so he came by his longing honestly. His father—my grandfather, a stocky Slav always dressed for a wedding in a three-piece wool suit from Dubrovnik—was fond of the woods, as well, and saw no irony in decorating the tavern he owned with his cherished forest creatures (deer, moose, even hawks) stuffed and mounted.
For some reason, I’d met only a couple of my paternal uncles, so I enjoyed being told stories about them, especially about John, the eldest, who was a legendary hunter. He had shared a bed with my father for a while. That wasn’t uncommon in large families in those days, and it might never have been mentioned at all, except that John talked and hunted in his sleep. In the middle of the night, he’d sit bolt upright in a trance, grab my father by the shoulders, shake him, and shout, There’s a bear in the room! Oh, no! He’s going to attack us!
My father never saw the bear, of course, but it seemed real to him, and he would shiver and whimper until John stuck out an arm like a rifle, took deliberate aim, and fired a fatal shot.
Blam! Got ’im!
he’d cry. "We’re saved!" Then he would roll over and go back to sleep.
Though I couldn’t have known it then, not when I was still a child myself, I understood later that my father told such stories because he missed the folks on the Upper Peninsula and felt nostalgic for his youth and its sporting pursuits. His success in business had separated him from much that he cared about and had affection for, so every summer he would saddle up his family for a two-week vacation at a fishing resort, ordinarily in Minnesota—my mother was from there—but once in darkest Maine, at Sebago Lake, where I was puzzled and a bit frightened by the taciturn, stiff-spined, pipe-smoking men in flannel shirts, who were already cutting firewood in July.
I got my first fishing lessons on those trips, but I was a lackluster student. I could swing a Louisville Slugger with aplomb and even hit the long ball, but I was terribly awkward with a spin rod. Whenever I snarled my line or tossed a Jitterbug into a tree, my