Chatham was something of a fly fishing bum and the stories reflect it (he’ll fish almost anywhere for anything), but a modern fly fisherman can’t help but sit up and notice when Chatham tells us Bill Schaadt caught between 800 and 900 steelhead on the Russian River in 1956, yet when the book was written (the early 1970s), Schaadt would have counted himself lucky to land twenty.

What would that number be today?

In other words, the steelhead hasn’t always been the “fish of a thousands casts” and it’s interesting too see how its scarcity has created a folklore that isn’t — historically speaking — true.

Time adds weight to some written works (Swift’s A Modest Proposal is a shining example), and I’d recommend The Angler’s Coast to any newer fly fisherman (especially those in California) who wonders why so many are fighting so hard to restore our still-declining steelhead and salmon runs.

As someone who started fishing in the mid-70s and graduated from high school in 1979, Chatham’s stories about the west’s fisheries fall just outside my grasp; they overlap my childhood but were largely gone before I was old enough to notice, leaving me with the impression of something I should remember, but can’t.

The book was written four decades ago and things have largely gotten worse instead of better, and while it’s not a weepy recounting of what we lost, it is a robust set of stories about the very tail end of the losing, and perhaps an incentive to do the things it will take to recover at least a fraction of what have become the West Coast’s version of the buffalo.

See you in the stacks, Tom Chandler.

I’ll be honest; I was prepared to *not* like the Orvis Superfine Touch fly rod.

We all have our hangups, and mine involves marrying the latest high-modulus technology to supposedly smooth, bendy small-stream fly rods, the idea being the two rarely play nicely together.

A lot of today’s fly rod marketing involves words like “power” and “performance,” and neither is much in demand on a stream you can jump across.

Small stream wildflowers are a lot prettier than the Superfine Touch, but they don't fish as well...

Still, because I’m a benevolent rod snob, I agreed to test the Superfine Touch, especially once Orvis’ Tom Rosenbauer said many modern fly rods are designed to load well at 30′-40′ ranges (which neatly explains all the overlined rods we see on the river), while these rods were designed to load at normal small stream ranges (15′-30′).

When I had to choose the rod (disclosure: I did an ad trade-out), I tumbled for the 8′ 4wt instead of one of the more exotic lengths or weights, and for good reason.

The 8′ 4wt is the classic small stream fly rod.

Ian Rutter fishes his 8′ 4wt Scott G2 all over the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, John Gierach’s fave small stream rod is his 7’9″ 4wt Walter Babb bamboo, and the 8′ 4wt Winston TMF (Tom Morgan Favorite) is still around after a bazillion years.

In fact, when Chris Raine and I sat down and invested an hour discussing the ultimate small stream bamboo fly rod, we decided it looked like a 7’9″-8′ hollowbuilt, light-actioned 4wt with a tip light enough to curl a leader and a couple feet of line under that overhanging brush.

When I fish small streams, I vacillate between an 8′ 5wt Phillipson and an 8.5′ 4wt Diamondglass, so you can see how the 8′ 4wt was right in my wheelhouse.

While I was still in the shopping phase (I’m a slow buyer), the Superfine Touch in the 8.5′ 3wt or 8′ 2wt formats represented real temptations, but I’m a gruff, slightly crazy, “hey you kids get offa my lawn” kind of guy, and to me, that says 4wt.

What Happened?

Right out of the tube, the rod was something of a revelation — it felt like the love child of a toothpick and my bendy, you’ll pry-it-from-my-cold-dead-hands 8.5′ 4wt Diamondglass fly rod.

(Side note: I’m hearing ugly rumors that the “new” Diamondglass tapers are not the same as — nor the equal of — the old ones. More as we hear it.)

The 8′ 4wt Superfine Touch feels extremely light in the hand, and in fact, it largely disappears over the course of a day.

Because it has so little mass, you don’t feel the rod loading when you’re only casting a leader (that’s because it’s not), but after just a couple feet of fly line escapes the tip guide, the feel in your hand builds rapidly.

By contrast, my 8′ 5wt Phillipson bamboo rod will “load” carrying just a leader; the mass of the rod itself is sufficient to bend it.

Still, the Phillipson’s tip is too heavy for most small stream work (it was designed to fish at longer distances), so while I love my 8′ Phillipson, I was forced to admit the Orvis Superfine’s light tip cast more accurately at small stream ranges.

In this instance it seems the rodmaker’s hype is manifestly true; the Superfine Touch fishes beautifully at knife-fighting ranges.

The Orvis Superfine Touch in its natural habitat

The tip is light enough to roll just a little bit of line under overhanging brush, and the taper is slow enough to deliver the fly line with a great deal of delicacy.

This is not an all-around rod you’d want to use on big, windy rivers, but it’s plenty capable of airing out a little line.

Chris Raine and I cast it for distance in his rod shop’s high-performance casting pond (OK, it’s a parking lot), where it hit 40′ pretty cleanly.

With a little hauling, we were able to goose it out to 60′, though it’s clearly not made for those distances.

An added bonus; the 4-pc design makes it very easy to cram it into a daypack or slither through brush, and after falling on it twice, I’d have to say Orvis made it tough enough (they claim their “epoxy–based resin system with plasticizers” makes for a tougher rod).

One bit I didn’t fall in love with were the rapper-bling gold-plated guides and reel seat (the lightweight reel seat features an excellent design, but the gold color practically demands a pair of fuzzy dice).

Apart from the bling, the rod’s cosmetics are understated; the blank is unsanded and the wraps are a nice, conservative orange-red color (to this color-blind writer). It comes in a carbon fiber tube that’s light enough that you won’t necessarily leave it at home when you hike into a lake — a nice touch when you’re terminally clumsy but too lazy to carry a lot of extra weight on the pack.

I Come Clean

I would have loved to test the Superfine Touch against the equivalent rods from other manufacturers, but then, you wouldn’t be reading this for another year.

I will say this; at $475, the Superfine Touch is at least a couple hundred dollars less than the Scott G2 and Sage ZXL, and based on the G2 rods I have cast (the 8’8″ 5wt), it’s hard to see what might account for that difference, especially at the kind of distances I was fishing.

The aluminum (I think) reel seat is secure, lightweight, and sadly, gold.

In fact, I ended up fishing this rod a lot more than I had to; it quickly became my go-to rod for small streams, though I wasn’t necessarily admitting that to myself.

Finally, a friend wrote and said he’d been reading between the lines in my posts; did I like the Superfine Touch as much as I hinted?

The answer is yes.

Life, apparently, teaches us many lessons.

Simply put, I like this rod enough that if it was my only small stream fly rod, I wouldn’t feel deprived. It simply fishes well at what I’ll term “normal” trout distances, and the net affect is that the rod largely disappeares from the scene, leaving just you, the trout, and the (hopefully) breathtaking scenery.

That’s no small praise coming from someone who can typically take or leave (usually leave) rods built over the last two decades, and while I’m holding onto my 8′ Phillipson and 8.5 4wt Diamondglass, I’m forced to admit they both fish better when you can air out a little more line.

The Superfine Touch is a terrific rod, and at a couple hundred less than its competitors, it’s apparently a terrific deal too.

See you fishing at 40′ or less, Tom Chandler.

The Stratos 24 neatly occupies a middle ground for daypacks...

First, it’s comfortable. Very comfortable (ohhh, the comfort).

The trampoline style back support eliminates the hiker’s dreaded sweaty back, and it hugs my torso like a frightened monkey.

In fact, one of the best things you can say about a pack is that you forgot it’s there, and with this pack I always forget it’s there.

However, that comfort comes at a cost; the pack’s support stays are deeply dished, and while they keep your back cool and purring, the curve limits the amount of stuff you can jam in the pack (especially bulky items).

The "Airsupport" designs keeps your back cool and comfy, but robs the pack of space.

For warm-weather use, that’s not a problem; I could easily carry a day’s load (reel, rod, neck pack, lunch, jacket, spare fly boxes, pack stove, Wally food, etc).

Still, if you wanted to carry full-bore fishing kit (waders, boots, big vest, lots of fly boxes, big lunch, rain jacket, etc) on a long hike, you’d need to lash the boots on the outside, which isn’t this pack’s forte.

I could probably find a way, but small, warm weather day packs tend to lack a lot of exterior lash points. If I regularly carried fly fishing’s full catastrophe of gear, I’d probably opt for my larger Lowe winter pack, which — like most winter/snowboard/ski packs — offers a snowboard/snow shovel flap (a great place to stow wet boots).

Life, it seems, remains a series of compromises.

Neatly illustrating the principle of alien perspective is this: Older Bro thinks this style of pack is too big for most day trips, and has settled on a glorified hydration pack.

So much for simple.

That said, I think this is a brilliant day pack, and for most of my fishing, which involves hiking in my wading boots with a little extra gear and lunch and Wally food and the other stuff we burden ourselves with, it’s the real thing (and ohhh, the comfort).

In a nod to life beyond fly fishing, the Stratos 24 is the perfect size for a hike with the family (lunch, jacket, kid gear, dog stuff, wife stuff, camera, backup stuff for the stuff you lose along the way…).

The Summary

The Osprey Stratos 24 is a small daypack that more than punches its weight (full disclosure: I bought this sucker, and at full retail).

Tommy likes...

It’s basically heaven with straps (ohhh, the comfort), and it’s clearly designed by people who regularly use packs: all the straps adjust easily, and it’s got enough handy little pockets to satisfy your inner Navy Seal.

The big questions revolve around capacity and the lack of external lash points.

A few features:

• One main compartment (with hydration sleeve)
• Two side mesh pockets (water bottle, rod tube)
• Two top-loading small pockets
• Built-in rain fly
• Two hip-belt pockets
• Shoulder strap pocket
• Ohhh, the comfort

See you on the trail, Tom Chandler.

If you ever wondered about life on The Mother of All English Chalkstreams (the Test), thenKeeper — a recent release from outdoor-only publisher Departure Publishing — is worth your time.

Keeper is a genuine, entertaining read (click for publisher's page)

It’s a memoir by English Riverkeeper Martin Donovan that chronicles a way of life some fly fishermen might find romantic, and while the author does tend to disabuse his readers of that notion, he also evidences a knack for writing like he’s sitting right across the table talking to you, a half-empty bottle of someting between you.

The writing itself is straightforward (don’t expect a lot of literary gymnastics), yet Donovan’s prose creates compelling scenes.

Some of Donovan’s anecdotes are hilarious; others are quietly revealing — especially those that draw a picture of a private, pay-to-play fly fishing structure little seen in the US. (Most American fly fishing guides will choke on Donovan’s assertion that American fly fishermen are far more likely to accept advice than English anglers.)

While I enjoyed Keeper, it’s not without its flaws. Some of the later chapters felt under-developed and tacked on, and the writer twice descends into “kids these days” rants, which feel small and rootbound, especially given the fun, airy nature of the rest of the book.

Still, Keeper is a genuinely entertaining book by someone living a unique kind of fly fishing life — one that borders on a “trout bum” existence — yet takes place on England’s privately owned chalkstreams, the experience seems wholly removed from the American fly fishing scene.

Keeper website (Departure Publishing)
Read an excerpt from Keeper

Last weekend, the relationship fell flat on its face.

My marriage?

No.

My Patagonia Rock Grip wading boots.

No Better Than The Rest

Patagonia’s Rock Grip wading boots combine a more aggressive sole pattern than their sticky Riverwalker boots with a stiffer, more protective boot design.

More protective uppers; less grippy soles...

I was hoping that combination of goodies would create what I’ll call the Underground’s Ultimate Wading Boot.

But after three trips on the Rogue and Upper Sacramento — the latter flowing high enough that it feels like the river’s constantly pushing you around — I’m throwing in the towel.

Or, more accurately, screwing in the studs.

In a word, the stud-free grip of the rubber soles was untenable.

Last weekend, I needed help from Wayne Eng just to climb out of the river on a sloping rock bank. On the Rogue, I felt like I was on skates, and waded with less assurance than I can ever remember experiencing on that river.

Direct comparisons are difficult, but I’d suggest the Rock Grip soles were less grippy than my beloved Riverwalker soles — or even the straight rubber soles on the Simms and Korkers wading boots I tested (the Orvis boots came with metal studs installed).

I’m going to screw in the metal studs that Patagonia wisely included with the Rock Grip boots (no extra $$), and because studs represent what I’ll call “leveling technology,” I expect they’ll grip OK.

Still, they probably won’t adhere like the bladed metal studs that come with the Orvis wading boots — the winners from my earlier rubber soled boot test.

As the Rock Grip boots come out of the box, they’d function as an acceptable backcountry boot (they’re still lightweight and comfortable), though I’d suggest buying the lighter, less-expensive Riverwalker boots for small stream/backcountry use.

In truth, if all I ever fished were the small meadow and freestone streams I love so much, I’d buy a pair of the Patagonia Riverkeepers and never look back.

Because I don’t do that, I’m going to stud the Rock Grip boots (disclosure: I paid for these puppies), and see what comes next.

Regular readers know I like my Patagonia gear a lot (you’ll pry my Nano Puff jacket out of my coffin), but in a difficult wading environment, their unstudded Rock Grip wading boots grip poorly enough that I won’t go near a freestone river without the studs already installed.

In what amounts to a several-years-long rubber sole test, I still prefer rubber soles for all sorts of reasons (longevity, dryland performance, etc), but realize they require metal studs whenever the wading gets even a little difficult.

See you (staggering around) the river, Tom Chandler.

My standard — when nothing is hatching or otherwise happening — is a Parachute Beetle Bug, which is basically a gaudy red Western Adams. It works and ties easy, but I have poked around foam flies a bit, thinking they’d float longer (little fish can drown a proper dry pretty quickly).

So when I stumbled on these bad boys at the Arizona Wanderings site, I was intrigued:

Ultimate Small Stream dry fly?

He calls these #12 flies the Arizona Mini-Hopper, and while I’m not sure about the hopper bit, they do ring my “buggy looking” chimes.

A downwing caddis-style fly with a foam back and rubber legs (which you can simply pull off for a more streamlined appearance), Ben was kind enough to send me a few to test, and the results have been favorable.

They float extremely well — even after being mauled by a steady stream of little fish — and they work, even on the flatter water.

I won’t pretend that small stream trout are the most selective on the planet, but I have plenty of experience with days where one fly handily outfished a couple others.

The Mini-Hopper has — so far — performed as well as anything else, and because it floats so nicely, may become my generic “go-to” fly (the one I fish when nothing obvious is happening on the water).

It doesn’t look hard to tie, and because it seems to fall into a niche where it’s handily imitating everything from a caddis to a terrestrial, you can see why it might find steady employment on the pointy end of a small stream addict’s leader.

Any ideas from the Undergrounders?

See you on a small stream, Tom Chandler.

That’s why when Glacier Glove — long known for their neoprene gloves — asked if I wanted to test their new fly fishing-specific daypack, I said yes.

A special harness holds your wading boots in place

The River Pack sounded interesting and sounded innovative, and yes — I wanted to like it.

I just couldn’t.

The unique design features?

• Waterproof lower compartment for waders (which drains to the outside of the pack, but keeps the pack contents dry)
• Waterproof cutout and retaining harness for wading boots
• Changing mat that folds up into the pack (like a tongue)

Considered as a whole, the River Pack offers up some interesting ideas, though like any design feature, it involves compromises.

In this case, the boot and wader compartments were nicely implemented (though heavy-duty “pro” waders fit a little tightly into the wader compartment, and the changing mat is nice), but come at the cost of reduced capacity for other goodies.

For instance, the Glacier Glove River Pack feels as big as a full-size overnight pack, but – aside from waders and boots – carries only as much as a regular daypack. That’s either good design based on normal user patterns, or an unacceptable trade off.

It's a pretty pack -- and nicely constructed -- but suffers a few flaws...

It’s also heavier than even my full-size backpack – the product of all the goodies mentioned above (especially the fold-up changing mat) and a fairly substantial internal frame.

Again, weight isn’t an issue if you’re not huffing your way up any mountains, though the old saying about “ounces equal pounds, and pounds equal pain” didn’t occur to somebody simply because it sounded cool.

The Real Competition: Comfort

I’ve long used a Lowe Expedition winter technical daypack for fly fishing in the backcountry; it offers numerous exterior lash points and a panel designed to hold a snowboard.

All those lash points make it possible to attach gear (wading boots, wet waders) to the outside of the pack, though it didn’t guarantee a dry interior (sometimes goodies leak through).

The Glacier Glove River Pack seems to obviate that need, and in fact, I’m prepared to say it’s a wholly interesting design that’s marred by one sizable flaw.

The fit of the thing–especially the waist belt.

Comfort Is Your Friend

The whole point of a pack is to carry your gear (typically, way too much gear) comfortably and efficiently, and to that end, packs are a little like hiking boots; what makes me swoon might turn your foot into a mass of blisters.

Fit is important, and the Glacier Glove’s biggest issue is a waist belt hamstrung by a set bizarre double buckles — connections that made it impossible to quickly adjust the belt length.

The dreaded hard-to-adjust buckle (it's on the male side of the clip too). You'll want to replace it...

In any pack designed to carry more than a little weight, the waist belt should fit snug enough to transfer at least some of the weight to your hips.

Also, hikers often adjust their waist belt on the go, tightening and loosening it over the course of a hike (I regularly tighten mine when traversing rough ground, loosening it when I’m in full stride on the faster stuff).

The Glacier Glove made that difficult, and as a result, the belt didn’t allow me to rest much of the pack’s weight on my hips.

Even when I finally fiddled it enough to get a decent fit, you only have to wear different clothes (or simply gain/lose weight), and it didn’t fit again. This is more important than it sounds if you’re using the thing (like I did) both winter and summer.

The Final Word

In the end, I couldn’t quite bring myself to fall in love with the Glacier Glove River Pack, but not for lack of trying.

It’s an interesting design that could do away with the dreaded “wet pack syndrome” you experience after hiking home from a fishing trip, but suffers from a bad waist belt decision, some weight issues, and what might be perceived as overspecialization; if you’re hiking to a stream where you plan to wet wade, most of the pack’s unique features are wasted (you’d be better off with a smaller pack).

The built-in changing mat is a nice touch (though you could always carry a small tarp square, which would be lighter) — and you could change out the worthless waist belt buckles at any good outdoor store — but as it comes from the factory, I can’t recommend it (unlike their sun gloves, which I’ll review in the future).

See you on the review trail, Tom Chandler

Recognizably the same, but subtly different...

Fortunately, no high fives mar Gierach’s latest effort, and you can either be thankful or disappointed, though given Gierach’s ability to sell books, it seems many fishermen happily chose the former.

In No Shortage of Good Days, Gierach offers the usual mix of essay subjects, and though this book feels like it rambles a teensy bit more than his earlier efforts, he still delivers the goods, and does so in a way that invokes what I’ll loosely call “the larger picture.”

When you reach your mid-60s it seems natural to tumble the larger picture around in your head a lot more than when you were 35, and while Gierach isn’t threatening to retire (then again, I didn’t ask), he is writing passages like this:

My generation has been especially prone to this kind of foolishness, and I’m not the only one of us who woke up in his early 40s— with not much more than a pot to piss in— thinking, Okay, I’m functionally self-aware and I know how to fish. Now what? On the other hand, fishing when the fishing is as good as you’ve seen it in years can seem like a civic duty. And for that matter, it’s comforting to live by your wits in one of the few places left on earth where your wits are sufficient. In the end, you may never get it exactly right— Annie Dillard said, “There is no shortage of good days; it’s good lives that are hard to come by” — but it’s still worth trying.

This book lacks the darker edge of Grave of the Unknown Fisherman and the optimistically uplifting feel of his earliest books, and the latter is wholly understandable — if your perspective doesn’t shift over the course of 25 odd years, then you might want to check yourself for signs of fossilization.

What emerges is a snapshot of a fly fisherman who has made a choice many of us wonder if we should have made— and is now looking hard at the significance of it.

To his credit, he doesn’t exactly flinch from the looking, nor does he populate the book with droning monologues about what it all means. It’s just included along with the reports about which flies worked best on which streams, and somehow, he makes it seem relevant.

The Small Stuff

One aspect of No Shortage of Good Days immediately captured my interest; what appeared to be a real spike in Gierach’s love affair with small waters.

He does the big-water trips to Baja and for Atlantic salmon, but a surprising chunk of the book was devoted to smaller waters and even smaller fishing parties, and like it always is with Gierach, I found myself moving through his essays, nodding along at what feel like “universal” insights (like most of humanity, I mistakenly assume the rest of the universe shares my exact tastes).

Outside of the small stream efforts, a favorite essay was titled “Cheating,” which offered something of a history of some of fly fishing’s class wars (nymphing, etc). Like many of the essays in the book, I wished it had gone longer.

No Shortage of Good Days also showcases Gierach’s ability to wrap seemingly insignificant details into his narrative which add immeasurably to the story, and I fully admit that I don’t really know how he does that.

It’s very easy to drown your words in details that appear superfluous, and in fact, it almost always turns out they are.

In Gierach’s case, mentioning the combined smell of diesel fuel and cow flop in the same breath he uses to describe the best steak dinner he ever ate shouldn’t necessarily work, but there it is (and yes it does).

Gierach’s best skill as a writer has always been his ability to wander through a fishing trip, picking out the relevant pieces and enhancing the narrative with insight gained elsewhere— all of which happens just prior to the reader’s arrival at a point he often never saw coming.

The one aspect often explored with less depth than before are the characters accompanying him on his fishing trips; we got to know people like AK Best, Ed Engle and Mike Clark in some depth, yet those populating Gierach’s modern essays seem less fully revealed.

Gierach suggests that’s simply because he doesn’t have three decades of history with most of today’s fishing buddies, and that he’s traveling alone more often (“It’s a recession,” he said. “Everybody’s broke.”)

The Big Finish

I’m tempted to suggest the obvious; with 16 essay books still in print (dating back to 1986, a remarkable record), those who like Gierach will buy this book because it’s recognizably his work, and those that don’t like his work won’t be swayed by a review.

In that vein, one of the worst things a writer can hear is that their latest effort is basically more of the same, but in this case, this is more wholly recognizable Gierach writing, which could be a bad thing if so many of us didn’t put down his last book wishing he’d tacked on just one more essay (and one more after that, and…).

No Shortage of Good Days offers us the usual engrossing mix of straight reportage, insight, and goofy anthropomorphism alongside a larger perspective on a life that most of us envy, yet couldn’t (or won’t) embrace, and that aspect of it made it seem engrossing and relateable.

Excerpts From No Shortage of Good Days

Gierach on Steelheading

“So you fish well to the bitter end, telling yourself, truthfully, that how well you do something is probably more important than why you do it. If you have the disposition for it, this is a better way than most to spend your time, even if you never hook that wild twenty-pound steelhead. You’ll hear fishermen talk about being humbled by a river and we all know what that means and how it feels, but but somehow the language of competition doesn’t quite ring true. It’s not so much that the river beats you; it’s more that the river doesn’t even know you’re there.”

Gierach on Local Water

“I’ve always been fascinated by fishermen’s peculiar fondness for certain local water, and I mean my own as well as others. Sometimes it’s so obvious it amounts to a cliche, like the lake at the old summer cabin or the secret honey hole where you always hike in by a different route so as not to wear a trail others might follow. But just as often it’s a spot that’s too popular and crowded, too trashy, or a second-rate stream that you have a soft spot for in spite of the fish being small and far between.”

Gierach on Ego

“I have met some high-brow fishermen who bragged that they only fished at the best places with the best guides at the best times of the year and who claimed to not only always catch fish, but to always catch lots of real big ones. If true, a life without drama must be awfully boring, and if false — as you have to suspect — then lugging around an ego that requires that much preening must be a terrible burden.”

Gierach on Bluelining

“The idea is to fish obscure headwater creeks in hopes of eventually sniffing out an underappreciated little trout creek down an un-marked dirt road. Why is another question. I suppose it’s partly for the fishing itself and partly to satisfy your curiosity, but mostly to sustain the belief that such things are still out there to find for those willing to look.”

Gierach on Home Water

“I think the need for these places is genetically encoded, which is why we all had our secret spots as kids. At first it was behind the couch or under the bed, but eventually we got our legs under us and ventured outside. If were weren’t lucky enough to have a patch of woods and a creek close by, there was at least an alley or a vacant lot or an unlandscaped corner of a friend’s back yard that we could claim as our own because no one else was using it.”

Gierach on… Life?

“Roughly along the same lines, being left alone to do something you love is a rare pleasure that’s denied to many, but some are more suited to it than others. I won’t get all New Age about this, but even if you’re not your own best friend, you should still at least be able to stand your own company.

In my case, lots of solitude on my home water has trained me to be a low-key, persistent, and appreciate fisherman, but it has also made me too shy of crowds and noise to ever be comfortable in the twenty-first century. But then I’ve always had this tendency to go a little overboard. For most, there’ll be more of a happy medium.”

Scott writes movingly of the Maine woods and through her words, you can almost feel the deep sporting history of the place — the kind of world lost to so many of us in our “mobile” society.

Her essays are shorn of the self-affected posturing cluttering so much of today’s fly fishing literature, and those who believe fly fishing adventure exists only when a former soviet republic is involved will probably want to look elsewhere.

Instead, Scott simply pens a sweet, simple straightforward account of her year in fishing and bamboo rod making. There is little conflict or drama, a fact which is likely the book’s greatest strength and perhaps its biggest weakness.

Scott’s at her best when she weaves the moments of her life into her sweetly rendered observations of nature, yet at times, it can grow a little too sweet. Brook Trout Forest would be the better for a little edge or conflict — something to wake up the essay (and the reader). You can’t truly appreciate the good without at least a little of the bad, and Brook Trout Forest too often lacks even a little bad.

As a result, in one or two moments it felt a little one-dimensional, and those who prefer a hard-bitten look at the outdoors will find this a little too soft.

Outside of those moments, Brook Trout Forest is a wonderful book and a smooth read, and if the author ends up road tripping to Michigan and Labrador without ever getting falling down drunk or feeling the need to “create” adventure, then I’m fine with that, and I suspect a lot of other readers would be too. Her infatuation with bamboo fly rods added a nice dimension to the read, especially when she and her rod building partner crafted the two rods they were taking on their Brookie trip to Labrador.

For those who like to try before they buy, here’s an excerpt:

The roar of the Otter’s engine prevented much conversation, but the important things were obvious. Fred, behind me, pointed out a black bear not that far below. David pointed to caribou trails worn though the moss on an esker. The ceiling held at 600 feet, cloudy as promised, but we flew gracefully below it. The land rose up nearer the plane as we shouldered the only real mountain between us and the Woods River system. The white, blue and green flag of Labrador was inspired by all of this, a sprig of black spruce, the wealth of lakes and rivers, the simplicity of the wild landscape.

Endless dark spruce gave way to a sparser look, nudging the tree line. Caribou moss, really a lichen, carpeted openings in a light yellowish green, alders and willow shrubs a medium, brushy green. Granite from the roots of time emerged here and there, still fresh, and the patterns of muskeg and water decorated broad expanses. Lakes, lakes, everywhere, and beautiful rivers, some like mirrors, some roaring and exciting. Bogs with pools, then arching rock whalebacks. Braided caribou trails etched onto the landscape. I leaned on the daypack on my lap and rested my forehead against the window, my chin on my hand. For 150 miles, it was impossible to look away.

Brook Trout Forest will probably never receive the readership it deserves, though I liked it very much and suspect some of the Undergrounders will too. Scott writes simply and richly of a life well lived, and a world that — for many — is worth a closer look.

See you at the bookshelf, Tom Chandler

Where to Buy Brook Trout Forest:

Alder Creek Publishing

The Angler’s Bookcase

Other Reviews of Brook Trout Forest:

From Three Rivers Lodge

The Fishing History Blog

Maine Outdoor Journal

He’s bright and he’s clearly thought about this stuff a lot more than I have and he’s clearly OK with being challenged, and it’s hard not to end up swimming in that reservoir of ideas.

Still — despite the fact his voice was going away — I got some interesting stuff, including this thought about fishing for winter steelhead (when conditions are uncertain and the fish hard to find):

But the winter fish are worth it. They’re huge and they’re bright and they’re raspy and they still have sea lice on them. It’s worth it. It’s just worth it. You may only get one or a few, but it’s like rhinoceros hunting; you don’t bag thirty of them, you get your one or a few, take your Teddy Roosevelt picture, and leave it at that.

It’s not about the body count, and more people should probably fish trout that way. They really should.

Work to do, and yes — tomorrow there will be fish to catch (perhaps big fish). I’ll get the interview up next week.

See you at the word processor, Tom Chandler.