The Paper Hatch

The Orvis Guide to Finding Trout
By Tom Rosenbauer. Published by Lyons Press; $34.95 softbound.

“Reading water” — figuring out where trout might be holding in a river or stream by examining its surface and character — is not conceptually complex. The fish seek three things: security from predators; comfort with regard to temperature, current speed, and dissolved oxygen; and spots where they can gain more calories from food than are expended in its acquisition. Many and maybe even most of us obtain the rudiments of this knowledge through trial-and-error experience on the water and perhaps through advice found in f ly-fishing magazines and howto books, on the internet, or picked up during a guided trip. Many of us probably haven’t advanced much beyond the rudiments. We’re able to figure out generally where we should put our fly, but it might not always be the most effective spot if we truly understood how flowing water and its characteristics influence where trout prefer to hold.

Tom Rosenbauer’s Orvis Guide to Finding Trout goes a very long way in helping us better comprehend the trout water in front of us and improve our ability to fish it well. The first part of the book, “A Trout’s World,” presents the factors that influence where trout choose to place themselves. These include the character of moving water (currents), the effect of temperature and water chemistry, and the broader influence of topography, cover (of many types), and water levels. Although fascinating and certainly useful in and of themselves, the scientific and experienced-based knowledge that Rosenbauer presents here serves as the foundation for his advice in the second part of the book, “Reading the Water,” in which he examines the locational preferences of trout in the types of water that we come across when we fish: riffles, runs, ponds and f lat water, pocket water, and big rivers (the lower Sacramento River, for example) and tiny streams. He describes the characteristics of each, tells you where to look for trout during normal flows and in high and low water, explains when, where, and why trout might move within or from this water, explains, too, the effects of seasonal changes, and gives advice on how to approach the trout and techniques to try.

The logical progression of these chapters and their sections hints that Rosenbauer is an excellent teacher, which is confirmed by prose that is clear, succinct, and easy to follow. He includes graphics and photos, the latter often shot from a drone, to reinforce the points he makes in his text, helping us visualize them, and in many examples, he shows us where on the water he prioritizes placement of his fly. (The spots he chooses are not always the ones I would cast to first, so I paid even closer attention to his explanations.) This is an engaging book and one that is also efficient and effective in its imparting of useful knowledge. The book, by the way, is not just organized and written well, it is also uncluttered in its layout, which enhances readability and comprehension. A tip of the hat to the designer.

You might want to read The Orvis Guide to Finding Trout with a highlighter or a notebook by your side. I jotted down Rosenbauer’s advice and thoughts regarding such topics as preferred current speed and water depths, temperatures, bubble lines, flow consistency and turbulence, rocks and logs, and so on. Some of it I hadn’t heard before, and some of it I had, but was unaware of its importance, at least from Rosenbauer’s perspective. This is a book that educates not only beginning and intermediate fly fishers, but those of us who’ve been at it for years. In fact, it helps to have fished around a lot, because one will read an example of a fishing situation or look at a photo and immediately think of a similar place (and realize, in my case, how I might’ve fished it differently and probably better).

One of Rosenbauer’s objectives with this book is not just to have us more effectively fish a particular piece of water, but to encourage us to find and explore other places to fish. His “guide to finding trout” is broad in scope, discussing, for example, the use of topographic maps and satellite images to identify rivers and streams likely to hold trout. As Rosenbauer states in the Introduction, “I’m going to give you a lot more than you need to ‘read the water.’ I hope to give you an understanding of what makes a trout stream tick so that you can draw your own conclusions when you are out on the water or exploring new places, because exploration is so much of the enjoyment of finding trout.”

Fly fishing at its best is an adventure. The Orvis Guide to Finding Trout will help you do exactly what its title says, f ind trout, but in the process, it can also help you experience the pleasure and satisfaction that come through the discovery of likely little-known waters that offer good fishing and that you found on your own.

— Richard Anderson

The Books I Reach For

By Richard Anderson

I’ve received a lot of fly-fishing books over the years from publishers hoping for a review in California Fly Fisher, and I’ve also purchased a lot, mostly because they were out of print, yet covered topics of interest to me, or they were considered classics of the sport. These books f ill many lineal feet of shelving; some of them I’ll open again, others perhaps not. But I keep a handful within easy reach. These are the books from which I’m actively learning, books that cover things I’m interested in right now. I’ll often sit down and flip one open when I have spare time, to remind myself of some tactic or rig that I should use or to contemplate particular fly-fishing skills that I want to get better at.

It’s worth noting that my near-at-hand books are focused on what one would call traditional fly fishing — using the mass of a fly line and the lever-and-spring action of the rod to cast an almost weightless fly over a distance than can range from short to long. This contrasts with Euro nymphing, which casts a weighted fly with a line that has almost no mass over a distance that is short to middling. I’m not very proficient at this latter kind of fishing and don’t really pursue it as I should (it can be very effective), simply because I really enjoy the traditional approach, even if it sometimes might catch fewer fish. Basically, my interest and bias are toward line manipulation. I want to cast a line that will load a rod, and I want to manipulate that line while it’s in the air and on the water to achieve a certain presentation. I suspect a lot of you have the same interest and bias. Here are the near-at-hand keepers that I like to return to.

Casting

The Orvis Guide to Better Fly Casting, by Al Kyte, 2008. My casting sometimes gets sloppy, especially when trying for distance (I do it so rarely these days), and Kyte’s book is excellent for teaching how to cast well. He includes a number of “practices” — exercises, basically — to improve certain motions and outcomes; irrespective of your level of skill, some of these will likely be of use to you. And this is an excellent book for novices to work their way through, because each chapter builds on the lessons of prior chapters. Being largely self-taught, I wish I had this book when first starting out, because bad casting habits can be difficult to break.

Single-Handed Spey Casting, by Simon Gawesworth, 2010 and 2022 (second edition). Kyte ends his book with the recommendation that casting students “continue the journey” to cast effectively and suggests one path is the study of the anchored casts made with two-handed rods. Simon Gawesworth’s book covers this subject (and more), and he does so using a single-handed rod, which is the type of rod that most of us fish with, rather than a two-hander. The subtitle gets at this book’s utility: Solutions to Casts, Obstructions, Tight Spots, and Other Casting Challenges of Real-Life Fishing. My challenge to myself is to gain proficiency chapter by chapter. Doing so may take a while, but all of it will be fun.

Line Manipulation

Slack Line Strategies for Fly Fishing, by John Judy, 1994. A taut line can serve you well when nymphing or when hitting pocket water and riffles with a dry fly, but when fishing dries, wets, streamers, and nymphs across more than short distances, the addition of slack to your line during or after the cast can enhance your presentation’s effectiveness. Judy describes when and how to do it. I reopened this book several months ago after having read it in the prior century. Slack Line for both slack-line basics and for situation-specific tips.

Fly-Fishing Soft Hackles, by Allen McGee, 2017. Most of this book is about tying the type of wet fly known as the soft hackle, and it contains an overwhelming number of recipes. (I’m not kidding, there are several hundred.) But two chapters toward the back of the book, “Presentation Tactics” and “Favorite Rigs,” both totaling a mere 47 pages, cover line manipulation techniques and useful setups for fishing soft hackles. They’re an excellent add-on to Judy’s Slack Line Strategies. The presentation tactics include the “water hump mend,” “aerial hump and reach mend,” “stack and slack,” “strip and mend,” “swing and dangle,” “greased line,” “downstream walk,” “high-stick nymphing,” upstream presentations, and others. McGee provides a lot of specificity here — the illustrations are excellent, and the text is pretty clear. Many of these methods pair well with dry/dropper rigs that require motion to impart a sense a life and entice a strike, a method of fishing that I’ve been fiddling around with this season.

Thought Provocation

Trout Lessons, by Ed Engle, 2010. Another subtitle that says it all: Free-wheeling Tactics and Alternative Techniques for the Dijficult Days. Engle always gets me thinking outside the box — a good thing when living in a tourist-destination watershed where “difficult days” can be frequent. This book resides on my coffee table, where I can easily reach it when relaxing on the sofa and the whim for unconventional ideas hits me. Opening Trout Lessons to a random page invariably draws me into an engaging read.

Classics Revisited

With Michael Checchio

What is your definition of a great book? Mine is very simple. Am I likely to reread it? That is, can this book be read, more than once, with great pleasure?

I cast a wide net for new books, but I am, at heart, a rereader. A lifetime being what it is, I know I will be able to make my way through only a fraction of the world’s great literature. I read books for many reasons — insight, knowledge, but mainly for pleasure. Why not make the most of it with what’s tried and true and always delivers?

Rereading a book is like visiting an old friend, whether that friend is a favorite author or a much-beloved character in a novel. I listen for a familiar voice. For me, this voice is the essence of good writing. It emerges from the author’s prose style and conveys the true character of the book, as distinct from the characters in it.

By rereading a novel, I find I no longer have to race through it in my eagerness to find out what happens next. I can slow the pace and savor the language while feeling the book’s reverberations grow within me. The characters remain the same, and the words on the page never change, but the reader does.

My guess is that this habit begins early in childhood, when you insist on having the same bedtime story read to you over and over by Mom and Dad. It’s a childish pleasure that lasts a lifetime.

Although I read widely in many subjects, I have always had a preference for fiction. Fiction seems better suited than nonfiction for getting at emotional truths. Fiction explores the murk and mystery of being. Milan Kundera, in The Art of the Novel, called fiction “a meditation on existence.” Saul Bellow said, “Newspapers give us the news of the day but a novel gives us news of being.”

Nonfiction, on the other hand, informs, shows, chronicles, persuades, and sometimes stimulates us to action. At its best, it explores the human condition and the state of the world, delves into things that are truthful and profound, and speaks to beginnings and endings.

When the pandemic struck, and we went into a lockdown, I binged on my favorite books. I had so much fun, I’m looking forward to the next pandemic so I can do it all over again. I burned through all of Jim Harrison’s 12 novels and 24 novellas and reread all the great mysteries by Raymond Chandler and Ross Macdonald, as well as The Last Good Kiss, by James Crumley, the world’s best-written detective novel. I went back to familiar favorites, such as Edward Abbey’s Desert Solitaire and The Monkey Wrench Gang, as well as Ninety-Two in the Shade, by Thomas McGuane, True Grit, by Charles Portis, and A River Runs Through It, by Norman Maclean, a story that seems to restore the missing pieces of our world. And naturally, I reread Huckleberry Finn, my youthful introduction to river water. I first read it when I was 11 or 12 and immediately recognized it as the world’s greatest novel. Over the years, I have lost faith in much, but never in that.

In fiction and nonfiction, I prefer books that are “outward bound” rather than “inward bound.” Navel-gazing and solipsism hold little interest for me. I am not interested in suburban angst or “sad girl” novels. I prefer stories where the characters have real problems, not ones that are merely neurotic. I see nothing to gain from reading a book that — in the words of Kurt Vonnegut — “disappears up its own asshole.” The world outside is more interesting to me than the one at our doorstep. As Doug Peacock, author and grizzly bear expert, says: “The inward way is not the way to go. That’s a trap. Outside is good. Don’t look inside for salvation. Go spend a little time alone in the wilderness.” James Wood over at the New Yorker might not agree, but it works for me.

And, of course, I like angling books. But that’s no surprise. I’m a fly fisher. I came to fly fishing through the printed word. I was inspired to take it up after reading the trout-fishing scenes in The Sun Also Rises, by Ernest Hemingway. Now some might think fishing isn’t a lofty subject for literature. But what is Moby Dick? What other “hobby” has this kind of literary pedigree?

The art of good writing: have something to say. Say it well. The same rules apply to angling books as they do to high literature. And the first rule is to entertain, the second to inform. I have never known a fishing writer who didn’t have something to say. On the other hand, many so-called “literary authors” have nothing to tell us at all. Open their books, and you waive your right to be entertained. It’s as if their best subject is boredom. When Kurt Vonnegut taught at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, he told his students, “You have no right to waste a stranger’s time.” Mikey Spillane said, “You don’t read a book to get to the middle. You read it to get to the end.” “To entertain,” said Roderick Haig-Brown, “in its highest sense of providing sustenance to the mind, is the most important purpose a writer can have.”

Haig-Brown was a prolific author of many kinds of novels and nonfiction, but he is best known for his fishing books, many of which are considered classics in the field. “Art’s job,” he wrote, in Measure of the Year, “is to move our emotions and make us think and feel. Samuel Johnson argued in his preface to the 1765 Shakespeare that a work endures if it gives pleasure, but then pointed out that there are different kinds of pleasure. Some pleasures are simple entertainments, occasional, even frivolous — and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with those. Except those pleasures can wear thin or even wear out. But there is a deeper pleasure in trying to see the truth, by which I think that Johnson meant to imply something about the tragic complexity of life.”

Yes, that was a fishing writer declaiming on Samuel Johnson and Shakespeare. Fly fishing — Haig-Brown’s specialty — occupies a narrow niche on the bookshelf, but I would argue that the best of it holds its own with the very finest in mainstream literature. I am often surprised to find how many of my favorite “fishing books” are also among my very favorites in world literature. To those who accuse me of bias, I plead guilty as charged. But even readers who don’t fish are moved to awe by A River Runs Through It, and some of us, such as the novelist Pete Dexter, think Maclean wrote the best sentences in English since Shakespeare. Objectively, a case could be made that Thomas McGuane animates and brings to life the world of rivers and angling with as much art as Izaak Walton and that his collection of fishing stories, The Longest Silence, deserves a place next to the Compleat Angler on the shelf that holds the classics. As Jim Harrison said, “Thomas McGuane writes better about fishing than anyone else in the history of mankind.”

“A writer should have the precision of a poet and the imagination of a scientist,” said Vladimir Nabokov, the famous novelist and butterfly collector. He reversed the order in order to get it exactly right. Our best angling authors seem to have mastered this. And they do it with as much skill as John McPhee or Rachel Carson. They join scientific observation to lyrical prose in ways that connect the world of natural science with the world of art. Their best writing leaves us in ecstatic contemplation of our planet and has us meditating on the beauties, mysteries, and nature of life on earth. If that’s not the job of high literature, I don’t know what is.

Here is my list of the best of it. These are the angling books and stories that have given me the most pleasure to read and yield the most to me when I come back to them. I have reviewed most of these authors previously in the pages of this magazine. (The exceptions are John Gierach and David Quammen.) Each is a dog-eared classic. They belong on the shelves of all fly fishers and in the libraries of everyone who loves language and good books, cherishes and protects our natural resources, and eagerly plays in the great outdoors. No doubt each of you has your own private list of treasured titles. This is mine.