Recently I spent an afternoon perusing used book stores in a local town. Along with the fatigue associated with bending over, craning my neck, and constantly shifting from reading vertically to horizontally, I noticed something else. There were a lot of intriguing fly fishing books. Twaddle aside, I appreciate and truly enjoy all angling literature. But these days, I’m used to getting titles that, more often than not, simply add something interesting, historical, or novel to my collection.
There is one kind of book that has been a notable exception. For the past few years I have really found a lot of pleasure as I’ve read individuals’ account of fishing their water. Since I’m one person who only has so much time to fish, most of their water is not my water. And because my resources are also limited, most of their water will probably never be my water – even if just for a brief moment. Yet these books have been quite pleasant to find and to read.
Why should you read books about rivers you don’t and may never fish?
Escapism isn’t all that bad.
I don’t anticipate I’ll be doing much business in the Shire or on Mordor any time soon. But I still like reading Tolkien. Just because a place is far off (or fictional) doesn’t mean you can’t put your head there. Angling is an adventure. Contemplating the sights and sounds of faraway rivers is a delightful exercise in imagining what it is like somewhere special. This is why I recommend people own and flip through the “50 Places to Fly Fish Before You Die” series by Chris Santella. Even if it isn’t trip research or prep, it is a fine way to spend a few minutes.
Good writing is always worth reading.
I picked up a copy of John Inglis Hall’s little book, Fishing a Highland Stream, on the way to the airport. Not only did I read it the entire flight, but I wrapped it up in bed the first night of my vacation. It is a well written book. Subject matter aside, it was a good book to read. Of course, having the shared interest brought it into my view. However, a good book is a good book. I’d rather read a good book about a creek I’ll never fish than a bad one about my home water.
At the end of the day, fish are fish, water is water, and fly fishers are people.
On one hand, this means you might learn something. You could pick up a tactic or a technique. You may observe your fish and your water with a new lens. On the other hand, you will inevitably see your experience mirrored or paralleled in that of someone else. I spent a summer of obsession on a Pennsylvania spring creek. That season, Nick Lyons’ Spring Creek was a pleasant companion. Although his exploits were on an English chalk stream, we absolutely shared something.
With that in mind, I’m looking forward to getting into Neversink, by Leonard Wright. It is the only book I walked away with on the aforementioned shopping trip. I fish New York, but I fish other rivers. This book might change that. If not, I’m sure I’ll still get something out of it.