Trout Fishing and Richard Brautigan

About three weeks ago I finally finished an old copy of Richard Brautigan's Trout Fishing in America. My advisor came across it in a thrift store and thought I should have it. Wow, what a waste of time. The alternate title I'd suggest for this work which "catapulted [him] to international fame" is A Bunch of Meaningless Crap in the Form of Tiresome Similes. Seriously, if I had to read "was like" in this book one more time, I would have started using the remaining pages for toilet paper. The only problem is that there would have barely been enough for a clean wipe. I am willing to admit that some of this frustration is because there's practically nothing about trout fishing after the title page. Although, I was forewarned about this by a reviewer's comment on the back cover, it still frustrated me. Most of all because I can't seem to leave a book unfinished; even though this one deserved that fate. And as much as I would like to believe that he represented "the emerging countercultural youth-movement of the late 1960s," associating his writing in this book with that movement is tragic. I don't think anyone can take enough drugs or smoke enough dope in order to justify the publication of this thing. The inartistic, uncreative overuse of similes in Trout Fishing in America actually makes me feel sorry for the drugged-out hippies of the free-love Sixties. I mean, they were forced to explain themselves in the context of this complete waste of paper. It's pretty hard to climb out of a hole that deep. Oh well, the book is closed now and will be quickly donated to the thrift store. Or, as good ole' Richie might say, my disposing of this book was like the vicious flushing of a dead goldfish down a toilet bowl.

The Chattooga River, January 2008

I’m not sure which compelled me to pack up the truck and head to the Chattooga River, the Gierach book I'm reading or the fact that rain drenched-out my chore of burning the final wood pile in my parents back yard. Probably both. Gierach's chapter on bad-weather fishing and my desire to avoid another day of sore muscles (from hauling wood around) made the choice easy. The only problem with the Gierach side of this equation: I’m not fishing the Frying Pan. In fact, just spotting a trout would have made my day.

To be sure, my day was made. I caught one.

I parked aside the iron bridge crossing the Chattooga and made my way down the south side of the waterfall. The Chattooga is a perfect example of Carolina mountain trout rivers. Lined with rhododendron bushes and mountain laurels, the half sand, half rock floored river is continually interrupted by smoothed or misshaped boulders. The consequent pocket water is trailed by car-length pools. Trout find themselves hiding in peculiar places, spooked by the slightest movements seen through crystal clear water.

In the first pool created by the waterfall, I saw a flash for my wooly bugger. Between that flash and the only trout I caught later, my fly boxes were the only things I retrieved. I went back and forth between streamers and nymphs, hoping to coax one, heck any, trout out of their holding spot. Since no fish willingly showed its face below the bridge, I moved above the waterfall for my final hour-and-a-half on the river.

The brown I caught took me by surprise. He (and yes, it was a Jack) appeared out of the back of a pool and hit my black bugger tentatively. The cold winter water dampened his fight, and I landed him quickly. That was it. No fireworks for my first trout of the year. I was left with the invading fog’s beauty and the smell of burning tobacco in my pipe. Still, one trout was enough for me. I didn't have to excuse my wet clothes and moments of chills with a "It was great just to be on the river."

But, it was great just to be on the river. The rain has continued since I left the Chattooga. I suppose I'll be able to push off the wood burning another day, but will the streams be blown out by the runoff? I can always fall back of reading more Gierach. I hope not. He's a good writer. It's just that publishers haven't created virtual reality books yet.

"Sex, Death, and Fly-Fishing" ...a few quotes Part I

Trying to avoid semi-stir craziness in my parent's mountain home, I've decided to note some of the catchy lines of John Gierach's Sex, Death, and Fly-Fishing.


"[David] Quammen points out that bamboo trees (from which fly rods are made) do it his way [referring to having sex once and dying], and that salmon (on which fly rods are used) do it this way, too. I think that's interesting. Could there be some wild, metaphysical connection that makes fly-fishing incredibly sexy? I sincerely hope so."

"I don't know exactly what fly-fishing teaches us, but I think it's something we need to know."


"In a solitary sport, there's a very real sense in which your colleagues are also your worst enemies. In many places a kind of uneasy truce now exists and, although hostilities are seldom open, certain guerrilla tactics are sometimes employed."

"For another, I like being reminded that as the gravel company meandered across this piece of land, it left behind it holes in the ground that naturally filled with ground water, and, in time, turned wild. Just as naturally, some people put fish here, and then, later, other people came to catch them out. This is the kind of long-term industrial pollution I can live with."

A Van Dyke poem for a restless fisherman

Made restless by the encroaching winter weather, I found some cathartic relief in this Van Dyke poem I came across last night. Hopefully, I'll spend some time on the river in North Carolina during Christmas.

“An Angler’s Wish” by Henry Van Dyke

I.
When tulips bloom in Union Square,
And timid breaths of vernal air
Go wandering down the dusty town,
Like children lost in Vanity Fair;

When every long, unlovely row
Of westward houses stands aglow,
And leads the eyes towards sunset skies
Beyond the hills where green trees grow,—

Then weary seems the street parade,
And weary books, and weary trade:
I’m only wishing to go a-fishing;
For this the month of May was made.

II.
I guess the pussy willows now
Are creeping out of every bough
Along the brook; and robins look
For early worms behind the plow.

The thistle birds have changed their dun
For yellow coats, to match the sun;
And in the same array of flame
The dandelion show’s begun.

The flocks of young anemones
Are dancing round the budding trees:
Who can help wishing to go a-fishing
In days as full of joy as these?

III.
I think the meadow lark’s clear sound
Leaks upward slowly from the ground,
While on the wing the bluebirds ring
Their wedding bells to woods around.

The flirting chewink calls his dear
Behind the bush; and very near,
Where water flows, where green grass grows,
Song sparrows gently sing, “Good cheer.”

And, best of all, through twilight’s calm
The hermit thrush repeats his psalm.
How much I’m wishing to go a-fishing
In days so sweet with music’s balm!

IV.
‘Tis not a proud desire of mine;
I ask for nothing superfine;
No heavy weight, no salmon great,
To break the record—or my line:

Only and idle little stream,
Whose amber waters softly gleam,
Where I may wade, through woodland shade,
And cast the fly, and loaf, and dream:

Only a trout or two, to dart
From foaming pools, and try my art:
No more I’m wishing—old-fashioned fishing,
And just a day on Nature’s heart.