I originally wrote these stories and poems for the amusement of family and friends. They are largely autobiographical (I have taken artistic license with certain details) and many are, at least tangentially, about fly fishing. My wife Bev and I have the good fortune to live and fish in Central Pennsylvania and, while we don’t have a trout stream in our back yard, we can be on the nearest one within five minutes of leaving the house.
I hope you can relate to what I have attempted to express about rural life, relationships, and imagination as you read.
Allan
When Mice Fly
When Bev and I decided to build our home in the woods, we looked forward to encountering the local wildlife on a regular basis and we have not been disappointed. Over the nine or ten years that we have lived
Quitting Time
To the mild (I hope) annoyance of several people with whom I have fished, I have a hard time calling it quits. When I was a boy and fishing at the lake with Dad there would at some point come
Catching October
I once caught October and held it wriggling in my hand before it swam away. Smaller than one might expect – only fourteen inches long – yet, there it was. The trout’s flank – a shining field of goldenrod backlit
Yellowstone
There are many ways to die in Yellowstone National Park. There is even a book on the subject sold in all the gift shops. Falling off of things – like cliffs (and railings put there to keep you from falling
Switching Hats
Bev and I were fishing Black Moshannon Creek a few miles below the lake. The stream there is small,and flows through mature forest of oak and hemlock, the branches of which, often present a considerable obstacle when trying to cast
Winter Walk
It is the Saturday before Christmas and I am walking in the woods behind our house. Friday’s snow has melted and then frozen into a thin layer of ice that breaks with every step. I crunch my way up to
