Death, Taxes, and Leaky Waders (eBook)

A John Gierach Fly-Fishing Treasury

John Gierach (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2001 | 1. Auflage
416 Seiten
Simon & Schuster (Verlag)
978-0-7432-1539-8 (ISBN)

Infos

Death, Taxes, and Leaky Waders collects forty of John Gierach's finest essays on fishing from six of his books. Like all his writing, these essays are seasoned by a keen sense of observation and a deep knowledge and love of fishing lore, leavened by a wonderfully wry sense of humor. Gierach often begins with an observation that soon leads to something below the surface, which he finds and successfully lands. As Gierach says, writing is a lot like fishing.

This is the first anthology of John Gierach's work, a collection that is sure to delight both diehard fans and new readers alike. To enter Gierach's world is to experience the daily wonder, challenge, and occasional absurdity of the fishing life -- from such rituals as the preparation of camp coffee (for best results, serve in a tin cup) to the random, revelatory surprises, such as the flashing beauty of a grayling leaping out of the water. Gierach offers nuggets of practical wisdom on choosing fly patterns and travel companions ('Do not go fishing with someone who is so set on being back at a certain time that he will refuse to invent a case of car trouble to keep you on the water an extra day'), vocabulary ('Expertizing means acting like an expert. Not necessarily being an expert, mind you, but acting like one'), and how to fish metaphorically ('Fly-fishing for trout is poetic, for bass it's somewhat existential, for panfish it's corny, but fun'). In rivers from Colorado to Scotland, whether alone or accompanied by his fishing buddy A.K. ('I enjoy fishing too much to risk my life at it. Death can really cut into your fishing time'), Gierach vividly captures both the subtle rhythms of the angling life and the natural world on which it depends.

In 'The Purist,' John Gierach says of fly-fishing that it 'led you inexorably to one paradox after another. The idea was to catch fish, but the best writers made it evident that it was perfectly okay not to as long as you failed to catch them with the proper grace and style.'

Whether he's catching fish or musing on the ones that got away, Gierach is always entertaining and enlightening, writing with his own inimitable blend of grace and style, passion and wit.

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Brilliant, witty, perceptive essays about fly-fishing, the natural world, and life in general by the acknowledged master of fishing writers.Death, Taxes, and Leaky Waders collects forty of John Gierachs finest essays on fishing from six of his books. Like all his writing, these essays are seasoned by a keen sense of observation and a deep knowledge and love of fishing lore, leavened by a wonderfully wry sense of humor. Gierach often begins with an observation that soon leads to something below the surface, which he finds and successfully lands. As Gierach says, writing is a lot like fishing. This is the first anthology of John Gierachs work, a collection that is sure to delight both die-hard fans and new readers alike. To enter Gierachs world is to experience the daily wonder, challenge, and occasional absurdity of the fishing lifefrom such rituals as the preparation of camp coffee (for best results, serve in a tin cup) to the random, revelatory surprises, such as the flashing beauty of a grayling leaping out of the water. Whether hes catching fish or musing on the ones that got away, Gierach is always entertaining and enlightening, writing with his own inimitable blend of grace and style, passion and wit.

Textauszug

Introduction

I think writing is a lot like fishing, especially when it's about fishing, as most of mine is. Both take curiosity, patience, persistence, lots of time, some skill, a willingness to put things together in odd ways, an appreciation of the process itself (regardless of how it turns out), and faith that it's all somehow worthwhile. What sane person would spend a whole day writing a paragraph that reads like it was dashed off in thirty seconds? The same kind who'd fish for one big trout all morning just so he can look at it and release it.

I like to think I was born to be a fisherman. There's a family story that I caught my first bluegill at age five and wanted to have it mounted. I don't remember that, but it sounds about right. By the time I was a teenager I fit the standard profile of a lifelong angler: I was lazy, shiftless, unambitious, and willing to work hard only at things that were widely considered useless. My folks thought I'd grow out of it.

As for writing, I don't remember why I first thought I'd like it, but I have to suspect it's because writers weren't very well thought of and because they didn't seem to work. At a certain age, playing hard, not really working, and living up to a bad reputation seemed like the way to go.

My first revelation was that writing did involve some work. Lots of it, actually. Some people have a warped view of writers in general, and outdoor writers in particular. Now and then someone will say to me, 'Boy, what a life you have. All you do is fish.' Usually I nod and smile because that's what I used to think myself and because it's not entirely wrong, but there's a mood I sometimes get into that makes me ask, 'Who the hell do you think writes the stories?'

Then there are those who'll tell you you're blessed with talent, which is another way of saying you don't work. If you explain that whatever talent you may have now is the result of decades of toil, they'll say that kind of patience is a gift. There's no talking to some people. If they want you to be blessed, then you're blessed, god damn it! Don't argue.

Then again, one of my more levelheaded friends once said, 'Look, if someone thinks you don't work, maybe it means your writing seems effortless, so you should take it as a compliment.' I wouldn't mind having more levelheaded friends, but when eventually almost everyone you know is a fly fisher, guide, writer, editor, or publisher, you take what you can get.

I didn't start out to be a fishing writer, I started out to be a 'serious' writer, back when I was much younger and still liked the sanctimonious sound of that. I wrote my first stories for outdoor magazines out of curiosity, to see if maybe that wouldn't be a better way for a struggling writer to support himself than driving a garbage truck -- not that driving a garbage truck was all that bad.

That didn't work out the way I had it pictured because writing for a living turned out to be a full-time job that left less time and energy for art than real work had. On the other hand, I found that writing was writing and that any subject -- with the possible exception of golf -- could open up on grand themes if that's what you wanted it to do.

I remember two milestones now: the first story I sold, and the first story I sold that seemed to be about grayling fishing in Canada but that was really about death. At the time I thought I'd fooled the editor who bought it, but years later I ended up fishing for salmon in Scotland with him and he said, 'Remember that story you did once about death and grayling? I liked that one.'

Some of these stories began in the 'Outside' column I've been writing for the Longmont Daily...