Haig-Brown had me hooked, played out, and landed, and I admired him for it.
This is cooperative Music Genres Q&A that is constantly being improved by readers like you.I had neither written him nor told Dad of my intention to meet him.But Dad seemed happy to drive slowly along the road that flanks the south side of the river and watch for a mailbox saying "Haig-Brown." As we crept up the tree-lined side-road, my head filled with bright images from his books, three of which lay beside me on the car-seat: the magnificent Canyon Pool on the Campbell River and the schools of big sea-run cutthroat trout that once milled about it in August, until it was desecrated and murdered by the dams and their penstocks that permanently starved the pool of fresh current; the good run of little steelhead that surprised him by suddenly appearing a dozen years after the dams were installed; his bright, lazy days of three-quarter-pound trout on Buttle Lake, with the always present chance that one of its eight- or ten-pounders would venture up from the depths for his fly; his failed but joyful mission to really figure out the movements and feeding patterns of sea-run cutthroats in the estuaries.I seemed hardly to depress the car seat, half-floating in the soft mist of anticipation.Don and I chatted openly about fishing and softly in private about girls as we rode the freeway up the Washington coast to the Canadian border just south of Vancouver-as we waited in the long line to get through customs, I could distinctly feel my full weight on the pillowy car seat, and the area of contact was growing uncomfortable. We left the border and headed for the ferry terminal. About the time it seemed we'd never reach at our destination, cheerful country yards and houses and side roads, mottled in shadow and low sunlight, began telling encouragingly of the approaching town.Such a trip seemed reasonable to me-our home near Seattle, Washington lay fewer than three hundred miles south of Haig-Brown's farm on Vancouver Island; just a modest drive, I figured. It would be early in April, a difficult time for fishermen, when streams can be high or even flooding from icy runoff or rain or both, and when fish may still be sluggish and unresponsive with blood winter-thick, creeping through drowsy dead-cold flesh.None of this concerned me, of course, or even occurred to me-I was, after all, only fifteen-years-old, an innocent.The contributions come from well-known current writers, little-known newcomers, and even authors of antiquity, such as Homer, who had a thing to say about fishing.Anyone who has felt a line pull tight, or is curious to know why the experience has inspired anglers throughout human history, will want to open the pages of this inviting book. But I have learned that I am also a person who has to be able to go fishing whenever I can and for as long as I want to go.”from Amare O Pescare,” by Howell Raines TIGHT LINES Ten Years of the YALE ANGLERS' JOURNAL Chapter One PILGRIMAGE TO HAIG-BROWN Skip Morris Here is the opinion that Roderick Haig-Brown forced me to adopt as my own, as he stated it in Fisherman's Fall: Fishing is not a sport I expect ever to exhaust or abandon.Click here to browse the new Music Genres questions or all unanswered Music Genres questions.ISBN-10: 0300151403Since the first copy of the Yale Anglers Journal appeared in 1996, readers with an interest in fish and fishing have opened the pages of each issue with anticipation and delight.