A Fly Fisherman's Blue Ridge

from the introduction:
The opportunity to write this book was an accident that changed my life in important ways. I was a graduate student at the University of Virginia when my first editor approached me about writing a book. I had been freelancing for angling and environmental magazines. At the time I was working on a dissertation about James Joyce, and like many another callow, would-be intellectuals, I was boxed in good by a studied lack of original ideas. I told my editor that, if I had my druthers, I would write a book about fly fishing for trout in the Blue Ridge Mountains. That was the best thing I knew. That was where the connection between words and things was clearest to me. My interest in trout fishing was part of a broader interest in the nature and history of a landscape I had been exploring since the late 1970s. The day after I put the book under contract, I went fishing on the Rose River to celebrate the venture, savoring the fact that now, as I headed into the mountains, I was not escaping work but working. I fished well. I can still see the amber light filtering through the beech and hickory leaves that hung over that oval pool of nearly-still water. I can still feel the marvelous, head-shaking pull of that great fish. And I can still sense that complicated feeling in the pit of my stomach as I walked back down the mountain through a haunting rain of leaves. There are many moments like that built into this book, well-spent hours and days that, years later, continue to stand me in good stead. I worked hard to convey experiences as I felt them. I mostly wanted this book to stand up well for its rivers and to allow access to good fishing. I think it did that. My unabashed desire to describe and share details of time and place apparently created a meeting ground for many fellow anglers who love and enjoy these fabulous, fragile rivers.