The fountains of sacred rivers flow upwards (i.e., everything is
turned topsy turvy.)

The fountains of sacred rivers flow upwards (i.e., everything is
turned topsy turvy.)

Montana. It's everything Colorado thinks it is.

Montana. It's everything Colorado thinks it is.

In our family, there was no clear line between religion and fly
fishing. We lived at the junction of read more

In our family, there was no clear line between religion and fly
fishing. We lived at the junction of great trout rivers in
western Montana, and our father was a Presbyterian minister and a
fly fisherman who tied his own flies and taught others. He told
us about Christ's disciples being fishermen, and we were to
assume, as my brother and I did, that all first-class fishermen
on the Sea of Galilee were fly fishermen and that John, the
favorite, was a dry-fly fisherman.

I think that I shall never see
A poem as lovely as a tree.
. . . read more

I think that I shall never see
A poem as lovely as a tree.
. . . .
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

I think that I shall never scan
A tree as lovely as a man.
. . . read more

I think that I shall never scan
A tree as lovely as a man.
. . . .
A tree depicts divinest plan,
But God himself lives in a man.

From Stirling Castle we had seen
The mazy Forth unravelled;
Had trod the banks of Clyde and read more

From Stirling Castle we had seen
The mazy Forth unravelled;
Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay,
And with the Tweed had travelled;
And when we came to Clovenford,
Then said "my winsome marrow,"
"Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,
And see the braes of Yarrow."

"O Mary, go and call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home,
And call the cattle read more

"O Mary, go and call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home,
Across the sands o' Dee;"
The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam
And all alone went she.

Of course, now I am too old to be much of a fisherman, and now of
course I usually read more

Of course, now I am too old to be much of a fisherman, and now of
course I usually fish the big waters alone, although some friends
think I shouldn't. Like many fly fishermen in western Montana
where the summer days are almost Arctic in length, I often do not
start fishing until the cool of the evening. Then in the Arctic
half-light of the canyon, all existence fades to a being with my
soul and memories and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River and a
four-count rhythm and the hope that a fish will rise.

The forest laments in order that Mr. Gladstone may perspire.

The forest laments in order that Mr. Gladstone may perspire.