May the Rivers Never Sleep is what I call a "coffee table" book. My terminology may be dated but this is the type of book that, when placed in a prominent place, will attract the attention of anyone interested in the outdoors.

I had a day off and it was time to be on the water. It was getting warm enough that this needed to be an early morning endeavor. I loaded everything up the night before and headed off early, and yes, the paddle was the first thing in the vehicle.

The rain had just stopped and the thunder from the fast-moving storm was still audible in the distance as I stood along the stream. It felt as if I was literally steaming, as my rain-drenched shirt gave little-to-no relief in the June heat. Looking over the pool, there were still a few sprinkles coming down. But I could already see the glow of sunlight from the North, which was the same direction the storm had begun. Life was good I thought, as the afternoons fishing would still go on despite a momentary intervention.

July 9th, and tonight I am out alone, I believe that the Neil, the Editor of FAOL, is doing editor type work tonight. 7 P.M. but alas the weather may defeat my purpose as the wind and light rain continues to keep the creek quiet with no midges, spinners, or even caddis are presently moving and thus the trout are moving and feeding but rarely. Though I did get nice photograph of a double rainbow glinting over the house pond, except for one other angler no one else is left on the creek.

The sun was just breaking through the trees as I made my walk around the campground circle. Here at 7,000 feet plus it takes a few days for this ol' man to be able to breath. I was sure that the tourists had used up all the air. To build my lungs and decrease my need for lots of Oxygen, I would slowly make the trip around the camp circle each morning.

I love hopper fishing. Just recently I had an opportunity to fish the one of Michigan's most beautiful rivers of the Upper Peninsula --- the Escanaba. I arrived during the peak of hopper season and a local stirred me toward a secret spot just south of the city of Gwinn. I really nailed them! I stopped counting after twenty fish in just over three hours. I came prepared with about six different hopper patterns (three of each). This was a pattern I had never tried before. This pattern was easy --- three hoppers --- three cast --- three fish, all of which were in the 14" range. This pattern will now find a permanent place in my fly box.

Knee deep in a Montana trout stream I waited for the trout that I had been watching to show again; gently sipping in the occasional tiny hatching mayfly that slid gracefully across the slick surface on that perfect autumn morning. A gently breeze wafted through the streamside trees sending a shower of leaves cascading down like a golden waterfall. The trout rose again, pushing a barely perceptible circle of broken water away from the place where he sipped in another fly.