One of life's quiet excitements is to stand somewhat apart from yourself and watch yourself softly becoming the author of something beautiful even if it is only a floating ash.

We sat on the bank and the river went by. As always, it was making sounds to itself, and now it made sounds to us. It would be hard to find three men sitting side by side who knew better what a river was saying.

One great thing about fly fishing is that after a while nothing exists of the world but thoughts about fly fishing

I sat there and forgot and forgot, until what remained was the river that went by and I who watched. On the river the heat mirages danced with each other and then they danced through each other and then they joined hands and danced around each other. Eventually the water joined the river, and there was only one of us. I believe it was the river.

At the time I did not know that stories of life are often more like rivers than books.

A mystery of the universe is how it has managed to survive with so much volunteer help.

Many of us would probably be better fishermen if we did not spend so much time watching and waiting for the world to become perfect