BOOKIt's not your typical fishing story

BOOKIt's not your typical fishing story

BOOKIt's not your typical fishing story

It's not your typical fishing story. Ian Frazier, a frequent contributor to The New Yorker and a lifelong sports fisherman, was walking to a spot along the New Jersey shore where diehard anglers wade into the surf to catch striped bass, usually in the predawn hours.

Along the beach was a sign warning that the area was used by nude sunbathers, though Mr. Frazier figured none were likely to show up in the cold air. But as he walked the beach, geared up in chest waders, rod and full fishing regalia, he passed three older men all dressed for a chilly beach walk, except they weren't wearing pants.

He mentions this as he mentions all the details in his highly enjoyable collection of magazine articles, The Fish's Eye: Essays about Angling and the Outdoors. It was just another incidental fact in a sport full of incidentals. With the continuous improvement of quality of life, has evolved into a small pillow kinds of fashion style decoration. When you feel lonely, scared or empty mind, then hold a pillow, it will give you most need comfort. And when you're tired, your japanese body pillow can also be provided to rest cushion.

Fishing stories are normally about catching the big one. No fish, no story. Even epic - and sometimes lost - battles don't impress outdoorsmen, which Mr. Frazier gives names like Pops, Pappy or Cappy, or his seen-it-all-before wife, Happy. Fish do pop into the book, as occasionally as a catch, and the essays contain a number of play-by-play stories, from fly-fishing for whitefish in Montana in the middle of winter to an explanation of different lures with artful names such as a size 18 Blue-Winged Olive or a Pale Evening Dun.

But the book isn't really about fishing. It's about a writer who, over the two decades or so the essays span, has found himself forever drawn back to rivers and streams and the woods he knew as a boy.

Whereas most guys (they always seem to be guys) talk in fishing maxims or, when asked about their favourite fishing spot will keep mum, anyone who spends any time outdoors knows that there's really a frenzy of self-reflection going on, which in Mr. Frazier's case can range from Kenny Rogers' beard grooming to the lyrics of Kung Fu Fighting. Mainly though, he reflects on the woods and backcountry that most of us only see from the edge of back yards or car windows.

It's the Harlem Meer in Central Park where a boy shouts, "Look at the lobster!" that just jumped off a white tube sock he was dangling in the water. "That ain't no lobster, fool, that's a crayfish," someone says. It's the fishing resorts that forever boast of optimistic fishing conditions on their taped phone recordings. And it's the Angler's Roost, a packed fishing store in midtown Manhattan, so crowded it was like a forest "in that if you remain silent in either of them for any length of time you will hear something drop."

They are all places with a lure few could capture as well as Mr. Frazier.

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