I love water. More specifically, running water. Springs, rivulets, intermittent "runs" and rills, branches, creeks, streams, rivers. To me, all creeks are interesting. Those which hold fish are fascinating. Seeing them stirs my blood and quickens my heartbeat with a uniquely human blend of desire and need. The sound of flowing water literally calls to me. I feel the same primeval response whether from the obscure tinkling of a nearly dry brook or the torrential roar of a spring flood. It has always been this way.
The stories in this volume are full of places and people that can now be held only in memory. Not all relate to fishing, but a search for the life of streams leads one to subtleties that are inseparable from the truths of human existence.
Searching for the secrets of those solitude streams is where I've found peace and, in its wake, happiness. When each cast with a fly rod is a prayer—not a request, but a statement requiring a response—there will always be found an answer. To listen for it is an act of faith. One must understand that fly fishing is as much an inner activity as it is physical endeavor; hunting, not simply a sport, but a way of life that fulfills our nature. Similarly, the term "solitude streams" is as much a metaphor as it is a geographical location. That is exactly why I find my sense of place comfortably within the contour lines of both.
