THEY SAY NEVER BEGIN A STORY with weather, but as the snow outside the window closes around like a shell shielding an egg, I think of the summers on the lake, and my old friend. “Old” performs in two senses of both aged and longtime,...

The trout rose in a smooth curving arc, never breaking the river’s surface, and grabbed my tumbling salmonfly. One beat, lift the rod, set the hook. I knew immediately from the weight on the line, 40 feet from my knees, that this fight would be...