WHEN I FIRST TOOK UP FLY-FISHING, it seemed life would be complete, or nearly so, if I could fish those places that enthralled anglers in the pages of the popular fishing publications of the day. I wanted to double-haul into the teeth of a Patagonian wind like Joe Brooks, or lay down a dry fly on an English chalk stream, its grassy banks as carefully clipped as the 15th hole at Augusta, or offer up a few deceivers like Lefty Kreh, shoehorning back casts between passing cars speeding along a bass-filled Everglades canal.
As a fishing journalist, I was able
