Bob Romano

The air this morning is still, the temperature warmer than might be expected for October. While sipping tea from a favorite mug, my attention is drawn to a pair of cedar waxwings plucking dusty-blue berries from a red cedar beside our porch. The wooden deck feels cool under my bare feet, but not too cold. I remove a cushion from a redwood chair and lay it...

I enjoy summer’s sweet lemonade and the occasional ice-cold beer, butter dripping off a cob of corn, and after-dinner visits to the local Dairy Barn. When Van Morrison comes on the radio, I always roll down the windows on the old truck while turning up the sound. But like trout, I’m not a fan of the heat and humidity that seem to descend earlier and...

I haven’t been to the West Branch of the Delaware River since last fall. The No-Kill Section of the tailwater—populated by large and wily brown trout and located below a large dam in the mountains—is more than two hours north of where we live. I rarely make the drive until July, when Bonnie Brook is too low to fish. By then, sulfurs and blue-winged...

The file remains open, my ankles crossed on my desk, while I stare out the window, watching a cumulus cloud morph into a leaping trout. Closing the file, I rise to my feet and grab the car keys from the credenza. I call to Catherine and tell her to cancel my last appointment. Before she can protest, I’m walking down the hall and out the door of my law...

In the spring of 1951, I was baptized into the Roman Catholic faith. During the ceremony, the priest asked if I would forsake sin. I had no understanding of this, and did not reply, having been rudely pulled from my mother’s womb a short six months earlier. After my family agreed on my behalf, I wailed with displeasure when water was poured over my head...

Over the last few years, I've found myself gravitating toward those little streams where wild trout seem to thrive. You will not find the names of these runnels familiar. Nor will they be found in your favorite fly-fishing magazine. Photos of fish caught in their waters will not appear on Facebook or Instagram. There are no fly shops or destination lodges...

A few years after we moved into our home, Trish and I finished off the basement, creating two rooms, one for her art supplies and the other for my fishing paraphernalia. On one wall of my room, in between artwork by Winslow Homer and John Swan, hangs a photograph of my father. It’s set above my fly tying table, across from the shelves where my fly fishing...

The water is low, but the river may still hold a few surprises if I take Master Cotton’s advice and fish long and fine. After snapping my hippers to the loops of my jeans, I take a moment to wipe the perspiration from my brow. Wild rugosas reach out from either side of the trail. The humidity holds the fragrant scent of their delicate yellow-in-white...

For the third time in as many minutes the trout rose under the shadow cast by the low-hanging branches of a maple tree. The subtle disturbance could easily be mistaken for a minnow or pumpkinseed, maybe a nymph breaking the surface to emerge into an adult mayfly. No loud splash, not even the usual concentric circles, only the briefest of dimples to betray...

It’s hard not to smile as I tramp through a meadow sprinkled with dandelions and buttercups. Upon my approach, a pair of robins fly onto a nearby apple tree, pink blossoms sprinkling down from its branches. For the first time since last spring, I can feel the sun on the back of neck. A warm breeze carries with it the scent of honeysuckle as I draw closer...