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Bob Romano

Bob Romano has owned a cabin in the Rangeley Lakes Region of western Maine for more than thirty years. In his latest book, The River King – A Fly-fishing Novel, the writer returns to this region of the country that has a rich sporting tradition. This is Bob’s fifth book set in western Maine. The tenth-anniversary edition of Shadows in the Stream, Bob’s book of essays about fly fishing, is often used by anglers as a guide to fishing the Rangeley Lakes Region.

Bob is also the author of the Rangeley Lakes trilogy that includes North of Easie, which won second place in the 2010 Outdoor Writer’s Best Book Contest. Romano’s essays and short stories have appeared in various anthologies, including Christmas in the Wild, Fresh Fiction for Fresh Water Fishing, and Wildbranch: An Anthology of Nature, Environmental, and Place-Based Writing. His most recent book, The River King is published by West River Media.  More information about his books can be obtained by going to his website: forgottentrout.com.

Author Articles

"Spring Trout"

It’s the second week in March, and there is still snow on the ground, a bit more in those areas under trees. By mid morning, the temperature has climbed into the forties as the sun shines down from a cloudless ocean of sky. I park the pickup on the long dirt drive connecting our home with the macadam road that runs beside our property, and trudge into the...

"Paradise Lost"

In the daydream, a familiar one that curls softly around my consciousness like a favorite cat, I find myself seated on a large, flat boulder under the branches of a juniper. The tree appears of ancient origin. The type found at the height of a mountain, perhaps along its ridgeline, or this being my daydream, along the bank of a brook, miles upstream in deep...

"My Christmas Trout"

The current is surprisingly strong as I wade through the headwaters of Bonnie Brook. The water is clear, achingly cold. I can see through to the cobbled bottom. This late in the season it is covered with a layer of sunken leaves. Their once bright rusts, reds, and golds have begun to fade. The banks are hidden under a recent fall of snow. Although it’s...

"November Song"

Some days unfold slowly. Listen carefully and you may catch the rhythm, enjoy the tune. This morning, I woke to the sound of honking, as a squadron of geese reconnoiters the lake north of our house. Outside the bedroom window, the leaves of a maple burned red against an ashen sky. A long gravel drive connects our home with the macadam road that passes by...

"October Trout"

While July may be a month for tall glasses of lemonade and August a time for corn on the cob, melted butter dripping down the sides, September is a month of transition. Summer may be over, but fall has yet to truly begin. Little rain falls during September and the air is often still. The trout of Bonnie Brook remain languid in water as skinny as a young...

A Nod to Vince

There was grass to mow and weeds to pick, tools to be polished and a shed that needed to be cleaned. Then there was a tractor with that flat tire and the moss growing on the siding along the north wall of our house—chores that kept me close to home last Saturday. The temperature had slowly risen into the eighties. The air had become saturated with a high...

"Secrets to Share"

I haven’t seen a fish in Bonnie Brook for nearly three weeks. They’re there, these wild trout, retreating to their secret places, much too skittish to take a fly in the thin water as high summer approaches. I could drive to the salt, cast heavy streamers to impossibly large fish, or make the long drive to one of the tailwater fisheries, where cold-water...

"It's Been a Tough Few Months"

It’s been a tough few months—a virus we can’t seem to control, economic worries, social unrest across the country, and a citizenry as divided as it has ever been. These are the thoughts running through my mind as I turn up the logging road and head north. Along the sides of the road, in between spruce and pine, a few maple saplings are already turning...

"Settling Into Summer"

I’m hiking down a path, one that winds along the edge of a field choked with brambles and wild cherry trees. Beside the trail, birds gossip about the salacious behavior of caterpillars that writhe within their gauze-like chambers. My attention turns to the complaints of a red squirrel, the little rodent scolding me from atop a rock wall. As I move on, the...

"Brook Trout Blues"

A series of snorts, grunts, and whistles emanate from behind a bedroom door that is set along the far wall of the large room where I lay. After drawing the short straw, or in my case, a short hackle feather, I’ve spent the last few hours tossing and turning on a lumpy couch that smells of mothballs. My head aches and my mouth feels like I ate a fistful of...