Those of us who relentlessly pursue large trout with a dry fly are hopeless addicts. If we weren't, we'd take up easy chores like curing cancer, ending world poverty, or explaining how long forever is. The essence of our addiction is not complicated—when we see a good trout rising, we don't simply want to catch it. We believe that we have to catch it.

In the time it takes our planet to complete an orbit around its sun, my friend Mike Sepelak goes fishing at least fifty-two times. More often if possible, but he’s set the bar at an average of once a week. I met Mike through his writing on a blog called Mike’s Gone Fishin’ Again, and, with a title like that, my only surprise about the frequency of his fishing was that he didn’t fish more.

Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.

—George Santayana

The first time I caught the biggest brook trout of my life, I was so excited I wrote a how-to essay called “How to Catch the Biggest Brook Trout of Your Life.” Although I thought I did the fishing world a much-needed service, the reactions to my accomplishment and advice were tepid:

I don't usually write how-to essays. My way of doing something might not be the best for everyone, so I worry about feeling bad when someone points out a better way. The other day, though, I caught the biggest brook trout of my life. That made me feel good. Really good. And now that I've had some time to think about how it happened, I believe I know something so important I have to share it.

Much of the fun of getting to know a new fishing buddy is the slow and pleasant process of asking questions about their life and answering questions about yours.

“Where'd you grow up?”

“What do you do for a living?”

That's the routine Tom Hazelton and I worked through during our first trip together when he asked a question I didn't expect.

“Are you retired?”