Bookshelf: Casting Homeward by Steve Ramirez

Steve Ramirez is my friend, which is probably part of the reason I was asked to write about the fourth book in his Casting series: Casting Homeward. After all, it is a book that, at its core, is about relationships. Much like his previous two books, Casting Onward and Casting Seaward, this latest book finds Ramirez traveling the United States with his fly rod (or one or two borrowed from a friend). Still, where those books seem to start with an ecological perspective, this book has a more personal and intimate vibe reminiscent of his first book, Casting Forward.

Part of that feeling comes from the fact he is casting for the definition of “home” during a fishing pilgrimage that takes him from Alaska’s remote waters to Big Sky Country’s Madison and Big Hole to suburban Connecticut’s Farmington River and countless places in between. The other key element is the people he’s chosen to fish with on each foray, and their connections to these rivers, streams, and ponds. These are his friends’ “home waters,” and Ramirez honors them by bringing their knowledge of and passion for these fisheries to every page. Their special relationships with these places and fish bleed into their camaraderie with Ramirez and create a kinship that makes us feel like we are just as much part of these adventures as they are.

If the friendships border on the idyllic, the fishing can only be described as realistic; that is to say, there is no Brad Pitt shadow-casting or swimming of rivers. Days on the water run the gamut from catching a “‘grayling of a lifetime’” and a big lower Penns Creek bass worthy of a “grip-and-grin” photo to a cold, rainy float on the Madison River when no fish are boated, or the momentary embarrassment of a “gold medal . . . triple flip, double French twist, back-rolling half hitch” tangle in an overhanging tree.

Offsetting the true-to-life representation of fishing is the touch of magical realism in Ramirez’s prose when he writes about the natural world. For instance, when flying in a float plane, he makes eye contact with a bear in Alaska; he felt they “shared some common history. It’s as if there are memories of our ancestors hidden inside our genetic codes . . . I can’t explain it. It just feels more like history than fantasy. It feels as if we’ve met before.”

Ramirez says he hopes to “always maintain a beginner’s mind where I am always learning,” and whether it be picking up “caddis skipping” from Brew Moscarello on Vermont’s Battenkill or Euro nymphing from Joshua Caldwell (also my friend) and Steve Hogan on the Farmington, his openness to new people and new experiences is inspirational and infectious. It breeds a receptiveness and responsiveness that allow Ramirez to write about the natural world as an observer and as a participant. It also gives his opinions on social issues, conservation, or politics, such as “I wish that every child of Israel and Gaza would be taken fishing together, every formative year of their lives,” an aspirational rather than an instructive tone that is refreshing and motivating.

While Ramirez’s joyful attitude and genuine openness demonstrate that few things are as uplifting as fishing with old or new friends, the specter of death casts a shadow over many of these pages. It’s not just Ramirez’s realization of his own mortality as an almost 63-year-old man dealing with heart disease, asthma, PTSD, and sleep apnea, but even if rivers have “no real beginning or end,” things change, especially natural places we hold dear, and not always for the better, be it because of climate change or being loved to death.

Still, Ramirez, for all the titles you can bestow on him—Marine, husband, father, angler, conservationist, writer—or the ones he bestows on himself, most notably the Imperfect Texan Buddha, he is at his deepest core a poet. That part of him allows him to bring incredible beauty to his musings on the passing of time, landscapes, and people most notably the legendary angler Dave Whitlock, his Marine buddies, or his father. “But now I see the empty chairs and silent spaces all too well,” he writes. “I feel the urgency to live every heartbeat and breathe with as much gratitude and fortitude as I can manage . . . ”

As in all of Ramirez’s prose, there is a touch of melancholy, especially when discussing climate change and the despair he feels from its negative effects on ourselves and our planet (Steve would tell you there is no difference between the two). Of the record-setting heat stifling his home state of Texas, he notes, “It’s like watching someone you deeply love as they desperately cling to life while the light dims in their once bright eyes.”

But for there to be darkness there must also be light and Ramirez always finds it, like when he pens this description of his friend Randall Kaufmann’s secret spot in Wyoming: “On Paradise Pool, there was no human death, suffering, fear, anger, hatred, pain, greed, ugliness, or sorrow. Here, I felt only life, comfort, love, pleasure, gratitude, and joy.”

So, what is home? Is it people or places? Is it where you come from or where you going? As someone who has lived in eight states, two countries, and one national park, I often ask myself these same questions. To bring the relationship theme full circle, one of the friends whom Ramirez joined on the water was Ross Purnell, the editor of this magazine, whom I have since become friends with through Ramirez and Caldwell. During their foray on upper Penns Creek, Ross lent Ramirez his 5-weight, and as the author cast with it toward a rising trout, he came to the conclusion, “Home is a feeling. Home is a connection that comes naturally and cannot be manufactured, but must be accepted . . . It adapts to wherever we find ourselves.”

I may not know exactly where my home is from day to day, but I do know if you love the outdoors and enjoy all aspects of fly fishing, from the first cup of steaming coffee on a cool morning to the cold tailgate beer on a warm evening, you’ll feel right at home with Ramirez’s writing.

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