Just as the railroad bums used to sing of a Big Rock Candy Mountain with its eternal springs of lemonade, so trout fishermen dream of No-Name Brook. The brook always flows somewhere in a shadowed ravine or sunlit meadow. Here the water is always cool and clear; never high and muddy, and never low and hot. There are always wildflowers along the bank or carpeting the meadow, and green moss thickly covers the rocks and ledges, perhaps with a bed of watercress where a cold spring quietly drips. You'll see songbirds, of course; probably bright little warblers darting on golden wings from bushes to snatch mayflies in the air, or perhaps a water ouzel, with its quick white wink, slipping out of a rapid and onto a rock with its beak full of caddis larvae collected underwater. Unlike many such brooks, No-Name has no blackflies or mosquitoes in its little valley; rattlesnakes, leeches, and other things that bite, claw, or scratch have been likewise mysteriously banished. The wind isn't the reason, I know, because in this valley the wind never blows.
--From The New American Trout Fishing (Macmillan, 1994); used with permission from The Booksource, Inc.