It is difficult to choose which of the adventures in the book resonates the most powerfully, since anyone who reads it will come to the book with their own life’s experiences and subsequent biases. There are revelations here about bluegills and why some lakes can produce skillet-size fish while others seem doomed to never offer up a single fish larger than one’s hand. For those fascinated by monster sturgeon in mighty rivers, it might make you sad to know that you can pay good money to catch a 7-footer named Tony in a two-acre stocked pond. If you’ve ever eaten smoked eel at a sushi bar, or better yet, caught eels on a limb-line on a swamp river in Alabama and not known what they were (this happened to me), you’ll enjoy the chapter about fishing for eels on the once-fouled Potomac River within yelling distance of the Washington Monument. (Northern snakeheads also appear among the eels, mixing, as in life, the native and non-native, the urban and the wild.) But for me, who in my youth, went through a long phase—I’m not sure it is over—of being obsessed with catching very unsung little fish on tiny hooks—in my case, the darters and chubs and rosyside dace of my childhood-roaming territory in north Alabama—I was astounded to learn that there are many who share that obsession, and they have a name, and my friend Miller Miller is among them. That chapter is titled “Microfishing Mania Among the Lifelisters,” and the fishing and the characters who pursue it with single-minded doggedness make for fascinating reading. That chapter might even help many anglers feel normal. No matter how crazy you are about fishing, rest assured that there are those who are much crazier. Much, much more.