Hot. Humid. Three-tee-shirt days, soggy-sheet nights. Even the fish are perspiring, I think. I visualize them lying on their backs and panting in the somewhat cooler depths of the ponds and pools. And it seems like every time I gear up, slather on the sunscreen and venture out into the pool the clouds gather, thunder rumbles, and I pull for shore, because I don't think that sitting on the water in a metal boat waving a flyrod during a lightning storm is wise. I could be wrong, but why risk it? The fish aren't biting anyway. Might as well go back to camp and...and what?

I adhere to the age-old rule: never tie flies in months without an "R".

Cribbage? I hate to play cribbage alone. I find myself giving myself good cards in the crib. Not exactly cheating, but morally suspect.

Fortunately my saintly Swedish grandmother taught me how to read at the age of 4, and I haven't stopped since. If I can't be fishing I prefer to be reading (well, there are one or two exceptions to that rule). Fortunately, Rangeley has a wonderful, quirky little bookstore, Books, Lines & Thinkers, owned and operated by high school dropout Wess Connally (he didn't drop out as a student, actually -- he quit teaching high school to run the bookstore full-time). I was looking for Herbert P. Shirrefs's informative book, The Richardson Lakes, Jewels in the Rangeley Crown, published in 1995 by the Bethel Historical Society. Wess had been cleaned out of that book, which is now sadly out of print, but he pointed down the street to Linda Dexter's shop, Ecopelagicon (now there's a word for you!) as a possible source. Meanwhile Wess and I discovered we had a favorite author in common, Cormac McCarthy, so I picked up one of McCarthy's pre-All the Pretty Horses novels plus J.T. Hall's True Stories of Maine Fly Fisherman and a nifty little reprint of an 1876 guide to the Richardson and Rangeley lakes.

Ecopelagicon, just off the main drag, is a source for not only books but lots of neat stuff plus kayak rentals (visit the website) Linda Dexter had only one copy of the Shirrefs book on her shelves, and to it was taped a notice, "For Display Only." But, she said, she had a stash in the attic. She pulled a cord and one of those retractable ladders came out of the ceiling; up she went and descended a minute later with one of her last five copies, which I happily purchased.

When I've done my reading I'll let you know what I learned. But if the fishing picks up, the reading will slow down.

Sorry -- it's been a while since the last update, but I have been away, in places with dodgy Internet connections and very little of what you might call angling. But I did manage to go flyfishing, in a charming pond in a charming village in France. Not to catch fish, really, but to give a rudimentary lesson in flyfishing to my friend and gracious host, Everett Ressler, who works for UNICEF and lives in the aforementioned charming village, which is called Versonnex.

Everett and his charming (everything in France is charming!) wife Phyllis live in an ancient farmhouse they restored themselves, with a spot of help from village stonemasons and handymen. They let me camp in their guest room for a week in June, when I was participating in a climate change workshop for journalists in nearby Geneva (well, someone had to do it). Phyllis and Everett also restored a tiny house in their backyard -- also charming -- which they rent to former TV network newshound Bill Dowell. In the mornings Everett would bicycle to the village bakery and return with warm croissants and a baguette; Bill would make a large quantity of cafe filtre, Phyllis would bring pots of raspberry jam and butter, and Bill, Phyllis, Krov Menuhin (who was camping at Bill's) and I would sit in the garden and enjoy breakfast the way breakfast ought to be enjoyed. Then Bill, Krov and I would head into Geneva to learn about climate change from a variety of agencies in preparation for a field trip to Benin, West Africa.

One morning, after I had droned on about flyfishing at a winey dinner on Everett and Phyllis's balcony, Everett said, "Let's go fishing." Never one to refuse such an invitation I sleepily acquiesced. Everett tossed a heap of highly suspect fishing tackle into the back of his vehicle, whistled for his great shaggy dog, and we three drove about five minutes to a tidy little park wherein lay a pond.

"It's stocked," said my host, "but I'm not sure with what."

No matter. I sorted through the gear, which consisted of two ancient flyrods which must have retailed for under ten francs; two tinny reels wound with genuine fly line (but no backing); a boxful of spinning lures; and a smaller box of trout flies. As I examined the gear a fish rolled in the pond -- a substantial fish but of unknown provenance. I showed Everett how to attach a leader to the fly line and how to tie a fly to the tippet. I tied on a muddler and off we went. There was no one around except a couple of dog walkers, which Everett's dog enjoyed meeting. I picked a likely spot on the grassy shore of the pond and cast the muddler, hoping it would entice a strike or at least a follow. As we circumnavigated the pond I explained to Everett the fundamentals of casting a fly while I worked the muddler in various ways, trying to get a fish to at least look at it. Another large fish broke water; again I couldn't tell what it was. I knew right away what it wasn't -- it wasn't a brook trout and it wasn't a landlocked salmon.

I never did find out what the fish was. No hits, no runs, no errors. A shutout. As we completed our circuit we encountered a young Roma boy, maybe 10 years old, who was camped with his family a couple hundred yards from the pond. He showed us his fishing rig: spinning rod, spinner, worm. He would probably outfish us. We didn't wait to see.

And then I left for West Africa, where I found fish, but didn't fish myself.