The Art of Fishing
As the car winds down the leafy roads of Easton, Connecticut, James Prosek gazes out the window at familiar ground. He lives just two doors down from his childhood home. The first stop is the local general store for coffee. Next, a gravel pull-off just big enough for a single car. The caffeine starts to kick in as he pulls on his waders and boots. He assembles his fly rod, and we duck into the woods by the Mill River.
Prosek is tall and lean, with a short laugh that punctuates his sentences. Once dubbed by as a
