There are as many definitions for fishing as there are anglers.

Hemingway compared the struggle of landing a large fish in the Caribbean to life itself, suggesting the futile side of living right and working hard to end the experience with little to show.

In Robert Redford's "A River Runs Through It" the parson, played by Tom Skerrit, describes fly fishing as far more than a sport, it is the essence of religion itself with a pathos of its own.

An editorial writer for the New York Times fly fished and wrote his way through a mid-life crisis with a collection of recollections clear as a mountain stream. He also attributed remote therapeutic powers to the sport that helped him through a divorce while providing an invaluable gift of passion to pass on to his two sons.

Fly fishing appeals to the optimist in us all. When a Red Sox fan is not watching his or her team [lose], they are casting a line into their favorite stream trying to catch the eye of a brown, rainbow, or brooky.

The ethic at work here is: even if you do everything correct there is still a chance the fish already ate their fill and they are not really interested in whatever you are presenting.

With this understanding in mind, I wade into the rivers of northern Connecticut bitten hard by the bug of fly fishing for a second year. A virtual novice to the whole concept behind the sport, I find there is something forgiving about the effort that makes catching fish almost inconsequential.

Just as well. On a good day I'll catch less than a handful of juveniles raised in a concrete tank by state fisheries folks before being dumped in the rivers. They don't know any better, presentation of the fly, and sometimes even selection don't mean that much to these fish. Compared to their wild and older counterparts that learned how to survive in a river that is heavily fished, their eating habits are almost as indiscriminate as their human equivalents.

There is luck and there is LUCK.

I have caught trout 20 yards away from luckless anglers that were doing everything right with better flies, equipment and technique. The fish seem to sense who has placed the most effort into their day on the water and sometimes choose to reward the angler with K-Mart tackle and Spags skills.

I have experienced both sides of that table and have stood next to several retired gentlemen casting what looked like shad spoons into the river from the shore. The constant fish tugging at their line became annoying interruptions to their talk of the grandchildren or stock reports.

One of the most valuable lessons I have learned on the Farmington River came at the very end of the 1999 season. Mild fall weather had lingered into November. Most of the leaves were off the trees - and on my hook - as I fished a stretch that was like a sea of riffles. More experienced anglers have said often this was an area for only the most skilled of this brotherhood and I discovered why.

This stretch cuts through a narrow valley with shores too steep to walk. Anglers must wade to the better fishing areas over a river bottom covered with cobblestone-sized rocks. A strong current and loose boulders make the trip feel like a state police sobriety test after drinking a quart of grain alcohol.

The trip was worth the effort and after a bright afternoon on the water it was time to head home with an empty creel. The trip back to shore was a little easier and made without regrets. Next time, use a smaller fly, set the hook a little more deliberately, and be a little more patient with the back cast.

Lost in these thoughts, I was wading through an ankle-deep pool covered with leaves. The shore was five feet away. As I stepped out of the water, something wiggled out from under my boot that was still in the pool. A brown trout taking a breather from the shallow rapids nearby wiggled loose and headed back out to the main stream.

A ball player ending his rookie season by just missing that line drive to left field or the critical catch in the end zone knows he faces a long off-season to dwell on that missed opportunity.

Instead, that last step solidified a hope of better days ahead for me.