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(Synopsis) Here in the Driftless Region of Wisconsin we have a handful of annual rituals, or signs, that we look to before we can shut off the heat for the year. We watch the ice on the river, the Mississippi, for signs of a thaw: cracks appear, and then a narrow blue tongue of open water begins its work on the ice. We watch for returning birds: the first robins arriving along the margins of the retreating snow; the turkey vultures; the eagles. It was four years ago then, that it occurred to me: I will do a mayfly book. This was not a simple, romantic notion. The previous spring, I was in a fly fishing shop, and the proprietor asked me if I needed help with fly selection. I knew practically nothing about mayflies, and, to hide my ignorance, I mumbled something about being a terrestrial man. [Terrestrials being] not dependant on the specific combination of predictable factors involved in putting a mayfly on the water, but this pales in comparison to the craft, and science, required for the successful presentation of a counterfeit mayfly.