Whiskey, Trout Flies and the Second Season

Shivering in my boots, I cast the line far, out near the limits of the classically tapered bamboo rod’s range, watched the fly touch down gently despite it’s size and weight, and began the long, slow swing into the second season…

For the first time in a month, I sat down at my bench this morning, fixed a hook in the vise, and started the thread. These were not dry flies, the jewels of my passion. No, they were destined to sink and swing slowly through the cold winter rivers that I will call home for the next six months. The idea is to offer a fly that quivers with life, one that does not need twitches or a retrieve to speak to the trout of life, and vulnerability. One, the fly I named the Copper Fox, brought my largest Catskill brown trout to the net in the bowels of winter, and much is expected of it this year.

As the rain beat harder on my metal roof this afternoon, I poured myself a bit of bourbon to welcome winter and it’s helter-skelter, fish when the ice releases ways. It is a smooth Kentucky whiskey, a gift from one of my best friends two years ago, and a change from the single malt I reserve to toast high points of the season of the dry fly. I tied three more Copper Fox to finish my day’s production, and set my tools and materials aside.

My surrender to the inevitability of winter is complete. I ventured out yesterday, cheered by the bright sunshine and blue skies, taking just a reel with an intermediate line, and without a box of dry flies.

I thought I had donned enough insulation, but when the sun vanished after a few minutes of wading I quickly became cold. Most rivers remain high and colored from last week’s rain, and with today’s short burst and more to follow, I cannot say when I might wade and cast once more. Such is the nature of winter in these mountains. Opportunities come when they will, with days perhaps, or many weeks between. Eventually the ice will arrive and even this slow, swinging substitute for fishing will cease.

There is a new pattern flitting through my brain, though it has yet to take form. Snaps of concepts and ideas have been flirting since September, a dace with that wonderful movement, but such things cannot find life while the dry fly season reigns. I should sit down and work it out, now that winter is upon us. Soon…