Watching Snowflakes

They are coming down with clear intent just now, quickly building from a light beginning around one o’clock. Sitting back, Dana Lamb’s first book in my lap, watching them swirling and careening to earth through the big bay window, I think about the good they will do come springtime.

At the moment, the Catskill reservoirs seem to have finally reached par after this year’s drought, and December’s rainfall virtually mimics the historic average here in the middle of the month. Whether reservoir fed tailwaters, or freestone rivers born of mountain springs and their spiderwebs of tiny brooks, Catskill trout waters will benefit from a good snowpack that lingers. Watching Nature’s vital gift of snowflakes fall, I find it easy to dream again of spring…

Such thoughts led my fingers to the vice this morning, where a few wisps of hackle, silk and wood duck feathers became beacons of hope. In truth, I live each winter for the promise of the Hendricksons!

Always I find myself searching as April unfolds, walking rivers, checking my watch, turning should I hear some sound from the water. I wish to be abroad on that first afternoon, to experience the very beginnings of the hatch! Doubtless, I will be more than prepared: too many flies, a fine fly rod, hopefully a vintage wand crafted of split cane.

The flies are invariably the first discovery. Typically, the day will be cloud darkened and chilly, as I stand in the high, cold flow of early spring, eyes straining to turn each bubble upon the surface into fluttering wings. Most often I will find just a few. If I am very lucky, one will drift close enough that I might pluck it from the water to welcome it, cherish it, and to be certain the magic has begun. Within moments there will be line on the water and a dry fly resting upon the leg of the stripping guide while I pray to the Red Gods for that first glorious sighting of a trout’s rise form.

The odds say there will be no rising trout on the day the first flies appear. Nature and her rivers are wont to tease we anglers just a bit longer. Barring some tragedy of weather, they will come in another day or two. If I am deemed worthy on that day, my rod will arch and my reel will sing the song my heart hears even now, as I sit and watch the snow fall.