Commencement

There is always something good, something right about beginning a new fishing season. Though we avoided yesterday’s forecast sixty degree high by the smallest of margins, it was certainly wonderful weather for January.

I had driven to the Route 191 bridge to check the water clarity, as all rivers have risen since the New Year commenced, and was pleasantly surprised to be able to see some river bottom beneath the rushing currents of the West Branch. My fate thus sealed, I returned home to dress for the high, cold water and prepare my tackle.

Seeking more wadable flows, I aimed for Deposit with an eye toward swinging my wares through Danneker’s Pool. Surprised to find no anglers in sight, I assembled the Kiley rod and began a pleasant walk down river. Nearing the head of the pool, I came face to face with a shiny new posted sign staked right in the middle of the well worn fisherman’s path. Alas, another casualty of entitled fishermen I suppose. It is hard to blame a landowner when one recounts all of the various bad behavior witnessed along the rivers. I turned wistfully and walked back the way I had come.

I ended up fishing shallower water than I had planned, keeping my attention focused on the deeper pockets of the run I was resigned to fish, and quickly got used to my little Dazed Dace bumping rocks as it swung along close to the bottom. My growing familiarity with those frequent sharp bumps proved to be my downfall.

My concentration lapsed a bit and caused me to react a second late when one of those sharp little bumps proved to be something other than a rock. By the time I tightened the line against the wiggle following the bump I was late, and I knew it instantly. The rod tip got very heavy as it bowed menacingly, and a great boil of water rose upon the surface. I had not fully appreciated the apparent size of the trout that had taken my fly when it and the wet fly line came flying suddenly right back at me, splashing my face with cold water as the entire rig fell in a tangled heap at my feet. The Dazed Dace had done it’s job, caused leviathan to rise, and I was caught sleeping at the wheel.

I worked more thoroughly after that, but of course such chances are never repeated.

As the afternoon drew along, I decided it was prudent to change my fly and make another pass through that run. Where there is one trout, their ought to be another; and there was.

A small Copper Fox was rudely interrupted in it’s swing and this time I allowed the hook to take hold before bringing the arch of bamboo smoothly into play. The tip bowed once more as I played the first trout of the year to the net. The silvery, winter hued brown was an energetic, foot long specimen, and I thanked him for his service. Perhaps with the ritual completed I will find myself more prepared should another big lurker be encountered.

There a is a pair of size 8 dace hanging here in the drying rack, and my thoughts have already wandered from river to river in an effort to choose my destination for today. A final fifty-degree day remains in this unseasonable early break from our Catskill winter, and I shall not waste it. If this was spring or summer, doubtless I would return to that same shallow run, confident that big fish would remain. If this was spring or summer, there is a good chance I would cross swords with leviathan once more, but such trout do not feed regularly in the chill rivers of winter.

Morning is upon us, time for breakfast and a decision. As always, I hope for sunshine, plentiful sunshine and a bump and a wiggle!