A sixty-degree day in mid-November; how could I resist the call to the river? Yes, a few hard frosts had caused the water temperatures to plummet, and in such cases the mind calculates the odds of actually taking trout, finding them low indeed. It is not the mind that draws me to the river when the Red Gods dangle such a clear, bright day in winter, it is the soul!
Of course, the tease was evident by way of a pair of tiny insects, drifting here and there, and even occasional soft rises from equally tiny fish. I remained content to swing my flies, never truly expecting the tug that dreams are made of.
Within an hour, the deep chill of winter had made it through the sheath of waders and wool and fleece, and on into my bones, but the warm air still delighted something deeper inside, even wading down as the river was enveloped in shade.
I lingered on the riverbank, where the rays of that gorgeous sun brought life and sensation back to my legs, lingered as the last moments of that glowing warmth saturated my being.
Bright Waters Catskill 