Harbingers

To be official, spring arrives on Tuesday, though the week just completed was far more springlike than the one here begun. We had two absolutely gorgeous days midweek, 67 degrees, bountiful sunshine, the kind of days to perfectly usher in the evening porch sitting season. Yes, I took advantage of them. The first day of spring conversely will bring a return to the thirties, with snow showers on Wednesday morning.

I slipped out of the Fly Tyers Guild meeting just after Noon yesterday. Having tied a few Quill Gordons, I wanted to spend my afternoon wading bright water and casting them, I hoped by some miracle to a rising trout.

While I knew that the ten-day forecast wasn’t promising, the talk at the meeting was centered on another two full weeks of cold weather, another perfect example of the Red Gods setting up anglers for a fall. I figured this was my last chance to spend a few quality hours on a sunlit river.

I took a Galvan reel with a fine tapered seven weight line along to match with my Kiley, it’s leader already set up at home with four feet of fresh tippet. With the number seven line, that rod is well equipped to toss one of the smaller streamers I like to swing under winter conditions, but it does a remarkable job with the dry fly I was hoping to use. The river looked so inviting in the afternoon glow that I knotted one of the Fox Squirrels, also tied during the meeting, and sat down on the riverbank to watch.

I hadn’t even matted the brown grass down beneath my seat when I saw a hard rise three-quarters of the way across the river, smiled to myself, and rose to make my way out into the flow.

Now I would like to tell you that rise was repeated, ideally just after I had waded into comfortable casting range and pulled a dozen feet of line from the reel. I really, very earnestly wished to be able to tell you that. The Red Gods though are not ready to allow the joy of a perfect cast and perfect take to a drifting dry fly. That one rise would be the only one I would see.

The river was at last at a good flow, clear and marked here and there for a couple of hours by an occasional mayfly or early stonefly drifting on the surface. I had checked the water temperature during my retreat on the bank, reading 48 degrees and whetting my appetite for success. I surmised that the mayflies that showed just often enough to keep me interested were Quill Gordons. One did fly past nearby, well lit by the sunlight and betraying that yellowish coloration to it’s abdomen, and I took that as confirmation and tied on the Dyed Wild 100-Year Dun I had tied during the morning.

I did do some casting of course. I peppered the entire area where that rise had shown, as well as all of the water around the various early season lies experience highlighted. My shoulder has that telltale twinge this morning, evidence that I worked the water, shook off the old lethargy of a winter indoors.

I seemed to get my wading legs back much quicker than I have in some years, so something of value was accomplished; my comfort with wading no less than the boost to my spirit that any taste of spring on bright water offers.

It is looking bleak over the next ten days, wind, rain cold – a little of everything I don’t need any more of. I know that weather patterns can change easily in these mountains, that warmer winds can find their way north again as they have all through this winter. It is time to get down to work.

My vest needs to be dusted off and readied for the season, the drift boat uncovered, cleaned up, checked out and it’s trailer inspected. Any significant rainfall is going to keep those reservoirs full and spilling, and March has been a wet month so far.

My calendar says there are 22 days left for waiting and preparing for another dry fly season, the real fly fishing that I live for. I still believe there is a chance that things may start to happen earlier than my traditional second week in April, and I’ll be prepared for that. The season can last anywhere from six to seven months, and I don’t want to miss a day of it!