Zero

My countdown is complete, and I am more than ready for the first rise, that first arch of the rod and whirr of the reel that tells me in a tactile sense that it is spring.

Yes, I am ready, though it appears that the river is not. The Beaver Kill rose once more overnight, telling me there is still enough of that late snow among the high ridges of it’s watershed which melts in the afternoon sun and journeys downstream to the reaches stalked by eager anglers such as I. The water temperature is cold by trout fishing standards, though it did not drop as low as the air temperature. Six AM, and it is twenty-seven degrees here in Crooked Eddy.

The Wheatley fly boxes are filled to overflowing, nestled in vest pockets dutifully protected for deep wading, and all of my gear is waiting in the car. The celebratory box carries something new, a handful of A.I. soft hackled wets to match the Quill Gordons. I have waited all of these months for the dry fly, but high cold water makes the chance of a rise less likely. Rather than standing motionless in the chill of the river for hours, a bit of movement and a swing of the wet fly might increase my patience. Epeorous mayflies emerge at the bottom of the river after all, the winged duns rising through the currents to their chance to fly at the surface. Typically, the chance of enough mayflies to bring a trout to the surface is rare on first days, no matter who’s calendar one follows.

It seems the country is aflutter as concerns the eclipse, and when and where afternoon clouds might obscure it. I am an angler and would prefer the sun remain strong to warm the river closer toward that magic fifty-degree mark. My chief concern regarding the eclipse is a casual wondering if the unexpected low light might stimulate a wary brown to rise. Should leviathan take my dry fly, leap, and obscure the sun, that would be a celestial event!

There is color in the eastern sky now, as the sun ascends above the ridgeline of the sheltering mountains. Hancock sits in a little pocket, with ridges to the West, North and East and the great Delaware to the South. I can hear birdsong as the morning advances.

My porch is situated to watch the sun’s descent, to enjoy the orange and red of sunsets. Were I a rich man, I suppose I would have a second porch with an eastern view to watch the day begin. I’d enclose that one and set my fly-tying bench there. I often tie flies as the morning light rises, flies for the day’s fishing. They are good luck!

Perhaps I will tie one fly when I close this post, a single Gordon’s Quill to knot to that first tippet and cast with that first inspiration of hope for the new season. It all lies there before us!