Frost

It is the first Sunday in November, and twenty-six degrees here in Crooked Eddy. We have a hard frost this morning, just days away from seventy-degree sunshine, and it truly feels like the angler’s winter.

I was thinking just now, working my mind into this new groove of the off season. I can no longer busy myself with my daily quest for the magic, putting off the inevitability of the change of seasons which is so stark and final to those of us who derive our strength from bright water. The drought still persists, and the shutdown of three of the four Delaware reservoirs has silenced their tailwaters. It is very clear to even the casual observer that our trout fishing has dwindled.

Throughout this long winter there will be a wavering faith to deal with along with the typical emotions of withdrawal. Will Nature refill the reservoirs, and will she offer enough sustenance to the trickling rivers before the long freeze comes along. What of the fates of the mayflies and the spawn?

It always takes me some time to adjust, cushioned somewhat by the fact that outside it is still autumn. Once my soul has settled into this forced change, I will sit at this bench and tie the first Quill Gordon to be set aside for spring, a simple act of hope.