Day Thirty-eight

The weather report tells me it is snowing outside, but in truth the hiatus continues. I can see the gravel on my little road out front for the first time in two months, thanks to some passing sunlight and a handful of days in the forties this past week. Just now, I think I can hear rain falling gently on my roof, helping to melt away the accumulations of snow and ice that have formed the structure of my world. Could spring at last lie on the horizon?

My rod work has progressed slowly, hampered by weather and the arthritis and carpal tunnel in my planing hand. I realize that I am far short of my goal of crafting a fishable rod for spring. Just half of the bamboo strips have been rough planed, and that is the easiest of the tasks ahead. Perhaps I should work toward completing the rod with a single tip, waiting to make the second during some lull in the fishing season, though that would postpone the satisfaction of completing my journey.

I am working on a donation for the museum as well, with the first dozen flies tied and set aside, and a suitable fly box ordered to house the finished collection. Chores to pass the remainder of winter, for the rivers still carry curtains of ice and little flow.

The warmth this week pulled at my consciousness, doing their best to draw me out with rod in hand. A ride along the West Branch Monday brought me to my senses. The City seeks to hoard water now, to refill their reservoirs after their foolish decision to move forward with the Delaware Aqueduct drawdown in the midst of last summer’s drought. They succeeded only in damaging our fishing, for the work was halted soon after they wasted precious river flows in their last-minute drawdown scheme. Winter flows have been terribly low.

I am glad we have some snowpack, and I hope it melts slowly, doing it’s best to replenish the mountain springs, but I fear for the rivers once more. There is rain coming midweek, rain that would mean heavy runoff to dissipate our small reserve.

Five and a half weeks remain, if my hopeful timetable proves accurate this year. Soon it will be time to check the reels, attach new leaders to the lines and dream openly about the first mayflies of the season. This will be the seventh spring since moving to these Catskill Mountains, a lucky number perchance, though every season that I am blessed to linger here is a lucky one!