Thirty Days

The calendar turns, and the last leg of the journey through another angler’s winter begins. Might I really test my legs on cobbled bank and riverbed so soon?

Cloudbanks have obscured the dawn, and fine snowflakes are swirling in the breezes which prelude the squall. It is thirty-one degrees here in Crooked Eddy.

Though the long wait approaches it’s end, there is still waiting to be done. There is hope of course; hope for Nature’s tease of warmer days and a chance to wade the river for the first time in so many months, but the winds will drive the squalls wherever she will. March will certainly not stop them, nor will April nor even May. The Catskills will share their gifts in their own time.

I read, ponder, tie flies and tinker with tackle. The days will pass and, as anticipation builds, I will taste the sunlight whenever I may, strengthen my legs with the fierce pull of frigid currents, and find my way on toward spring.