The window is, well, perhaps ajar, though not clearly open. Still, I know what is coming, and that it will last far longer than I wish it would. Weeks would not surprise me.
I have the rod in it’s ready case, the line has been cleaned and I have remade the leader. The flies are tucked into a single box in the pouch on my waders, the heavy ones which help turn the penetrating power of the cold. That pouch has the spool of 2X tippet, though that is not all. It is also the hope chest, for it holds spools of 4X and 5X for the little cup of dries which also reside there. Layers of insulation are laid out, though one fingerless glove simply refuses to turn up.
After nine, and the morning sun has failed to penetrate the cloud cover. Soon, I hope, for every moment that it radiates upon the West Branch fuels my spirit. Ah, a complete pair of old faithful wool glove liners has been found, the basic, military surplus answer to the fingerless glove issue!
The river is just above freezing as I write, and it’s flow is quite low. There is always hope though, faith in the fact that something that isn’t supposed to happen could. Logical thought tells me that any trout that felt the stirrings of hunger felt them days ago when that temperature kissed thirty-eight degrees for a couple of hours before dark. Hope tells me that there could be one who didn’t find and catch a meal to last until the next warm spell, one who just might open his mouth should my Dazed Dace flutter right past his neb…
(Photo courtesy Matthew Supinski)
Nine thirty-five, and there’s that sunshine…
Bright Waters Catskill 