Porch sitting, Reconnoitering and Pondering Life

Forty-four degrees worth of brilliant afternoon sunshine and, despite the chill of the westerly wind gusts, I could not resist!

Though it is not the deep heat of a summer’s eve, baking the aches and pains of a long day on the river from my neck and shoulders, this unexpected glow of sunlight felt remarkable. Luckily, my shrunken larder boasted a remaining can of Hidden Springs’ Breakfast Juice, that this impromptu porch sit might follow my Catskill tradition.

The Catskills are in the path of the worst winter storm of the season. We could see a foot of snow fall on Sunday. It was with some surprise that I walked outside to feel real warmth in the sun, for that porch thermometer read barely one degree yesterday after sunrise. Just last week I had wandered along the West Branch, swinging a fly toward hope for the warmer and wetter winter that would be the best gift Nature might offer to our historic trout rivers. The forecasts say, all anglers’ prayers to the Red Gods shall remain unanswered.

Winter, as usual; with no new hope for the seventy-three days ahead.

The snowpack will be beneficial to the rivers, most beneficial if it endures in the highlands, seeping gradually into the aquifers which feed the spring seeps there, the birthplaces of these rivers. This storm may bring twice the snowfall we have seen thus far. We cannot stop it, thus it is best that we hope the aftermath brings temperatures just above freezing to preserve it’s benefits to bright waters.

I ponder the truth of the season, surrendering to the simple fact that we are barely past mid-winter. I have tied flies for spring and for summer, and I have fondled and polished a few cherished bamboo rods. My winter reading progresses, cherishing the classics, and debuting a few new titles, those penned after the 1940’s.

The sun has slipped below the peak of Point Mountain and the temperature is dropping. Memories of warmer days lingered for a moment, but the full knowledge of winter returns. Cold winds are coming, with temperatures which readily defeat the thin walls and old furnace here at Angler’s Rest. My brief fantasy of springtime has retreated with the setting sun.

Oh, how I wish there was a winter classic angling show here in the Catskills! Some event to look forward to during the arduous length of winter, a celebration of classic tackle and books and all the history that winds along the rivers of these mountains. Sadly, though we boast growing ranks of fly fishers, few even know of, much less appreciate these things. Multitudes blindly follow the mantra of catch more fish, without ever knowing why, nor what it is all about.

And so, unto evening I tread…