I’m cold, wet, and tired; and I’m staring
at the younger end of a day’s fishing trip.
In a stumble at the truck, while
fitting my wading boots to my feet layered double with wool socks, I planted my
bare hands firmly on the icy ground, priming them early for the cruel wind
flowing through the trees in the hollow.
Most would say it’s too cold
to fish.
Wading through a slow stretch of river
to reach the trailhead is more than most would even consider on a day forecast
to remain in a frozen dormancy. Waders,
two layers of Under Armour, gloves, a wool buff, and a waterproof shell grant
me courage, and my body begins to regain warmth. I knock the last trace of chill from my blood
with hands tightly clasped around a coffee-filled thermos, with life-saving,
heat-retaining qualities. I drink
slowly, and return it tenderly to my pack.
The cold discovers another way to cling
to my body and make its presence known.
The absorbent soles of my felt-soled wading boots collect water and
cohere and freeze to the snow beneath my feet.
40 yards into the trek up the mountain, I’m trudging with 4-inch platforms,
and the amount of fresh snow is increasing with elevation.
Now, I’m not naïve. I’ve fished long enough to judge by weather
patterns and forecasts when fishing is less than ideal. Though I have enjoyed bitterly-cold winter days
when catch numbers came in double digits, that is not the norm, nor is it an
easy accomplishment. I am, however, human—one
with needs. And although my sanity is
often questioned by concerned friends and family, sometimes I just need to go
fishing. My goal is typically to catch a
single fish, to prove it’s possible, if only because the same people who question
my desire to subject myself to wind, ice, snow, and cold meet me at the door on
my return. “Did you catch anything,”
they ask, with a slim grin. It’s a cruel
game—one I do not like to lose.
I laugh when the trail grants me the
first observation of the water I’m after.
My brother lumbers up beside me, smashing the ice from his soles on a
rock. The tails of the slow, deep holes
where I would expect to find feeding fish are all frozen, generously—almost a
foot of ice covers some pools, enough to walk on and fish the main runs, at
least.
Winter fishing in small mountain
streams is a game of pick-and-choose; and with clear water being the norm,
careful casting is a must. Deep pools
are often times supplemented with direct spring water, keeping water
temperatures at a stable 40-45 degrees along the river bottom, which is more
favorable than the freezing water in skinny riffles influence by air
temperatures.
We walk the trail, studying pools with
a watchful eye and descending into the riverbed when an opportunity
arises. My brother sees a fish; I lose
one. We move on.
Late in the afternoon, as the air
temperature begins to drop noticeably, the trail leads us to a large, deep
plunge pool cutting through the mountain’s bedrock. I estimate it to reach around 16 feet, and
its diameter exceeds that of a moderate-sized above ground swimming pool.
Running a weighted fly deep along the
bottom, under floating ice pods, I quickly tie into a first fish—an
average-sized rainbow trout. Several
more similar presentations dredge up three more of equal size.
The sun finally won the battle with the
clouds just an hour before it was scheduled to set, bringing with it warmth. After the last fish, we turned back down the
mountain, knocking snow from our boots and drinking hot coffee from our cups,
cheerfully. For a day to begin wind-swept
and bitter, I am content to make the return hike in 35 degrees, knowing the
cold could not stand in the way of a few fish and a good time.
Originally published in the Rural Virginian
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