February is a hard month to love. The most ardent endure her
harsh temperament--her changing moods--with some success, rarely without
sacrificing self, in the form of numb fingers or wind-chapped cheeks.
Photo by Matt Reilly |
February is a time of change, one without which the
climactic arrival of spring would be of muted contrast. Snowmelt, under the
typically warmer-than-winter closing days of the month, floods rivers and streams
with cold, dirty water, while small game seasons peter out. But if February
offers any consolation, it’s that taking it by the horns and experiencing the
true end of the outdoor year makes spring all the more grandiose.
High, Cold, and Dirty
Six inches of snow fell over the weekend, and promptly
melted, unleashing inches of 36-degree, muddy water on the landscape. If
there’s a type of water that warrants hanging your hat up for, it’s this—but when
the going gets tough, I find it unacceptable to accept defeat.
When I arrived at the roadside pull-off, I could hardly recognize
the creek that brushes the road. Under normal circumstances, a well-defined
run-pool complex passes tranquilly under the shadow of a hemlock-lined bank.
With the right angle of sunlight to facilitate, a half dozen or so dark,
elongated forms can be seen waving in place like submerged grass in the lucid
blue belly of water, fins grazing cobble below.
This time, however, the scene looked and sounded of chaos.
Green-brown water capped with foam rolled and chopped like ocean waves,
ignoring the serpentine borders of the creek, and challenging the quiet forest
highway adjacent to a contest in violent white noise it was sure to win.
I learned a lesson in high-water trout fishing in western
Maryland three years prior. That river was running roughly four times its
typical flow. Wild brown trout filled the river, and I had considerable success
fishing soft water behind big boulders along the flooded bank with a large,
dark fly. That was mid-June.
A third odd was stacked against me on that February day—cold
water. I knew I’d have to fish slowly, and very thoroughly.
When a creek jumps its banks, holding and feeding lies are
tossed in the air. The food chain scrambles to reestablish footing in the
changing system. Small fish are tossed around, and large, predatory fish cruise
harsh current breaks, looking for a feeding opportunity.
A few hundred yards upstream, I found the setting for the
scene I prophesized in my mind. A long, hard run ran over chunk rock, tossing water
in crests and pits. An abutting slab of bedrock calmed the churning, and pooled
a few feet of calm water.
Photo by Matt Reilly |
Several casts with a heavy crayfish-imitating fly into the
seam ended with a hard stop and the turn of a massive female brown trout that
ran downstream, broke me off, and became my latest heartbreak.
Two Triples
A crisp, sunny afternoon in February beckoned me to the
squirrel woods, amped with adrenaline, 20-guage pump shotgun in tote.
Late season bushytail hunting, in my mind, speaks of
delicate walking, skittish squirrels, and quick shots—a game tailored to the
indiscriminate, somewhat forgiving reach of a boom-stick.
Just barely inside the treeline, as I stood mid-way up a
hardwood ridge, sun to my back, three squirrels busted from cover, nervous from
my prolonged pause, and darted for independent cover. Swinging, and operating
the pump-loading mechanism instinctively, I dropped all three on consecutive
shots—a triple, for half a limit.
Photo by Matt Reilly. |
Another 45 minutes of still hunting landed me in position to
take another bushytail. From a creekbottom, I closed the distance between me
and the rustling I could hear near the top of the ridge, hopping and skipping
in bursts, imitating the sound of a pouncing gray squirrel.
The first shot was presented when an alarmed gray pounced
from the trunk of an oak tree into the branches of another. As it was
scrambling to establish footing, I dropped it with a swinging report from the
20-guage.
Photo by Matt Reilly. |
A second bushytail peeked out from behind the trunk of a
neighboring oak, curious, presenting a headshot that didn’t go unclaimed. Down
went another batch of meat for the pot.
A third held tight to the forest floor for 30 seconds before
making a mad dash for a nearby hickory tree. I ran forward ten feet as the
squirrel began its ascent of the trunk, and interrupted it, taking a quick knee,
and firing a rising snap-shot—a second double, for a limit of late season
bushytails. □
*Originally published in the Rural Virginian