There is a kind of winter greyness that makes you cold just looking at it. Dim slate hillsides covered in pallid, bare trees pointing up at melancholy overcast skies. I want to go fishing. All the gear is right there. But if only the drive had been ten more minutes or there were a few more swigs of coffee. Then, maybe, I would be more enthusiastic about leaving the warm car for the chilly, monochromatic world.
All this melodrama must be tempered by the unavoidable and essential facts that a) I chose this, and b) I am going fly fishing.
The Appalachian hollow I’m staring into cradles a particularly productive trout stream. Cascading hundreds of feet down every quarter mile, it is flush with deep plunge pools and fast runs. The brook trout will be there and will be the only colors deviating from the neutral palette of late winter.
As is often the case with the actual fishing within the greater endeavor of going fly fishing, there is a bit of tunnel vision. Fishing is reading the water, positioning oneself for casting, and making a decent presentation. Hooking, fighting, and landing fish all get peppered in intermittently. Going fly fishing is when focus widens and you see the bigger picture. The sheer hillsides and the remnant drifts of snow; the scarcity of boot prints and the quiet. The quiet of the summer woods has nothing on the veritable silence of the winter woods.
These are the observations I make while heading to an arbitrary starting point for the day’s angling. Because even though there were no fresh tire tracks in the mud by the trailhead, there’s something irrationally perceived as amateur in casting to the first pool. So farther up I go.
The silence couples with the topography to create disorienting discrepancies. The nothingness surrounds so as to foment a claustrophobic impulse. The direction of the sounds that do crack out, a falling branch or a rock sent skittering by an unseen creature, are nearly impossible to pinpoint. It is a broad daylight unease that only goes away with time. Or, what accomplishes this more quickly, a turn of attention to finding fish.
The brook trout have a liveliness that is discordant with the world outside of their stream. Grey squirrels flick their tails and vultures glide overhead. Otherwise the forest is still. Underwater, the brook trout dart and chase. Their brightness even allows them to splash out and up into the air. But they’re reasonable creatures. And I push my luck. Optimistically casting a royal coachman doesn’t fool even the most aggressive trout in this winter stream. Neither does a parachute adams. Maybe a small stonefly?
And just like that the blue halos and swarthy vermiculation sharpen my attention to a fine point. Only in hindsight will I think about the drab and steep stillness. In the moment it is only problem solving and seams in the current and a spirited internal dialogue punctuated by splashing river jewels. Under other circumstances, dredging my hand into cold water on a freezing day would be tortuous. Here it is welcomed. The contact with the trout warms things up enough. Or, at least, it warms the perception and smooths the jagged edges of the winter grey.