Driving home from his meeting, he noticed a car parked next to the river. The pull off was next to a trail, which wound through the woods and down into the river valley. Where it intersected the water, it presented the traveler with two choices: upstream to the dam or downstream to the wide, glassy water. After two weeks with highs in the twenties, downstream was certainly covered with ice. He’d have to walk upstream to find trout. But he was going 50 in a 40. The car on the side of the road had a brook trout sticker on the back window. He wasn’t going fishing. Whoever parked was most likely fishing, most likely headed upstream.

A malaise kicked in when the maybe I can was quickly dashed on the rocks of early morning meetings and other, scattered obligations stretching into the next week. Those calendar obligations were the conscious coverup of the subconscious dread for ice lined banks guarding tight lipped trout. It was cold. The fishing was slow. Both would hold true for at least two more months.

Pulling into the garage, waders  were hanging feet away from his trunk. As the mechanical door lowered, a gust of wind caused one neoprene booty to extend ever so slightly towards a rear fender. He didn’t have a brook trout sticker on his car. Should he? Inside, the pile of mail and casual conversations with family were a welcome distraction. Navigating his way to the office was more precarious.

The hallway closed featured a line of fly rod tubes organized by weight. The cap for the six weight was unzipped. It was the last rod he had taken out. Was it December? Late October? Had it been that long? He hung his jacket up on a hanger and that question was out of sight, out of mind. That lapse in angling time was shielded behind an insulated nylon shell that was designed for the rigors of the outdoors but functioned just as well for running into the grocery store or standing at the gas pump.

Later, while staring at the spreadsheets and  stream of email notifications and other work fodder he had a moment of modest inspiration and clicked over to an internet forum. While not what it was a decade ago, it was still the prime location for the latest local fly fishing information. A few poorly spelled and hastily composed messages were encouraging. Maybe tomorrow? The sun will be out tomorrow – literally and as they say. The seeds of ambition were sprouting as four or five email popups chimed in the laptop speakers. With a quick keystroke, the subject line of the first message eliminated the option of a morning on the water.

This afternoon could work. He could hear the trees in the wind. Or was it the wind in the trees? Either way, it sounded cold.

He wanted to fish. Life made it hard right now. The frigid, arctic circumstances made it hard right now. It wasn’t fishing. It was him. Well, it was the fishing, too. The local rivers were marginal at best and those systems don’t shine bright when they’re half frozen. He walked back to the closet and slid the hangers with the jackets to the side. He zipped up the six weight’s tube. He realized there was a five weight to the right of it. He switched their places. He closed the closet. Now things will be ready when he is ready.

With two fingers and two ice cubes, he sat with a favorite fishing book by the fire.