Zen And The Art Of Fly Fishing: Cold Days

My Honda pulls up to the access, it’s noise breaking the silence that is the early morning woods on a cold day. The sun hasn’t come up yet, and I’m dreading getting out of my car. Without the sun, the day feels just that much colder. It wraps around you, it feels almost claustrophobic. There’s no escape, there's no wind chill, there’s no warmth. There’s no respite from the crushing ambience that surrounds you. 

But I got out of the car anyways. At this point, my routine is well established; in the summer, I get out, set up my rod, and get into my waders last, but today the extra layers of fabric call to me. I slip into the waders seamlessly, noting to myself how cool the outside fabric feels after sitting in my trunk. I pull out the rod, tying on a streamer. Something to keep me moving, keep my legs going.  

Before I go, I sit back in the driver's seat.  

It would be so easy to go home right now. I want to sleep. The sun isn’t even out yet. 

The door pops open again, and out comes me.  

I have a plan in my head of where I want to fish, and how I want to fish. The cold bites at my fingertips. I carry my rod in one hand, burying the other in my jacket pocket. Then I swapped. I swap again. I decided that it’s pointless, and that my hands are just going to be cold. 

The pool in front of me has a steep gradient from its sandy banks to an inky black void. It’s 6:45, and I’m here. It’s time to start fishing. 

Starting at the back end of the pool, I work my way up. Casting a heavy streamer on a long leader is an interesting feeling, somewhere between conventional angling and fly fishing. The weight of your streamer drives itself out there, but the crisp stops refined by your time dry fly fishing allow it to carry itself with as much accuracy as you can muster. You don’t false cast, in fact, you’re usually shooting line.  

Short distance, within 30 feet, you aim for the bank. 

The depth of this pool makes it impossible to do a strictly upstream presentation, and I cast like a fan.  

Short distance, within 30 feet, I land near the bank. 

Slow strips keep my fly moving consistently, and from behind the barred marabou falls into the void. 

I set sharply to my left, and the fish is quickly within feet of me. I realize somehow, I’m on my knees, as the fish violently launches itself, jumping over and over in about a foot of water. I don’t remember grabbing my net, but I watch as my hand scoops the fish swiftly into the net. With a numb index finger, I pop my half pint out of the fish's mouth, and stare at it. I stupidly took a couple photos, and tried to get a video of its release, failing incredibly. 

For a couple minutes I sat on the bank, my fingers both wet and numb. I watch a leaf float slowly down stream, before being caught in a ripple. I feel the air bite at my lungs, and I watch that same breath exit my mouth as a warm cloud of steam. 

I’m glad I didn’t stay home.