I've gotten to the point where fishing has become an increasingly less important part of fishing. At least that's what I keep telling myself. There must be something to it as I keep going fishing without engaging in the act. Indeed, I'd spent the previous four creek visits dawdling, reading, hiking and taking photos. The trips weren't a complete loss, I may have dozed off a time or two as well.
However, this day I'd rig a rod and wet a fly. It was time to justify the moniker of fisherman and use some of the accumulated dust gathering gear. It was time to catch a fish.
Remarkably, the fishing rust hadn't settled too deeply. I got a couple out of a sheltered run. Thinking that I could handle another fish or two, I meandered downstream on the snowy deer-tracked trail. The creek, here a straightaway, was considerably more exposed. The wind had managed to gather the proverbial steam, albeit, without the requisite warmth.
Whitecaps rolled on the normally placid stretch. There was no need to worry about spooking fish. Ripples from wading? A jet boat would have generated less surface disturbance than the gale that blew.
I slipped into the water anyway, braced myself, and held the rod tight. The Thingamaboober bobbed and dipped into and out of the wave troughs. Line control? How about rod control? Most times I could only hold the rod with one hand, the other was pressed to the top of my head in order to keep my hat from blowing to Livingston. All that kept me from exiting the creek was the fact that my feet were mired in the midstream muck.
Meanwhile, the boober bobbed. I alternately lifted and dropped the rod while trying to get short trackable drifts. I caught another fish, a credible rainbow that fell for the schizophrenic movements of my fly.
I don't carry a watch. Hell, I don't even own one. But, my internal clock said that it was time to quit.
Tippet snarled and chilled to the core, I extricated myself from the mud and trudged back to the hut.
Perversely, all I could think about was summer, the PMD hatch, and sweat running down the inside of my waders.
I settled in and read a piece by Nick Lyons where he and friends had passed a day in a fishing hut on an English chalk stream. The story (appropriately titled: In a Fishing Hut, from the volume Full Creel) was largely about the days dining, which is what one writes about when the fishing or conditions are not worth writing home about. And he wrote about butter sandwiches. There were cucumbers too. I had no cucumbers and so settled on the butter and rolls. Butter sandwiches. Admittedly, they were quite good.
So, I had three.
Cholesterol? Who cares?
I'm fattening up for the PMD hatch.