It was nine below when I pulled out of the driveway on Saturday, the second day of January. Moments earlier, my wife had remarked that it was thirty-six above in Fairbanks. Who'd of thunk it? Forty-five degrees warmer in the interior of Alaska than in Montana. This bit of trivia means little other than in passing conversation. It assumes some greater significance for us in that one of our Brittany pups would soon be boarding a plane, destined for a life of chasing ruffed grouse and ptarmigan in the far north.
So, frigid temperatures notwithstanding, I decided to take a drive. In the least, I'd make a token appearance creekside. It was to be a brilliantly clear day and I didn't want to miss it. I planned on a day of thinking about fishing rather than wetting a line. When I arrived at the creek it had warmed nicely, to two below. Thank God for barrel stoves! I wasted no time in crumpling paper and stuffing kindling and bigger wood into the stove. My fingers were …
So, frigid temperatures notwithstanding, I decided to take a drive. In the least, I'd make a token appearance creekside. It was to be a brilliantly clear day and I didn't want to miss it. I planned on a day of thinking about fishing rather than wetting a line. When I arrived at the creek it had warmed nicely, to two below. Thank God for barrel stoves! I wasted no time in crumpling paper and stuffing kindling and bigger wood into the stove. My fingers were …