The cover on the latest issue of Trout, the official publication of Trout Unlimited, shows an intrepid angler bundled against the elements, a wool watch cap pulled down over his ears, fly rod clutched in a gloved right hand, staring intently into water that looks as cold and uninviting as the hoarfrost-coated trees in the background.
You see a lot of that this time of year and a lot of related articles in the fish and hunt magazines extolling the virtues of mid-winter fly fishing for trout, the most salient being that you'll have great stretches of the stream — stretches that are clogged with brother anglers in May and June — all to yourself. Of course you will. They're not as crazy as you are if you fall for that pitch.
Sure, the articles usually warn you that a trout's metabolism slows when water approaches a solid state and food is scarce, but then they go on to perk you up by saying trout have to eat no matter what the conditions, and if you fish deep enough and slow enough, you might be surprised at what happens.
Some of the articles also hold out the promise that given a few unseasonably warm days you might even find trout surface feeding on tiny black stone flies.
Sure, and you might also encounter a female fly fisher who happens to own a nearby cabin and who invites you to drop in for a glass of bourbon and whatever after you finish flogging the water.
One's about as likely to happen as the other.
Imagining the former is hard enough. To catch a trout on a dry fly in February; aye, that's the stuff that dreams are made on. So dream on for all the good it will do you.
The purpose of these articles, of course, is to challenge your manhood. Female fly fishers are too smart to be taken in by them. It's all part of the when-the-going-gets-tough-the-tough-get-going school of sport. Are you a man or a wimp?
If you're inclined to have a go at one of these ventures there are plenty of opportunities. The New York-Pennsylvania border waters of the Delaware and its West Branch are open now to catch-and-release angling with artificial lures. Closer to home there's a three-quarter-mile stretch of the Genegantslet that is open year-around, and is also catch-and-release.
I'd be glad to show it to you, but don't expect me to join you in the water. I've been there and done that and once I even caught a trout.
It was in a pool that is usually productive during the sane part of the trout season. Following advice gleaned from one of those magazine pieces, I was using a weighted woolybugger and a sinking tip line.
After nearly an hour of fighting off hypothermia and boredom, I felt the lure stop. It had stopped several times before, hung up on a rock or water-logged stick. But this time there was a slight response when I lifted the rod tip. I'd hooked a fish.
Actually, I think the fish probably hooked itself. I suspect it was lying there, sleeping with its mouth open and the wollybugger drifted in.
In any event, the trout came slowly to the surface, much like a body that's been in the water long enough to reach the bloat-and-float stage. It was all of nine inches long, and as I slid the net under it, it looked at me with one glassy eye as if to say, "Hey, can't you give it a rest?"
I think I said something like, "Hey, you know what? You're right." I unhooked the trout, eased it back into the water and myself out.
I can wait until April.
Rossie is Associate Editor of the Press & Sun-Bulletin. His Wildlife Watch appears Sundays.
You see a lot of that this time of year and a lot of related articles in the fish and hunt magazines extolling the virtues of mid-winter fly fishing for trout, the most salient being that you'll have great stretches of the stream — stretches that are clogged with brother anglers in May and June — all to yourself. Of course you will. They're not as crazy as you are if you fall for that pitch.
Sure, the articles usually warn you that a trout's metabolism slows when water approaches a solid state and food is scarce, but then they go on to perk you up by saying trout have to eat no matter what the conditions, and if you fish deep enough and slow enough, you might be surprised at what happens.
Some of the articles also hold out the promise that given a few unseasonably warm days you might even find trout surface feeding on tiny black stone flies.
Sure, and you might also encounter a female fly fisher who happens to own a nearby cabin and who invites you to drop in for a glass of bourbon and whatever after you finish flogging the water.
One's about as likely to happen as the other.
Imagining the former is hard enough. To catch a trout on a dry fly in February; aye, that's the stuff that dreams are made on. So dream on for all the good it will do you.
The purpose of these articles, of course, is to challenge your manhood. Female fly fishers are too smart to be taken in by them. It's all part of the when-the-going-gets-tough-the-tough-get-going school of sport. Are you a man or a wimp?
If you're inclined to have a go at one of these ventures there are plenty of opportunities. The New York-Pennsylvania border waters of the Delaware and its West Branch are open now to catch-and-release angling with artificial lures. Closer to home there's a three-quarter-mile stretch of the Genegantslet that is open year-around, and is also catch-and-release.
I'd be glad to show it to you, but don't expect me to join you in the water. I've been there and done that and once I even caught a trout.
It was in a pool that is usually productive during the sane part of the trout season. Following advice gleaned from one of those magazine pieces, I was using a weighted woolybugger and a sinking tip line.
After nearly an hour of fighting off hypothermia and boredom, I felt the lure stop. It had stopped several times before, hung up on a rock or water-logged stick. But this time there was a slight response when I lifted the rod tip. I'd hooked a fish.
Actually, I think the fish probably hooked itself. I suspect it was lying there, sleeping with its mouth open and the wollybugger drifted in.
In any event, the trout came slowly to the surface, much like a body that's been in the water long enough to reach the bloat-and-float stage. It was all of nine inches long, and as I slid the net under it, it looked at me with one glassy eye as if to say, "Hey, can't you give it a rest?"
I think I said something like, "Hey, you know what? You're right." I unhooked the trout, eased it back into the water and myself out.
I can wait until April.
Rossie is Associate Editor of the Press & Sun-Bulletin. His Wildlife Watch appears Sundays.