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3. Early "Little Stones"

The remnant of last season’s footpath, to river’s edge, is treacherously slick, as the unctuous ooze clings to the felt and is forced to engulf the boots, adding both bulk and heft; further taxing winter’s atrophied weary legs with each passing step. Up ahead lays another obstacle, one of the many fallen trees that, after so many years, has finally submitted to another ravaging winter storm. It offers a place to sit and rest the weary legs, and a comfortable position to scrape from the boots the gathered encumbrance. The felled conifers are the most obstructive to negotiating what would otherwise be a “walk in the park”, because, more often than not, they must be circumnavigated. This, as a general rule, requires a fray into the tangled thickets of wader piercing and hat snatching snags. Only the inexperienced would lead with a nine foot assembly, or for that matter lead with the butt, trailing nine feet behind. A disassembled four piece is challenge enough. Dangling hemostats, clippers, tippet spools and the like, are best kept under wrap, and an exposed net will have you dipping into the depths of obscene vocabulary. Negotiating a, spring slickened, high bank to water's edge is bound to bring even the staunchest of men to their knees, or worse, leave a darkened stain to seat and soul. It is best played like a game of pinball, gaining points caroming from tree to tree. It is from here that I strategically make my way down, testing my agility and reflexive response, for the first time this season. The river is swollen, fast, and lined with icy deceit clinging to the bank, as I stand at water’s edge and cast my first wandering gaze over the turbulent swells, tranquil slicks and slack water. The wadding jacket is unzipped, exposing the familiar placement of the vest’s entanglements, and the rod butt finds a perch in the convenient crotch of a nearby sapling. One by one, the male and female fittings are coupled together creating the extension from which the day will be cast. The perfection-looped mono-tipped fly line is sewn through serpentine eyes, and emerges from the tip in completion, with a pair of magnified optical enhancement aiding what’s left of a younger man’s days. A quick double take confirms a smooth transition, and reaffirms a lesson learned. From one of the, too many, right hand vest pockets is drawn a seven and a half foot five x tapered leader and the two perfection loops are woven into symmetry, completing the line in fly fishing fashion. The eyes gaze upon the water and scan the sky above for any evidence of exoskeletons taking winged flight, and then a deft visual search is launched upon the snow-white riverbank, hoping to find the tell-tale contrast of the early, skittering, little stones. Not present, was the absent reply, as my heart sank into doubt, asking, am I too early, or too late. A memory, from years past, over takes my consciousness, as the dream unfolds on the day I was joined by the, early stones, in mass; the day when the trout wantonly engaged in the struggle for ownership over my tippet termination which so deceitfully joined the wayward drifting stones into the mouths of the voracious, early spring, feeding trout. (It only happened once, but it still mingles with the many unforgotten treasures.) A glimpse of movement from the right snaps me back to reality as I eye mother and last year’s fawn’s approach for the rejuvenation of “Mother Nature’s” elixir, tails flitting an anxiousness of wary concern, I supposed, of my nearby presence. I watched as they both drank their fill, while mother never faltered from her protective vigilance between dips to the bountiful giving. As they finally ambled off, into the increasing distance, they both waved good-bye in “White Tail” fashion, as mother kept a backward glance on my intrusion. I chose a nymph from the box and made the attachment, and then after securing a split shot just above the blood knotted tippet I began my search by offering the morsel into the invisible world of the river bottom’s roiling, rock and rubble refuge. I had the whole day before me and easily conjured up thoughts as to how it would unfold, but remained skeptical of pretensions as fly fishing predictions often dictate. The first fish took me totally unaware, but it was the beginning of a new season, and I was off to a good start. No, the little stones remained reclusive today, but my wary eye shall remain vigilant on subsequent visits.

Considerably more prosaic than my description of my first steelhead outing in the new "backyard". Well spoken.

I did hear the robins and red-winged blackbirds singing their little hearts out today, and watched the buffleheads bobbing for food in the river. The fishing tackle was left behind in search of exercise. A few midges did drift past me on my walk, with a few early spider webs - some stretched over still-remaining snow - out to catch them for dinner. Leaves of liverleaf, trailing arbuitus, and bedstraw have appeared where the snow has melted, along with earth-star fungi popping up along the trail. It's coming, it's coming...

Jonathon

From what I can recall, it was a beautiful spring day, with small puffy-white cumulus clouds drifting mellifluously through the cerulean backdrop. The sun was set high and the scintillating water surface was smiling a radiance of welcoming heat. The breath of fresh air was gathered in gusto, as gusts of wind were interspersed upon the soothing calm. I leisurely made my way downstream, sending silky silt plumes to disperse wayward on watered wings, and stopped to cast on spots of promise from which none purposed. A small island stood amid stream blocking the view to greener pastures, as the calling to investigate beckoned for my heed. I gained vantage, from the upstream point, and peered upon the quit flow in shadow of the majestic pines set on the confining river bank. A tell-tale ring of rise gathered and spread, diminishing into oblivion, followed by another and then another. I made haste along the island’s hidden bank for the downstream point of advantage from which I planned my attack in stealth. Cautiously I regained vantage again and peered from my new position, but I was perplexed at the absence of the tell-tale sign. Nothing was all that remained, as I stood replete in the confidence that I had not compromised my presence. A gust of wind snatched my attention as I followed its progression through the swaying pine boughs, followed only moments later by the abbreviated commencement of feeding trout. It wasn’t until the second gust that the bell of reason rang itself into my empty head. It was then that a more discerning gaze caught the little stones adrift in the hidden darkness of the river bottom’s blackness and the pine’s shadowing stature. Having lost their pine footing with each wind gust of sufficient strength, they tumbled water wayward into the mouths of the patient trout. I had never before experienced the trout’s lust for the little critters, as the Wisconsin early season was in its infancy, so my fly boxes were void of the expectation. I scrambled through boxes in search of any likeness, no matter how obscure, and came up with three gifts from a friend who claimed their likeness to something I couldn’t recall. I don’t know why I felt hurried but haste was in the breeze, so I raced into action and willed the wind gusts to refrain until I was readied. Finally standing in queue I took advantage of the next approaching gust and cast beneath the wind swept boughs, aiming to intersect with an open mouth. I watched in excited anticipation as the short drift was abruptly halted, almost before its start. I spent the rest of the day preening life back into each fly, as they one by one succumbed to the viscous plucking until they were rendered useless and submitted to the bare hook bin. As the day progressed the stones were scattered far and wide upon the river stretch, and could be seen wings a buzzing as the trout lazily picked them off at every intersection of their feeding lie. Sneak up from behind, make a cast, and move on to the next fish, was the call of the day.

PS. Sorry to bore you fellow anglers, but I sit here awaiting the March lion’s roar. The NWS has cast upon us a Winter Storm Warning with the possible dumping of 18 inches of the white stuff. So I may be forced to pound the keyboard instead of the waiting trout.