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3. Tiny Winter Black Stoneflies

...There were many stoneflies on the water and no fish rising to take them. ...

Falsifly, do you have time to elaborate for us?

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.

with small puffy-white cumulus clouds drifting mellifluously through the cerulean backdrop.

"Preening life back into each fly?" Oh, My
God.

Some of the best early season dry fly fishing I’ve ever had on my home water was on this:

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.