Regardless, intrepid bugchuckers will gird up their loins and make the two, four or six hour drive to the river, all in the hopes of hooking - maybe even catching - a mirror bright steelhead.
If the cold isn't hint enough that you're fishing during a northeast winter, then the trees decked out for Christmas should give you a clue.
Ben isn't a particularly rotund man, but you would never know it when he's wearing umpteen layers of moisture wicking, heat preserving, cold resistant, alpaca-lischious glory.
After we spent six hours defying Old Man Winter's malevolence, the river gods extended their collective generosity.
Until now, my ugly mug has never appeared on this blog. I guess I'm not one for hero shots. I suppose my inaugural photo has me looking a little like an overstuffed Bilbo Baggins (the bravest little hobbit of them all). Of course, I'm over six feet tall, and weigh in just under three bills.