Out There

In previous entries, I've discussed the inherent misery of winter fishing. Snow. Sleet.  There is ice on the water, and ice in your guides. The air is cold enough to freeze beer; even the pines seem to shiver in the wind. This is especially true if you're fishing "out there," in the snow belt, just a few short miles from Lake Ontario.  As a knuckle-headed, February flyflinger, one's only real consolation when knee deep in New York's Salmon River is that the fish are cold too. I imagine they must be so cold - in fact - that they're precisely one step removed from the box of fish sticks you fed the kids at lunch.


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.