Do you remember your last fishing trip? I don't. That's how long it's been since the weather gods began conspiring with the river gods to wash away the latter half of spring. Imagine - weeks of what is arguably the most productive few months of the season - lost in a deluge of rain and drowned in the swollen currents of the river.
And I had such high hopes. The hendricksons came off precisely on cue. Mother's Day caddis were everywhere - including up my nose and in my ears. Drakes were popping on the Delaware. She was going to be a glorious season. Glorious.
And then the rains came.
The past few weeks have left me in a stupor; either traipsing about the house like one of the walking dead or angrily pouting in front of my computer screen (torturing myself by gawking at fishporn from around the world brought to my doorstep via social media).
My wife thinks I need to get over it already. "You can always tie flies," she says.
The $#@& I can.
I've been tying flies nearly every day since December. My boxes are full. My friends' boxes are full. I've already started on next season's steelhead assortment, and I'm precisely seven purple marabou plumes away from madness. I don't need to tie anymore flies. I don't want to ties anymore flies. I can feel the itch behind my eyes, under my skin, in my veins; it's only a matter of time before I break out in a sweat - retching until my guts hurt. I need time away from the tying bench. I need time on the water. I need to fish.
And today - the first day of summer - might just be the day. The rivers are finally low enough to fish, and while there are thunderstorms in the forecast they do not appear to carry with them the type of sustained rain that will put the rivers off for several more weeks. We're hopeful.