A Winter Fishing Trip

Is there ever a time when a fly fishing trip is unbearable due to the weather? Of course not…well, maybe with a few exceptions. If the neighborhood children can play outside when the high temperature is twenty-five degrees, then indeed it’s alright to go fishing.

It was bitterly cold this week in the southern Appalachians with lows reaching single digits in some places. The fishing would be relatively slow but that didn’t stop me from trying.

The urge to wade a river with water temperature hovering at forty and inching toward thirty-nine degrees could be considered insanity if you weren’t a fly fisherman or outdoorsman. I would rather be in the river not catching anything, than lounging in an easy chair in front of a roaring fireplace and landing a big fish in my mind.

During the third week of January, the frigid nighttime temperatures kept the shady side of the mountains still dressed in white from last week’s snowfall. My grandpa used to say if snow remained on the ground for more than three days in these mountains, then get ready for round two.

The air was clean and very cold. At noon, I could still see my breath. Looking down, it wasn’t hard to notice the frozen ground, solid and crunching loudly, as I hiked down to the river. When I arrived at the path’s junction, I had to decide whether to go upstream or down.

I looked at the snow on the shady path to my right heading upstream and quickly decided this would be an adventure—no human tracks or indentations since the snow. Also, embedded on the path were historical footprints of deer, a few raccoons, and other creatures. This was a steep and narrow trail. When snow and ice freeze and continually refreeze, it makes a slick, gel-coat hard layer that’s hard to walk on. The thirty-foot drop-off reinforced the idea that grabbing limbs to hold on to while moving down the path would be the smart thing.

The plan was to fish for a couple of hours and then grab a bowl of hot chili at the meat and three on the way home. But time stops when you fish. A wise man once told me about the adage that said time spent fishing is added to your allotted time here on earth, or something similar. Time stopped for me today. Pausing to inhale the scenery from this vantage point, I noticed where turkeys had flown across the river, landed in the snow, scratched around, and meandered up the mountain.

There was no need to hurry because no one had been there since the snow fell. This section was all mine this afternoon, and there would be no need to share it. I carefully climbed around two boulders at the water’s edge. Leaning back against them, I looked upstream. A pair of bald eagles were headed my way about thirty feet above the water’s surface. I tried telepathing them to keep flying another quarter mile downstream before they started looking for dinner.

The river was stunning and gin clear. Directly overhead, the sun’s rays made the melting ice crystals twinkle like Christmas lights in shrubbery on the leaves of the dog hobble and rhododendrons along the bank. Reminded me of tiny glittering ice prisms. It was a divine setting. Maybe the adage was correct, and I was indeed getting a reprieve on my time here.

Staring at the clear water, it was easy to distinguish a few trout lying motionless beside two rocks on the far side. With water conditions as they were, they would be incredibly spooky. I like to sight fish. Landing the fly above their lair takes stealth and patience so as not to spook them when the flies splash the water. It runs in spells, but usually, more fish are scared than caught when doing this exercise. Instead of getting mad when this happens, I talk out loud and remind myself that it’s the experience I seek. Yeah right. If it were for the experience I would throw rocks at them.

Two flies were tied on, hoping these two fish were hungry. A larger, heavier one on the bottom with a small one tied on a tagline above should be the right combination. Both trout appeared to be about eighteen inches long and dormant. With the extremely cold water, I could see why. My feet were frozen standing in the cold water. Because my feet were numb, I was now beginning to doubt whether I had toes.

Usually, the first couple of casts are traditionally the crappiest ones. Today, I needed the rust-off and to be on my A-game from the start. The heavily weighted flies were roll cast fifteen feet above the fish. The rod tip was held high to avoid any line drag as the delicious-looking morsels of fur and feathers passed in front of them.

One of the fish turned as the flies passed while the other fish lay frozen to the bottom, totally uninterested. Being forever the optimist, there was hope of a hook-up. The trout that turned abruptly swam back into formation with his stoic friend. I eased out of the water to do a ‘toe check.’ Yep, wiggling them was assurance all ten were still there.

I also wanted to give the fish a few more minutes to enjoy the sunlight and warm up. Maybe the sun would heat the water just enough for the fish to realize they were hungry. It was past noon and the warmest part of the day. Confident the rising water temperatures would tempt the fish to eat, I only needed one set of trout lips to bite my fly and would be satisfied. I promised the fish gods to go home after that, though I really didn’t need much coaxing.

It was time for another cast. After the flies hit the water, it seemed an eternity before they drifted naturally in front of the fish. They drifted drag-free in the current, floating next to the trout that turned on them the first time. With a level of high anxiety, I was helpless, watching the flies meander down the stream. Defeated, it was time to search for some dumb, hungry ones further downriver.

As the afternoon shadows crept across the river, it became more difficult to see trout. There was no need to hurry. Experience said to fish the areas slowly and deliberately, casting to every pocket a fish could possibly hide in. When I noticed the fly line stop and raised the rod tip to set the hook, sticks, and small limbs reacted to my hookset. Their pull felt good and heavy. I only wished they could have swam away instead of washing downstream in the current.

“Could this be the day the river not giveth?” I thought out loud.

The temperature was dropping quickly as the sun dipped behind the mountain. Realizing there wasn’t much time left to fish before heading towards the truck, I needed to return to where I started. The closest I had come to catching a fish was the first one that turned on my fly. Finally, the urge to go back and fish to them again was overwhelming. One last chance, I thought.

Climbing up the snowy bank proved difficult, but fish awaited me. I forged a new trail through the woods and cut off the big bend in the river to quickly find where I had originally started. Peering from behind a tree, I could still see them there in a motionless state.

“Don’t get too excited yet,” I kept telling myself.

Easing above so as not to be seen, my backside gently slid down the half-muddy frozen bank—at least, I went feet first down it. The stalk was on. Kneeling on the water’s edge, I roll cast to the far-side foam line, giving extra line and mends to ensure the flies reached the fish first. Starting a reasonable distance above the fish allowed me to position the flies correctly and let them drift. It was show time. For good luck, I crossed my fingers and would have crossed my toes if I could have felt them.

I concentrated and stared at the fish, looking for that hungry reaction and bite as the flies passed. The same fish as before moved, the fly stopped and then the line jerked. I raised the rod tip, and he was on! I think it’s alright to fist pump when you’re alone.

Never underestimate a fish and its ability to get unhooked. It fought really well, pulling and running back and forth across the river, not the cold water lethargic fight I expected. Easing behind the fish, attempting to net it, I accidentally lowered my rod tip, and the slack caused the barbless hook to dislodge. When unhooked, the fish swam upstream and almost beside me as if mocking my mistake. Maybe the fish wasn’t in a photogenic mood. I laughed and told the trout I would meet him again soon, preferably on a warmer day.

My senses were filled with the smell of chili and beans steaming hot in a big bowl waiting for me at the diner. I could almost taste it. What a wonderful afternoon spent on the river in solitude. I would have landed that fish if I were sitting on the couch and dreaming, but instead, I enjoyed the day and lost him.

Mike Watts is the Publisher of riversandfeathers.com and the author of two books, “Riverbank Memories” and a children’s outdoor book, “Fishing with Papa.”