Setting the Hook [an excerpt]

Rappahannock County was home to hundreds of trout streams. Overnight temperatures in late winter dipped into the minuses and seldom rose above the mid-teens during daylight hours. The trees had dropped their leaves, and the riparian vegetation was mostly dead or dormant. Ice crystals had formed along the dappled edges of the mountain stream we had come to, but most of the water remained accessible, flowing freely down the slopes. Gone were the mayfly and caddis hatches. Gone too were most of the anglers, which was ideal for those of us who yearned for solitude while fishing. This was just part of the charm of winter fly fishing and, so long as the water was open, the stream was fishable and the trout were still there, but it was a different game. The winter temperatures changed trout behaviour, and being ectothermic they sought the warmest water at the bottom of the deepest pools, which afforded them a more stable environment and protection from overhead predators. Trout also congregated in spring-fed streams, where the water was warmer and offered respite from the cold; and free from their summer territoriality and aggression, they gathered in larger pods.

Ray knew where to find these prime spots and, with neither of us fond of nymphing, he took us to these locations only after lunch when the warming waters were more likely to trigger a midge hatch and bring the fish to the surface to feed. In these temperatures, however, trout do not move as far or as fast to chase a dry fly, so we fished thoroughly and with more drifts than I normally would in one spot. Staying put was also necessary since the absence of streamside foliage made it more difficult to move undetected. Trout in deep pools benefitted from a wider cone of vision. Once I settled, shielded by either a large river boulder or tree trunk fallen over into the water, I remained there for as long as possible, rewarded by an occasional small brook trout, which I immediately released.

Connecting with nature was how I disconnected from technology. Wading into a cold, clear mountain stream brought immediate relaxation. My muscles unwound and thoughts of work dispersed. The rhythmic motion of fly fishing was therapeutic.

Thumb on top, relaxed grip, the rod in line with my forearm. A little forearm; a little wrist. Tip moving in a straight line, back and forth. Two abrupt stops then smooth acceleration forward and let gravity do the rest. Release at just the right moment. See it; feel it. Feel the rod come to a stop, then let go of the line, feather it through your hand, strip back in before it straightens, close the bail, and keep the rod tip low.

And repeat.