Winter in New England. The time for some to tie flies and buy new rods, to read and reflect, to dream. For most, it’s not a time to fish. But for a few hearty souls who brave the weather and toss a line over water’s colder self: ice.
I don’t know if we were hearty or foolish but, faced with some sun and a few days off from work, my friend Ben Brunt and I drove out to the Deerfield River in Western, MA, to see if we could find any willing, if not cold, trout. The weather? Sunny, 27, with a wind cold and stiff enough to make 27 sound like a spring dream.
When I called a friend who lives out there to ask about any recent reports, he laughed and said: “I think all the fish are frozen to the bottom today!” He was right; despite swinging big sculpin and little nymphs we didn’t touch a thing.
Despite that, the Deerfield is beautiful. It was wonderful to be out, if only to discuss winter purchases, and dream and reflect. There’s no better place, after all, than by the water.