The Reality

     It is actually April that came in like a lion, and stayed that way.  I have never experienced a snow squall this late in the month, and coupled with the wind, it was finding its way inside my hood and onto my ear and neck.  I'm still living out the working and family man's fishing schedule- hour here, hour there.  My hours, however, have been repeatedly missing ideal conditions by less than a day and I've been paying the price for it.

     I have navigated Whitey through probably three miles of casts and retrieves in this early season but the river remains so cold.  The trout just watch him swim by with a meh.  It's much more difficult than I thought to fish a streamer slowly enough for lethargic trout, though the CFS has kept the rivers crashing.  As my outing came to an end, I benched the white wonder and took the ten minutes to rig up an indicator rig to fish it for the last stretch, if only to tell myself I tried it.  Sure as dirt, not a dozen casts later a thirteen inch brownie came flopping onto the banks of the West Branch with a golden stone tucked neatly in the corner of its mandible, just the way it was drawn up.

     It was a sober reminder to me that, for the wading, Eastern angler, nymph fishing is still King.  Every fish in the river eats a stonefly a foot off the river bottom.  Rainbows, browns, little ones, big ones, opportunistic ones, predatory ones, trout with a few spots, trout with a lot of spots.  Every fish.  Not every trout is carnivorous and even those that are, still eat midges and stoneflies, there is no doubt in my mind.

     On the drive home I was taking mental inventory of my nymphing supplies.  Thinking about whether or not to start Whitey the next outing.  Oh, yeah, the Hendricksons are coming up ... 

     There really is no inner peace in April.  Especially a cold April!