For those who love small streams, wild trout, and life...in their simplest form
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
February 1, 2013
Friday February 1st was my last trip to a small stream. It was a day right out of winters handbook. Steel gray skies, cold temps and a wind to mix things up. I had tied on a dry fly in an attempt to catch a trout and keep my record going of a dry fly trout in every month of the year. There was not even a hint of surface activity, nor did I observe any flies in air or along the bank. I fished many likely spots trying to bring a fish to the surface. At one point in the head of a pool a brookie broke the surface and made an attempt but missed.
With fingers numb, I reached into my fly box for an old friend, a Picket Pin, tied with a red head. I fished this fly as I continued my walk out. As I worked a section of riffles as the fly straightened out I felt the hit. Moments later a beautiful winter brook trout was at hand. His red spots stood out in the cold waters, and his tail seemed to be so perfectly square. Truly a wonder of nature.
A winter dry fly, Not this day but perhaps the next.