Winter On The Swing

_{^{“As anglers, we feed our souls selectively.”}}

I hit the “snooze” for a second time. The depth of peace was about to take me back when the warm palm of my beautiful bride rested on my bare chest. A groan turned to a sigh and her hand made its way to my cheek, disappearing in the rat’s nest that is my thick beard. She tugged with hunger and locked my lips against hers for a brief moment before bouncing to her feet with that familiar excitement I’ve come to love in her.

The morning was crisp and cool out there, beyond our double pane window and factory siding. I knew so by the tinted glow on the horizon, bleeding through the unsealed slits in the blinds, which indicated another night had passed without a fragment of cloud cover. I was betting that the present temperature outside was below fifteen degrees but I glared my eyes at the effulgently blue screen of my busted Samsung to verify. According to the savvy slicks at AccuWeather, it was a bone chilling ten above zero out there.

I knew that sitting there staring at the screen and cursing the cold wasn’t going to grant me the motivation I needed to get moving so, I bit my lip in order to refrain from groaning too loudly under the pain of my titanium impregnated femurs being forced to move for the first time on this cold winter day, as I headed for the coffee pot. I figured it best to keep the kid sleeping until right before we load up and leave. An hour later or so, the family was comfortably content in my warm pickup with fresh coffee or cocoa in our mugs and a Whiskey Meyers playlist singing from the speakers. We headed up-river.

A short 30 minute drive had placed us in our usual parking spot. Setting forth, we came to once again acknowledge the unfortunate but necessary truth about accessing this little gem. The hike in. About a half mile each way from the truck to the water and the snow hadn’t dissipated even slightly through the winter thus far. It covered our boots, then our ankles, then our calves. Before we knew it, we were knocking the top layer of the hardened snowpack loose with our kneecaps. Pushing further and further in, finally, short of breath and praying to God it was worth it, we stepped into open water.

It wasn’t long before we hooked up. In these tailings the changing waters are known by anglers, and big trout alike, to cause native sculpins to often lose their orientation or just plainly die from exertion so, imitating them by tumbling a “Gallops Sex Dungeon” or a “LBO Gender Assumption” down a riffle with a few feet of T7 is about the only way I have found to effectively target larger carnivores without encouraging attempts by the juveniles, who will indicate danger to the rest of the river bottom. It proved to work this day which, was a shy relief in comparison to the last two trips.

The excitement and euphoria from a successful day, especially after all the work it took to make it possible, triggered a curiosity in my wife. She wondered aloud in the pickup on the way home,

“Where is everyone?”

Quizzically I responded, “What do you mean?”

“I mean, why aren’t there more people out here doing this? Chasing these monsters in winter? This river bank is all elbows and assholes in July but, we’ve fished it in summer and 14’s on dries were about the only opportunities present. It’s hardly worth the time during that season. So, now that it’s cold and a son-of-a-bitchin’ hike to get in, nobody wants a shot at these pigs? That’s crazy. If I’m going to settle for small fish, I’d rather be up in the high country and away from the crowds… wouldn’t you?”

She meant in the mountains. We have developed a pattern over the years. Come early summer, we start hiking uphill to hunt fish. Some of the lakes we travel to are far more than ten thousand feet above sea level. The opportunities for large strikes are almost non-existent up there but the scenery is breathtaking and the crowds are fewer and far between. I understood her sentiments but, it was at that moment that I came to realize the perspective I had subconsciously developed about fishing, in general but, especially fishing in the winter.

“Would you prefer a crowd?”

With a look that indicated that I should know better she responded, “Of course not. I mean, it would be great if Alex and Kayla were out here. Or Mark, or maybe one or two of the Renegades but, I dig the fact that we’re not having to compete too.”

“I think it’s probably the main reason we sling toads, Babe.” I continued, “We evade the crowds which usually means more work. Remember all the people at the Russian Ferry? They’d line up ten feet from the dock and wade on top of each other just to save a few steps. We always walked down around the corner, remember? Yea, it was a long walk but, we always had privacy and more often than not, we hiked out with our limit. For whatever reason, the individual has a tendency to make the opportunities for the whole less frequent, in our society. They tend to take the path of least resistance, one after another, which pushes the opportunities further away. Ultimately the quality of the resource goes down where the access is easy. This makes for a “hard-but-simple” solution for those who want to find better opportunities. The “simple” part is that all you need to do is identify the places that are difficult enough to access that the average angler won’t consider the effort worth it. The “hard” part is getting there.”

She rolled that around for a moment before responding. “Well, that definitely describes our life as anglers. I can’t remember a time when we went anywhere to access water that wasn’t a pain in the ass, in some manner or form. And, it’s very rare that we are fishing alongside strangers. And, we have caught some decent fish over the years… I guess the hard road is the rewarding road.”

“Well, I suppose it’s a good thing that nobody’s told the elbows or assholes about the Ashland Marker or any other trail heading up to the avalanche chutes.” I replied.

My response was simple and slightly dismissive though, not because I wasn’t interested in the conversation. I just hadn’t had an opportunity to think it through. A lot of what we were treading

onto, ideologically speaking, was new to me. We headed home to dry out and warm up.

Now that I’m sitting here before these keys with a cold whiskey nearby, I suppose I’ll embellish a little. I’ve had a bit of time while spinning fly rods in the shop to reflect on my wife’s words from earlier today and what I have come to find is that there is a certain, discriminative solitude that comes with targeting seasoned trout in winter, on the swing. Not just on the surface where the river bank is void of people and rich with wildlife but, more so, in the tribalism of its practice.

There aren’t a lot of guys out there willing to wade through a mile of knee-high snow to throw big streamers at hungry trout. The few that do are grateful for simple things like slow winds and warm sunlight. Usually, we aren’t looking for numbers and therefore we’re not packing in the tack to play the nymph game. We’re packing in to hunt carnivores or nothing at all. Many mornings, our efforts are for nothing. With numb toes and fingers we belly up at the pub later on and curious folks always probe. When they ask us what we’ve been up to, we’ll tell them and, when we do, the look in their eyes is disregarding. Isolating even. The idea of following us through that white, hellaciously stubborn snowpack just isn’t worth it for a chance at one of these brutes. Especially when they hear we got skunked.

I suppose they’re probably more rational or, maybe of more sound mind, than us. It takes a unique type of neurotic lust to weather the elements with only a hope of sharing a moment with one of these goliaths. Though, in the end, that becomes a type of utility. Synchronously, we have come to cherish the proverbial link between challenge and crowd size. Sacrifice and participation. By indulging ourselves in this particular branch of the sport, we’ve come to appreciate the forthcomings of lonely sanctuary. Though, any feelings of loneliness we might feel are quickly satisfied by triumph when the crisp surface of a run breaks open with an explosion of predatory aggression.

Yes, there is something conducive about the strenuous (and oftentimes unsuccessful) endeavor to hunt old, wise trout in winter. It transcends into other aspects of our lives and what we have come to find is that our anthropomorphic behaviors, saturated with selective opportunity and prejudiced perceptions of potential paths forward are teachings of nothing in text or tale but instead, of the winter beasts that rise from the calm channels on the days when we are most lucky. That selectivity is so beautiful. It ensures our choices are enriched with return and our circles are tight with loyalty. Our whiskey is golden and our future, from a distance, still looks like sun rays on a glass surface. What a relatively simple yet, so commonly overlooked concept…. to feed our souls like the carnivorous river monsters we chase.

Perhaps tomorrow we’ll meet one of these majestically old legends again.

Author’s Note:

Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed this story and all the content associated with it. As an avid sportsman, I hope that this tale inspires you to get outside to enjoy the wild with the ones you love most. I write these stories as a supplement to my lifestyle as a sportsman and guide, and with them comes a certain accountability. The details of my stories are purely based on my recollection alone and in no particular way do they reflect a chronologically factual, indisputable timeline of events. They are in no way intended for official use or as a reference for official purposes. These are simply tall tales meant to entertain the tired mind; best served with a clear evening, a warm fire and, a strong whiskey.

All the photos and content featured in my tall tales are my own, unless expressly cited otherwise, and the unauthorized use or reproduction of them is strictly prohibited. 

That’s all for now, my friends. If you enjoyed this content and would like to see more like it, I can be found on Instagram by searching “Authentically Wild Out West” and on YouTube by searching the same phrase. Until the next campfire, stay safe out there and look after each other.

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