The Days grow longer
Over the last few days, the sunlight, what little could peer through clouds, melted the shroud of snow that surrounded Highway 275. Corpses of deer litter the ditches. Frozen in contorted and disfigured poses, giving us a clue as to their ultimate and untimely demise, the sunlight thaws their gruesome poses as the crows begin to scavenge. I don’t know if the snow or frigid cold led them into the path of an oncoming car, it was, most certainly though, a contributing factor.
Winter has been gruesome this year in Nebraska. Frigid cold in December, January, and February. Blizzards in December, constant snow for most of January and February. While the Creek never freezes, despite the fact that nymph fishing is my bread and butter, I grew weary of chucking indy rigs. This was probably more psychological than anything else, fishing nymphs under indicators became symbolic for the winter of our discontent (which was made inglorious by the fact that the sun did not shine at all). We all suffered from seasonal affective disorder.
The temperature, however, had taken a turn. We were on the tail end of a warming trend. The snow, while still piled high in spots, was starting to melt.
And the first week of March on the Creek usually means the first dry fly fishing of the year.
Midges, mayflies, and caddis were boiling from the water. The trout were eager to sip at the bounty.
The first brown of the day came on the first cast. I saw the fish laying next to some cover, working in and out, taking flies near the surface. I cast the fly, quartering upstream into a short drift. The fish reared back, rose, and took the fly with a definitive gulp. It is hard to say if I reacted to the sound or the sight. Whatever the case may be, I raised the rod tip gently and drew the line tight.
After the first brown, I started catching rainbows. It was as if the browns had all left the building. Many of the ‘bows were sporting some nice spring colors. I landed one that was big, I could speculate on the size, however, the adjective big will have to suffice. As I set the fish up for the picture, he escaped. This was, perhaps, the only depressing moment of the day, it was, indeed, a really big fish.
I recovered and reminded myself that I was well into double digits, there was no sense crying over spilled milk.
Then, it was back to browns.
And more browns.
And then some more rainbows.