
There is a kind of winter greyness that makes you cold just looking at it. Dim slate hillsides covered in pallid, bare trees pointing up at melancholy overcast skies. I want to go fishing. All the gear is right there. But if only the drive had been ten more minutes or there were a few more swigs of coffee. Then, maybe, I would be more enthusiastic about leaving the warm car for the chilly, monochromatic world.
All this melodrama must be tempered by the unavoidable and essential facts that a) I chose this, and b) I am going fly fishing.
The Appalachian hollow I’m staring into cradles a particularly productive trout stream. Cascading hundreds of feet down every quarter mile, it is flush with deep plunge pools and fast runs. The brook trout will be there and will be the only colors deviating from the neutral palette of late winter.









