January was a blur of work and fishing in frigid weather on the Farmington. Egg patterns brought enough fish to hand to make it all worthwhile though there were moments when my fingers and nose, burned from the frigid wind, may have disagreed.
February began with a little light knee surgery followed by physical therapy and whining. It took longer than I thought to get back into fighting shape but by the end of the month my right leg was doing what it was supposed to do without much complaining. I didn't bounce back as quickly as from the knee surgery a decade ago but then someone did mention I'm not getting any younger.
March brought upper and lower GI prodding by various and sundry medical professionals. At least they told me they were professionals. And no fishing. And, fortunately, no medical conditions that can't be solved without some minor medications and
While I haven't scribbled anything here in some time I've been sporadically writing for Hatch Magazine as well as The Drake and The Flyfish Journal. Writing for these outlets has been financially satisfying (you, dear reader, are notoriously frugal) and, more importantly, has caused me to slow down and write what I consider to be some better pieces. You can judge for yourself, but you'll have to go out and buy those magazine before they're off of the news stand.
Over the past few weeks I've stumbled upon these little gems.
- What may be Tom Rosenbauer's best podcast. Ever. The Ultimate Streamer Podcast.
- An exquisite piece on remembrance and angling by English Jonny over on the Culvert
- The nostalgia of mud season at Fishinabarrel Pond is almost too much. Quill Emerges, Snarling. With syrup.
Even though it's mud season in much of the northeast, the hills are getting the red blush that tells you leaf out is not far off. I walked along some small streams with a rod over the past few weeks. I've seen some fish and caught none. The good fishing is just ahead. I'll see you on the water.
|After this long winter, my back feels like that.|
|Winter has placed two trees in the middle of a fine run.|
|Mud season has come to the Pootatuck|