It is mid-February in a part of the world that used to
celebrate Washington’s birthday (George, that is, not Denzel) but now loudly
and mindlessly announces its latest sales on something called Presidents’ Day
weekend. And there’s snow on the
ground. Actually there has been snow on
the ground for a few weeks, the bottom layer of which has been compacted into
ice that seems tougher than steel. And
yesterday more white insult was added to frozen injury to the tune of seven
inches. A brief lull of thawing rain but
that turned back into snow overnight.
These are days when I run my fingers along the spines of
many angling books on the shelves and wonder how long it will be before the ponds
and streams will thaw and the fish start feeding again. And when I can semi-comfortably stand on a
bank and throw a line into these waters.
It will be a while longer I think. Another storm is forecast for late tomorrow.
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