Anticipating the season's end

Here it is, mid August, 91 degrees, a thick haze cloaks downtown Harrisburg.
And all I can think about is winter.
Am I nuts?
I’ve often written and spoke about the seasons, how they force you to uproot routine, adapt, adjust... These are good traits to have. As a Northeasterner, you’re forced deal with uncertainty. Maybe not so much as an Alaskan or New Foundlander (although, there is a definite rhythm to their lives, because the alternative isn’t merely whether you can fish on a Saturday morning in the rain or snow, but whether you might actually live to tell about it). Spontaneity doesn’t just come from a serendipitous persona or a Picabo Street upbringing (although these things are important ingredients); you have to have an open mind and your fishing gear in a pile by the door (or better – already in the back of your SUV) so that when the thunderstorm stops, the wife takes the babies shopping with your mother-in-law on a Wednesday night, or the lawnmower won’t start on a Saturday morning, you can be in your waders, on the river, with the correct pattern all in about a half-hour.
But with the changing seasons, the weather, the type of precipitation, come changes in the way you fish, the flies you use, the rivers you chose.
Then comes winter, and, for the most part, you’re replacing the rods, waders and vest in the back of the SUV with sandbags and an emergency shovel. You start thinking more about clearing off the desk, maybe moving it back under the window so that you can gaze across the road, field, mountains in between adding a band of elk hair to a caddis or tinsel to a coachmen. There’s all the hope that comes with a new season, although it may still be months away from opening day. You’ll fish: Down South, or when you feel pent up enough to venture into the frigid streams on a balmy winter day. Your fly inventory will grow, as will your skills. Most importantly, you’ll become a better fly tier and take some time to think rather than do. Meticulously plan. Take apart ever gear in each reel. Pore through catalogs for that perfect five-weight.
You’ll think back on all those little weekend jaunts or big fishing trips. Maybe even those perfect river days with a buddy or by yourself. That huge brown, that fighting rainbow. The mountains, scent of balsam, sting of cold morning that changes so sudden into a warm summer day. The blooms that weren’t that just last weekend. The school of fish that are getting smarter, bigger, stronger.
You’ll go over your favorite spot on your favorite creek and wonder how the ice, the strong spring currents and the winter storms will change it. How you’ll adapt.
It’s a seasonal meditation, and it’s something I long for.
I used to have an old sailboat. She was a beauty – a real Yankee catboat. She was eighteen feet, eight at the beam, with the most gorgeous lines. I secretly loved the comments that I would get when I passed by fellow sailors on their gargantuan yachts or folks on the dock saying how lovely she was. I knew it. I loved her, too. It’s why I acquired her in the first place. She was art on the water. Brightwork and brass.
And I loved to sail her. To feel the spray from her bow, to smell the salt and spartina on the rivers and sounds, to hear the water lapping at her hull.
But as much as I loved sailing her, I loved sanding and stripping the boat each spring, varnishing the brightwork, polishing the brass, painting the hull, oiling the teak. Setting her slowly in the water, and she’d reflect hard.
See, the planning, the preparation, the purchasing of the right materials. Spending time on the craftsmanship of it. Improving her. Anticipating what she’d look like when the last of the bootstripe was painted on, when the great white sail was hoisted, when she cut the first wave under sail.
They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, and I believe this of just about anything we do. Sure, you don’t want that absence to be so long that you forget; but just long enough to allow you to appreciate what you’re missing. It’s a good discipline, and it translates well into fly fishing.
So, sure, it’s mid August, and the rivers are warm and the evening hatches are abundant. But there’s anticipation for the end of the season, and the beginning of a new one.