The April streamer bite in the Northeast can be red hot, even when the air suddenly turns ice cold.
THE TINY white rental house was perfectly isolated, set back across the railroad tracks on the far side of a field. No TV. No Internet. No cell service. One of my favorite pools on New York’s Delaware River flanked the backyard. It was 65 degrees and sunny when I arrived that afternoon, and it took no time to hook a fat brown on a dry fly 10 steps from the door. Then everything changed.
The problem with April in the Northeast is that it can never decide if it wants to be spring or winter, and by 10 P.M., my idyllic little fishing cabin became a house of horror. The frigid wind shook every beam and window. The whoosh of every gust roared around the outside walls. The pings and clangs of the ancient pipes and radiators echoed around me. My fishing partner, Jim Fee, wouldn’t arrive until well after midnight, so I just curled up in bed, winced at every creek and shudder, and hoped that structural failure or a visit from some local psycho wouldn’t quash tomorrow’s streamer mission.
CATCH A CHILL
Bu hikaye Field & Stream dergisinin April 2017 sayısından alınmıştır.
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Bu hikaye Field & Stream dergisinin April 2017 sayısından alınmıştır.
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