The Woes of Winter Tied Back One Fly at a Time

It happens every year, but it still catches me off guard, or more so in a sense of indignant refusal to accept the reality that is laid out in front of me on the driveway. One morning you step outside and the air has teeth, not the playful nip of a crisp October morning, but a full-on bite that says, “That’s enough. You’re done. The fishing season is over. The window to our escape is slid shut against the howl of the cold dark December wind. There is no more time to tie on a fly, to cast, to fish…..  to be wherever we were that takes us away from where we are.

Winter can be cruel to the northern plains fly fisher or fly fisher from anywhere for that matter. It’s always just an unrelenting reminder of a lack of access to our opportunities.  This creates a particular melancholy that settles in when the focus shifts to talking about snow shovels instead of streamers. The part of our passion non-anglers never get is that fishing isn’t actually about catching fish…. It’s about being immersed in the waters of something larger than yourself, the lake, the river, the weather, the seasons, the wind. So, when winter slams the door, you’re suddenly outside that element, you can still watch it, but you’re not in it anymore, and it’s passing you by.

There’s grief in that, small but sharp.  Because that’s what this is, really— that longing grief, an aching disheartening. Not depression, not quite, but I hate it.  Even while accepting that I’ve learned to appreciate it for what it is.

I used to fight the off-season hard.  I went to a tailrace fishery and forced casts into a driving sleet, I’d cast from ice covered rocks of an open stretch of river, with the random tug of line and the exciting thrill of a fish only to be squashed with the broken reality of a snagged hunk of river ice tumbling through the water on its foretelling journey.  These days I’m better at surrendering. The fish need the break just as much as I do, the inflamed elbow of a foolish injury in the spring reminds me of that every day. The lines need cleaning, the fly boxes need refilling and in a never-ending cycle the driveway needs to be shoveled.

So now I lean hard into the off season, it is after all, all we can do.  The season of cold self-loathing can only be replaced by the focus of rejuvenation to the potential of next season.  By now I have my routines pretty much set in how I go about inspecting and cleaning the reels and lines. There is of course no real hurry, no sense of urgency so I take my time always with a goal of having them all prepped before the groundhog seeks his shadow. The same for the rods and waders, and the rest of the gear, an inspection and a more organized arraignment for storage. As opposed to the random stash of madness in the corner of the garage that separated one summer outing from the other.  Theres healing from the grief in that organization, that order. 

That healing also brings to me at least, an opportunity to delve deeper into the true saving grace of the frozen world, the tying bench. The winter tying is different from tying flys in season. It’s more methodical and soothing, not a frantic dash of replacing what some monster fish, or errand tree branch had taken. Or a rush to fill an order for the sudden and magic fly that seems to emerge as the only thing that will work for that week or three at the end of July. 

Winter tying is comfort tying.

It’s a warm cup of coffee next to the vice that tends to create a chance to slow down and remember what you wanted to tweak in a particular pattern or just create something that didn’t exist.  It’s a time when restocking and reflecting on what worked and why and how to recreate that aspect in a way that both tells the story of the past but also entices the promise of a future.

It’s also a time of inspiration, in the winter I read, and watch, and listen, I glean as much knowledge as I can from others.  The opportunity today to learn and be inspired from the mediums we have available is astounding. The Youtube and Instagram platforms have been used brilliantly by the fly-tying community. There are forums and Facebook and tokity-tics and podcasts galore that expose and highlight the amazing skills and creativity that exist in their art.  This can be overwhelming for sure, especially to those newer to the craft. Its almost too much for those in the frantic stages of discovery of the world of fly fishing, but to me and others more experienced in compartmentalizing the multiple aspects of the journey, it can be calming, a shelter from the cold reality of winter. 

Back when I was learning we didn’t have nearly these channels of information. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not exactly Methusala-like and learned to tie Peter’s Dead Sea Streamer from the rock chiseled instruction tablet, but today there’s just more than the books and VCR tapes I learned a from. Those were great but the access to so much more information really closes the learning curve more efficiently, and these avenues of information really help take the novice tyer to the competent much more effectively.

However, there is one aspect of the winter that has been gnawing at me, an aspect that the media platforms can’t fully fulfill, and that is the detachment of connecting with others in a shared focus. It always seems easy to share and hear the stories of success and comedy from our warm weather outings. It does seem like that connection is lost as the cold curtain of winter closes in.  In the past there have been ways we overcame those lost connections, that missing component of interaction. The clubs and groups and meetings all hold a special place in my mind, and a level of newfound appreciation for what they were at the time.  I learned a lot and made some lifelong connections that are meaningful to me to this day.

Unfortunately, the realities of a busy life and world racing at the speed of profit brought much of that to an end.  Life in conjunction with the actual minutia, details, and drudgery of producing those opportunities and outings eventually snuffed out the desire to continue with them.  But … I miss them all the same now. I miss them like I miss the warm breeze off the lake and the tug of a fish.  So, this winter the realization of the end of seasons has me reflecting on how to return to some sense of connection, not only for myself, but for the memories I have of being newer, more naive, and not fully understanding the world of adventure and joy this stick wiggling, feather flicking world of fly fishing as given me.  To that end I’m resolved to find a way to connect and maybe gather some of our common interests this winter. I hope that maybe you will consider joining in that idea, either here with us locally or seek out or arrange gatherings in your area. 

So in the end, another season in the books. Another set of memories filed away, not just memories of the fish and flys, but also the memories of being out there amongst the bull rushes at sunset, the river at dawn, and the world of potential each moment held. With those memories in head and in heart I must believe that we can overcome the dread and cold of the winter we are mired in once again.

I used to think winter was the enemy. Now I see it as the price we pay for having had a fly-fishing season at all.  

So, I hope that your driveway stays clear, your vice is full of feathers, your coffee is hot and you can keep as warm as the promise of another great season to come…. Out there in Fishkota country.