Winter continues to eke along.
Here on the Ice Planet Hoth—aka Vermont—we are slated to get into the double digits this weekend, a fact which has caused much rejoicing amongst the fleece- and down-clad inhabitants.
This is the time of year cabin fever tends to set in, and in the past week I found myself somewhat maniacally sorting through my fishing gear; organizing leaders, sharpening hooks (the streamers were this week, moving onto the dries now), and pondering the purchase of a new line for the five-weight as my floating line has finally aged into a sink tip.
Trips are on the books—the Delaware River in NY and Montana (and the people said “amen”) in April, stripers in May and June, and miscellaneous adventures in the planning stage or simply yet to pop up. I’m punchy and edgy and need to get out with both the camera and the rod. Last weekend, I resorted to casting in my parking lot in downtown Manchester. The tourists were less than amused and somewhat concerned about the girl bundled against the cold and waving some kind of stick with string.
So I sit at my desk at Orvis HQ and stare at the wall, where I’ve pinned a mishmash of images—there is one of Jake in his element in Montana, showing off his smallest catch of the season. Another of a Ponoi supply run in boats and a Mi-8. There’s one of a rather spectacular sunset on the Missouri, and one from a group of Dutch Marines I was stranded with in the Belize City airport this past fall. Even one of Jake’s pineapple chalice from a Missouri float last fall (rather inspirational on several levels, pending on the day).
There’s climbing and carp, boats and buzzballs. It’s a good mental escape on those days the words just won’t come. Sometimes getting lost in a picture is all we need to get the creative juices flowing once more. ‘Cause if we physically can’t be on that river, casting to those fish, at least we can dream about it.
