Fishing the thaw: It's all about the clothes

Fly-fishermen are not always noted for their sturdy common sense, and what little remains of mine was not in evidence this past weekend as a heat wave swept into the Northwest Corner.

By "heat wave," I mean temperatures above freezing. Yes, it rained a bit, and yes, there was still snow and ice everywhere. But there were enough patches of open water on the Housatonic to make fishing in the no-kill, year-round area just barely feasible.

Which meant digging out a lot of gear scientifically heaped — I mean stored — in the fishing closet.

Along the river, the rocks that were not visibly covered in snow or ice had, instead, a sheer, thin patina of ice — the ambulatory equivalent of the black ice beloved of motorists.

There is no substitute for caution; however, I cannot emphasize enough the importance of wading boots with felt soles and studs. Boots so equipped won’t prevent slipping, any more than four-wheel drive means a driver can just charge along when roads are icy.

But some grip is better than none, and having tried every device on the market I keep returning to the felt sole/stud combination.

Socks: a sock liner is a fine thing, followed by a thinner wool blend hiking sock and a regular thick ragg sock over that, providing warmth — and ankle support for those Nijinsky moments when the footing fails.

Underwear — long johns and a thermal shirt are the only way to go. Sure, the ambient temperature might have gotten up into the upper 40s in the intermittent sun, but it’s still cold in the shade. A thick wool shirt and a sweater, and a terrific pair of heavy wool German army pants I found in a surplus store complete the ensemble.

Plus a pair of glove/mitten things that are currently held together with duct tape and a ridiculous wool cowboy hat that has one redeeming feature: pull-down earflaps.

Looking like a dork is just part of the equation, a necessary evil. And since the only people likely to observe this are similarly clad, it’s not a big problem.

With the melting snow and rain, the river was high — making most wading unsafe anyway — and the water was discolored, making the choice of fly easy: something I can see.

If I can see it, my reasoning goes, so can a trout.

I worked my way along the banks, looking for eddies and calmer areas where trout could shelter.

I used a 9-foot rod and spent a lot of time flipping rather than full-bore casting. And here’s a handy tip: Try spraying your guides with cooking oil before you set out. It keeps them from icing up.

I saw two other anglers in four hours Sunday, laboriously making their own dogged path along the banks. It was nice and quiet. And nice and quiet is what it’s all about, anyway. I spent as much time staring into space or looking for signs of spring as I did trying vainly to tempt some shell-shocked trout with a succession of light-colored flies.

At one point I thought I had something going, swinging a white streamer right in front of a piece of shelf ice. A fish was underneath and made a couple of feints, but all I saw was a quick flash of belly in the coffee-colored water.

I finally made contact with a rather bedraggled hatchery rainbow that looked as surprised as I was at our meeting. I didn’t even try to handle him, just pulled him up a non-icy area, snapped a quick photo for verification purposes, and got him back in the water before removing the barbless hook.

He took off with alacrity, and I sat down with a cigar and the last of the tea in the thermos.

There are serious winter fishermen, but I am not one of them. An early season skirmish is enough to hold me for a while.

It’s enough to grab a few blessed hours away from what novelist and ace fisherman John Nichols calls "the human hubbub."