The exceptionally clement weather two weekends ago chased away the winter blahs and drove me to open the door of The Fishing Closet.
Back in November, I carefully placed the rods, boots, waders and ephemera in this closet in such a way as to facilitate easy removal.
Of course, everything shifted over the winter, and upon extracting the merest bag filled with fly boxes, great piles of stuff fell out, pinning me against the toilet and reminding me once again that fly-fishing ain’t pretty.
This has been a rough winter. I discovered that by turning off the power strip that controls the television and related apparatus, great savings can be realized on a) the electric bill and b) the mental health bill. I missed almost all of “Survivor: Health Care Reform� via this simple, effective tactic.
Instead I read the complete works of Spenser. Lest I be thought to harbor intellectual pretensions, please note that I refer to the Boston-based private eye, not the “Faerie Queen� guy.
During rare television moments, I made my annual attempt to become interested in basketball and hockey, closely followed by the annual failure to become interested in same.
And in a nod to middle age, I joined a gym and spent several hours a week pounding away on various torture devices. It was either that or buy a set of “portly� waders.
Last spring, if you recall, it rained. A lot.
And when the waters receded enough to wet a line, I found my legs were not up to the job of navigating the rushing waters, resulting in a couple of unscheduled bathing events.
At the gym, you hear a lot of nonsense. I overheard one short, tubby specimen, clad (unwisely) in stretchy black shorts, assure a svelte woman about 5 feet taller that, “I am an expert in martial arts.�
I’ll take him at his word — after all, Jackie Chan is no giant — but I don’t think it’s a very good pickup line.
I keep to myself, but I do harbor a secret desire that someone ask why I spend so much time on the stationary bike and the stair thingy.
I bet I will be the first to reply I am strengthening my leg muscles for fishing.
Speaking of strengthening, anglers heading to their local hook-and-bullet for licenses might want to work on their jaw muscles, the better to keep the old mandible from hitting the floor when they discover our bold political leaders have jacked up the fees something fierce.
In Connecticut, where legislators have well-publicized difficulties with basic mathematics, they kept it simple and just doubled everything. So a resident fishing license is now $40; non-resident, $80.
New York, ever parochial, is charging residents a paltry $29 for the season and taking it out on visitors, who will fork over $70.
And Masschusetts, leading the league in weird, charges residents $27.50 (and non-residents $37.50) for an activity described, somewhat obscurely, in the official literature as “Resident/Alien Fishing.�
Which could bring me to the Lizard People conspiracy theory, but it’s too early for that sort of thing. I haven’t had my coffee yet.
Reminders: Check your waders for leaks. Clean your fly lines. Consider buying wading boots with one of the new rubber soles designed to prevent the spread of aquatic nuisances, such as the dreaded “rock snot.� Take extra care in cleaning waders and boots, and keep a spray bottle of something with chlorine in it (such as Tilex Mold and Mildew) in the car and use it on your boots, just to be sure of killing the microscopic critters.
And even if you’ve been riding miles to nowhere in your local health club and have thighs like tree trunks, take particular care not to go charging out into high, dangerous water in your early-season zeal.
Opening day of trout season in New York is April 1; Connecticut, April 17. Massachusetts is year-round.
