Sitting in the driver’s seat of the 4Runner, intense cold starts to penetrate the cabin just after I kill the engine. It’s seven degrees at seven a.m., and the sun is a half-hour removed from making any impact. The sound of silence replaces the hum of a V6 and crunching snow flattening under rubber tires.

There’s little traffic on this country road, and my truck was the only vehicle to back into this narrow gap between the guardrails since the last snow fell a few nights ago.

One pass upstream and one pass down is all the township plow performed on this turtleback, line-less blacktop. And the continuous edge of salty cinders and packed snow formed a fair sized barrier for any would-be angler and a four-wheel-drive. But no matter. You just go for it. The sturdy frame complained a bit while climbing over the plow line, but with enough clearance and a little speed, the 4Runner made it over and settled into the pull off.

It’s a nondescript square, void of brush and flat enough to park one car — a neatly tucked away spot bordered by hemlocks on two sides and the road on another side. The river, thirty feet beyond, provides the final border. There’s some scattered gravel underneath, along with old boot laces and leaders buried in the mud, I’m sure. But at this rate no one will see any of that for a few months.

I could have gotten stuck on the hump of snow, and I might have trouble getting back out. But as a teenager, my dad taught me a few things about winter travel that have carried over into my fishing plans and preparation.

When the first snow fell this year, I brought out the small-sized coal shovel. It’s steel, with a good strong blade for prying, banging and shoveling things. It’ll stay with me until the last snowfall, tucked in behind the passenger seat and ready to save the day again.

Dad handed me that shovel decades ago. So too, he gave me a small duffle bag, jam packed with winter gear for an emergency: old gloves and a hat, hand warmers, snow pants and an old down coat, all stuffed into a duffle that surely would have met the trash if not serving this purpose — same for the gear within. In the thirty years since dad gave me that bag, I’ve never needed it, though it comes along with the coal shovel. I added the handwarmers.

Lessons like these linger, and they have an impact. That duffle was a message not to fear the winter, but to respect it, to venture forth but to prepare for the unexpected. Seek adventure, with provision as your companion.

Most of Dad’s lessons were ingrained that way. And, years later, when fishing became a life for me, I saw no reason why snowy roads or ice in the rod guides should keep me from fishing . . .

— — — — — —

I arise from my memories to find that some time has passed. The sun has risen, and the clean snow is super-white, with crystal reflections streaming from tree branches at all angles.

The window to my left is steamed, and I hear the engine tick and crackle as it trades heat for frigid cold. River, my patient shepherd, shakes his head and flaps his ears to get my attention, until I catch his gaze in the rearview mirror. He’s ready for release.

Seeing the world through a dog’s eyes is good. He’s excited by the powdery white world, and when I lift the hatch, he’ll bound out into the snow and bury his head for a moment, running for a few yards with his head submerged like a snow plow, scooping and then coming up with a mouth full of the white stuff, then flinging it into the air around him. He’s a puppy at heart. All good dogs are.

River

One last thought before I open the door to the single digits and take that first full breath of life. This style of fishing, this deep winter season, is about the experience. And you either love the struggle or you stay home. Simple work is made difficult. And tedious tasks are laborious with numb fingers and icy zippers.

But I seek the adventure, with provision and a good dog as my companion.

Fish hard, friends.

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Enjoy the day.
Domenick Swentosky
T R O U T B I T T E N
domenick@troutbitten.com