I FIND BEAUTY WHILE FISHING DURING EACH OF THE FOUR SEASONS, BUT IF I WERE ASKED TO choose the most satisfying page in the calendar to pursue trout, it would be January. How some people find it in them to stay inside during the first month of the year is beyond my comprehension. The hush between January fish creates a sort of catalyst for hydrogen bonding to occur; for it is at this time that the chain holding my body- made up of mostly water- to the river flowing around it, is hardest to break.

I love the way the bejeweled snow envelops everything except for the sounds of flowing water. It’s as if the water is flowing through a sound booth, and the knee-deep snow accumulated on the bank creates a force field straight up and around, protecting the soft sounds of the water from terrestrial dissonance. Occasionally, several of nature’s crescendos are sweet enough to make it through. They’re the muffled, high-pitched, crackling thump of snow as it is being compacted by the hooves of scavenging whitetails. Other times, it is the feverish knocking of a pileated woodpecker whose skull has evolved over the millennia to handle the forceful impact of beak and wood. The only melodies from above are the low whoofing sounds of crow’s wings as they fly overhead; but on particularly peaceful days, you can hear the high whirr of passing clouds.

The wind becomes super-cooled as it sleds through the tunnel the river has carved out through the trees. My skin turns pale, and is almost waxy to the touch. My muscles shiver and convulse; all are defense mechanisms that help keep my body’s core temperature within its thermal optimum. It isn’t so bad being cold, but I have to admit watching my hands perform the miscellaneous tasks of fishing, is a bit like watching a sporting event on tape delay. I hold a new fly with my left hand, and the end of my leader with my right; and it’s clear that the efferent and afferent functions of my nervous system aren’t quite working properly. I see my fingers wiggling around the tether as it forms, but they could just as well be a stranger’s hands, for I don’t feel the knot happening.

The moisture in the epidermis of my lips rapidly diffuses into the winter air. Every few minutes or so my tongue works to hydrate them, a losing battle against an osmotic imbalance. It retreats to the safety of my mouth, returning with a stowaway; the gel-like blob of snot that had been slowly sliding down my paralyzed upper lip- a salty reminder to occasionally cover each nostril and forcefully exhale.

I’m hypnotized by the waves of water my legs make as they move upstream through the shallows. As my foot moves forward against the current, it pushes up small waves. The initial wave freezes whole in mid-air. It momentarily pauses about knee-height before crashing down, hovering in the form of a giant bubble as if held together by dish soap and glycerin. The stray molecules that are kicked into the sky turn to snow at their summit, before nonchalantly floating back to the water. Others land on my waders where they will remain frozen until they’re reanimated in the back seat of my car. I begin to work the next pool upstream, all the while wondering if the water molecules that made it back to the river miss those who didn’t.

The winter sun isn’t nearly as robust as its summer personality. Some days I’m so bold as to stare directly into it’s center, a feat that would leave me momentarily blind a few months from now. I think about how small the distance is that my hemisphere has moved away from the sun, and how big of a difference it has made on our climate. Shortly after, I appreciate the goldilocks distance our little blue dot has found itself at in our solar system. A few million miles this way or that, and who knows how things might have turned out differently.

As faint as the sun’s warmth is, closing my eyes and aiming my face towards the afternoon sky is a welcome retreat from the slushiness of early morning. During the slow motion moments my head is arced back, I bask in the beams of light, sipping their warmth and deeply inhaling the cool northern air. This rise in mercury is felt by all of the riverine community’s life forms. Macro-invertebrates celebrate the mid-day heat wave, and shortly after, my quarry feels this change as well. The heavily spotted brown trout leaves the tranquil current of the pool to crash the insect’s party. Three links of the food chain now occupy the riffle, and it’s only a matter of time before I see an out of place hesitation at the end of my line.

The rod plays the role of middleman, a biased mediator between predator and prey who translates the trout’s raw will to live. The energy of every throb and jolt flows through the cork in my hand and straight into a part of my subconscious that genetically demands that I hunt or starve. This inner-force has no patience for agriculture or TV dinners. It’s a meat-starved executioner whose intentions are clearly translated by the rod to the fish at the terminal end that it must escape or perish. Skill gained through experience brings the trout to hand, and the primal voice furiously roars as I joyfully relish in watching the golden meal gliding from my fingertips.

The trout doesn’t immediately swim away. Instead it takes a moment to catch it’s breath while relaxing in the idle current of the shallows. I can’t help but admire how well camouflaged it is against the bottom of the river. It would be completely invisible if it weren’t for the thin, torpedo shaped shadow wavering below. The fish’s only flaw is it’s flaccid, milky white dorsal fin. I don’t know if I should despise the test tube baby, or nod my head in respect for surviving this far into a ruthless winter. Then, without warning, the brown darts towards the safety of the bend pool. I struggle to watch it slither across the shallows for as long as possible before that bittersweet moment when it disappears, and once again, I am alone.