Scott Thoughts; New Snow

 

L. Scott Hancock lives in Southern Idaho. We share one friend who grew up in Sandpoint and who now lives in Southern Idaho.

We share another friend (my editor) who lives in Sandpoint and knew Scott when he lived in Sandpoint before his move down south. 

Scott is a keen observer of life around him.  He puts those observations into words and eventually into books under the title of Tales from the High Lonesome. 

Volumes 1 and 2 of his stories are available on Amazon.com. 

Scott sent me this piece yesterday. I thought it timely for my blog especially because we have received a new white coating of Winter this morning. 

Enjoy. 

📙📚📚📚📚📚📚📚📗

Tales from the High Lonesome:                                            

Winter Waters 

1/4/24                                                                  

L Scott Hancock

 

I have found good trout in the most unlikely places, over the course of untold years, plying waters that hold secrets and places that secret their finned marvels. The winter waters, cold and solid, in their running from the far-off hills, tell stories, if one listens, to the ripples in rivulets that created the mighty flow it now represents in front of us.

I cannot come up with a new, clear description of how the waters of streams and rivers affect me, the subject has been exhausted by masters down through the centuries. Masters in the craft of writing about trout, and the waters they inhabit, who clearly understand in a way I do not, how to craft their words in this regard.

Years ago, I came across this gem written by Robert Traver, (a writer’s alias for; Associate Judge of the Michigan Supreme Court, John D. Voelker).

“I fish because I love to. Because I love the environs where trout are found, which are invariably beautiful, and hate the environs where crowds of people are found which are invariably ugly.” He then goes on to explain himself, talking about ‘social posturing’ and all the vapid trappings of what we call modern civilization.

Some of you, old enough, may remember Traver for his famous novel, later made into a movie, “Anatomy of A Murder.” That book is still considered a masterpiece in the genre. 

Throughout his life he wrote numerous books on fishing, his first love, and gave us this wonderful line, “fishing is an endless source of delight and an act of small rebellion.” Traver speaks to the inner soul of the fisherman’s existence which is hard to understand if you have never sought sanctum upon a rivers bank, watching the water and imagining fish below. 

It is a penultimate of faith! Faith that a spotted, red streaked, silver, slab sided five plus pound trout will discover your bait, take it, and run down stream while your reel sings as the line peels away with the trout seeking an undercover bank or rock for refuge. 

Your heart pumps rapidly while your wrists ache after a long battle of wills fighting theflow of the river, moss, debris, and the trout itself, waging its battle for freedom.

It is a feeling not easy to express or explain to the novice. It is a feeling of your own open roaming if only for a day, or a hint of hours. It is feeling free, and you embrace it.

A day spent searching for salmon, trout, pan fish, or lucky enough a salt water swimmer, is a day you will remember long after it is over, a day when all the others in work, stack up like cord wood in your mind with no particular distinction to set them apart. I have heard it said, “for every day you fish, God gives you two more to live.” I have no reason to doubt this and I hope it is true!

The icy winter waters, are to me, some of the best to try one’s luck in those areas that are open to fisherman, house bound anglers who can’t wait for the spring general season ‘opening day.’ Some cold season trout came from a hatchery and have ‘wintered over’ in flows with no available nymphs, flies, grubs, and other floating food sources that seem to harden trout and make them even more palatable.

The world lives on fish. Some sort of fish soup, or mush, feeds millions of people daily all over the planet. 

As I think of this, I marvel at how blessed we are to have the leisure to pursue our spotted friends below the waves and all the magic that fishing brings with it. My own memories of companions still with us, and gone, and time spent together on the waters, fills me with a warmth and joy, that is not easily translated.

I have fished the waters of the west and some in the east, specifically, New York State. While dabbling in an east coast brook, people I encountered on the banks have been the same as almost everywhere I wetted a line. 

Folks who fish seem to universally have a bond with nature and being in it. My own bond was with ‘getting out there’ feeling the cold air slapping my face, while casting to an unseen treasure waiting to set upon a spinner, fly, or worm, that passes by its watery realm.

Most rivers are open for fishing now. I have seen seekers along the banks thrashing through willows, and tall dry winter grasses hoping to gain advantage on their neighbor getting to a “hallowed hole.” 

The gifts that accompany a fishing trip are many. Eagles perched along the bank’s cottonwoods, waiting to swoop down on a fish or a hapless duck. Waterfowl of all types, river otters, and beavers. Small and large birds on various life missions searching the sand for a meal. And along the banks the chance of big game that often appear from the willows, not knowing of your presence, and you not knowing of theirs. It is a series of meaningful surprises waiting to happen.

The cold is with us, but introduce a person to fishing this season and it won’t be an issue after they’ve netted their first winter waters Cutthroat or Rainbow.

Happy Trails.