The Itch

Scratching the Winter Itch: A February Tailwater Escape

The itch begins as a whisper, just a nagging thought in the back of the mind. It comes sometime after the New Year, when the holiday chaos has settled and the cold darkness has sunk its teeth in deep.  For me, that itch never really goes away as a philomath.  It is relentlessly nagging, frequently even in my sleep.  Learning drives me as a person and the learning opportunities with fly fishing are endless.  It’s a good combination; however, in the winter months opportunities to get outside to fish are reduced leaving the studying to books, videos, and the experiences of those living in warmer climates…mostly, mostly.

Fly rods stand like sentinels in the corner, their reels silent, lines coiled in hibernation. Snow blankets the banks of familiar rivers and ice hides the life that exists beneath. The creeks run stiff and sluggish where they run at all. Yet, no matter how deep winter’s grip, the need to become a better fisherman remains a restless, undeniable impulse.

February is an unforgiving month. The short days feel endless, and the forecast offers little hope. But then, like a rare gift, the weather takes a turn. The thermometer inches higher than it has in weeks, and the wind, though ferocious, carries the faintest whisper of something different, something almost spring-like. That’s all the encouragement needed. Plans form with a quick text to a friend: “You seeing this forecast?”, “Let’s hit the Big T Sunday!”

A tailwater is the answer, at least in my home state of Colorado. The winter cold locks most rivers in ice, but tailwaters, with their steady flows and relatively stable temperatures, provide a refuge. They are the lifeblood of a desperate angler’s winter. With rods rigged and layers donned, my buddy and I find ourselves wading into the currents of a familiar stretch, the wind howling down the canyon, bending branches, forcing unexpected steps to balance, and sending whitecaps across the water’s surface.

Casting in such wind is an exercise in humility for the best fly fishers. Tight loops unravel into chaos, and errant casts find bankside brush and the back of your jacket more often than the seam being aimed for. Every drift is a battle, every mend an act of defiance against the elements. Desperate pleas to invisible powers are shouted into the howling wind.  But then, against the odds, the indicator twitches, or did it? Instinct kicks in, and a sharp lift of the rod tip drives the hook home. The weight at the other end is real, a lively, headshaking presence that sends a jolt of warmth through frozen fingers and spreads a smile across a wind burned face. The rainbow trout is modest but perfect, its mid-winter colors brilliant against the dull grays of February.

My buddy lets out a visible but unheard sigh, a mix of frustration and impatience building as he untangles another wind knot. “This wind is insane!” he shouts. I smile knowingly because I had the same feelings this time last year in similar conditions.  Today though it is a very different experience for me.  I time my casts with the lulls in the wind and repeatedly deliver on the mark cast after cast.  It feels good to know the practice I’ve been putting in is paying off.  Not a single tangle or lost fly for me this day.  Truly, an almost unheard of experience.  My time spent on the water last year was extensive for me (90-ish days) and I plan to exceed it this year.  It is proving invaluable in leveling up my ability to be more efficient, accurate, and successful on the water. 

My buddy and I both know it’s not just about catching, it never really is. It’s about being out here, enjoying the day, feeling the tug, the resistance, the life at the end of the line. It’s about defying the season and proving to ourselves, if only for an afternoon, that winter hasn’t won.

We fish on, driven by the same relentless urge that brought us here. The wind doesn’t let up, and the takes remain sparse, but it doesn’t matter. I manage to find a couple more before the day ends and the brown was a personal best for me in this location.  The itch has been scratched, at least for now. By the time the light begins to fade, we’re chilled to the bone but grinning, the kind of grin that only comes from enduring something shared and difficult and coming out better for it.

As we pack up, the wind still howling, I know it won’t be long before the itch returns. But for today, for this moment, we’ve won. And that’s enough.  Ten minutes later on the drive down the canyon, “Hey, do you want to hit The Mile this coming weekend if the weather holds?”

Thanks for reading!  I decided to try something a little different this time around.  There are so many great sources for How To information out there already I was feeling like something more personal and freeform might be of more interest to others.  It is also quite a bit shorter than usual. Please let me know what you think by providing a comment or giving it a like if you enjoyed it.  It would be awesome if you shared it with others you thought might like it too.  Thanks!