Water turns to ice when it reaches the freezing point. I was trying to remember that adage about oh what fools we are or words to that effect as now, dry, I am back home. Sitting at home with a large tumbler of brandy in my hand, sitting in my large brown Lazy Boy recliner by the blowing gas fireplace and laugh about it, laugh about one of my big asinine mistakes, one of my no-brainers. I take a large sip of my liquid libation and try to remember that saying. I would get out Bartlett’s but I know not what the first word or letter is. So here it is. As most know and understand, when water becomes 32 degrees F. or 0 Celsius it will form ice, and the rate of formation of the ice depends on a multitude of things. But this day I had been fishing, fishing along a stretch of water up in the Snowies In the fall or early winter when there is open water on the ponds and in a lot of streams fishing is good. Heck, it is great for the fish are hungry and there are not a lot of fishermen, or those danged tourists to clog up the fishing holes. So here it was, a Tuesday morning. A bright sun-shiny day, not a cloud in the sky, the temp oh around ten or fifteen degrees. I had taken my motor home, easy living, up to the Snowies as a hunting cabin, since the old bones and joints start to ache in the cold weather, and sleeping on the ground shore does stove me up. So after the season was over, the other guys went home and I stayed for a few days of fishing. I knew that a snow storm could come up real quick like and if one did my chances of driving out were small to none; so I drove down the mountain to a point I figured I could get out if I had to, and I hiked back to my special fishing spot. Now my special fishing spot is any spot I deem a good place to fish, and where there is no one present except me and my people, my people usually being that mangy old mutt of mine who answers to Old dog. As I said, it was a nice cool morning and I had a big can of earth worms and a bunch of dry flies. Now I am not a real fly fisherman, no not in any sense of the word. However, I do love to fly fish. Normally fly fishing my way, which is not with a normal fly rod and reel, but with a tear drop float. I rig up about six feet of real light leader then attach a dry fly and hook it on to a tear drop float. So if I am fishing moving water, I can cast upstream and control the bobber as it floats down stream. If I am fishing a lake or pond, then I can cast out and slowly troll the fly. Oh yes, and the big...the paramount, the ultimate reason I am not a real fly fisherman is, I do not know one fly from another: a grey hackle from a grey hackle-red, or a coachman from a royal coachman and so on. Nope I just look at a fly and wonder if this brown or red or green one will work, then I try it. It is about 20 degrees, no clouds, nice sunny sky and no wind. I get to my spot and start casting, each time edging closer to the water, each time getting my feet a little damp. So I cast and reel the line in, cast here and there reeling. The sun is warm, heck at the elevation of around 12 or 13 thousand feet in crystal clear air, there is one heck of a lot of UV and there is nothing to slow old sol’s rays so it seems much warmer. So I take a brownish orange fly and began to work the immediate area. I get a strike but at that time I am looking at contrails and do not set my hook, I miss him. Well about two casts later I get another strike and find that the first one or something had taken the hook and barb off my fly. So I find another fly as close to the one I was using as I could remember. That too is where I am an alien to the fly fishers fraternity, I just put all of my flys in on one small tin box. I have none on my hat or my jacket or any place like that, I keep them in a box and heck the ones I use the most already had a Snelled leader on them. I am standing concentrating and after I get it rigged back up, I go back to trying to catch that Brook trout. I cast and slowly pull the fly over the same area. I just stand, and cast, cast and reel, cast and reel. I am intensely paying attention to what I am doing. Wondering if Mister trout is a little feisty one or a big old Brookie four or five pounder. I pay no attention to the time, and there are no people or critters about, just me and this wonderful day. I see a fin near my fly and my heart rate increases and I cast again, trying to get in the exact same spot. I come close and then slowly reel the fly, adding a little jerk as if the fly were scooting around across the surface of the water. I get a strike, I get a strike. As I do I lift the rod quickly hoping to set the hook. “Got him, got you mister Trout, got you,” I yell as I start to slowly reel him in. Now if you have ever fished in the high country fished in icy water, you know that a small Brook trout sometimes feels like a nice sized trout for they are real fighters. If they do not jump and clear water you have no idea other than by the fight and pull you feel on your rod. This was a real good fish. Now I only use two and a half pound test line, four pound test at the most because it is lighter and you can cast further. Also you normally do not catch that many large and heavy fish, most being two pounds and under. My senses come alive, my face lightens up and I start to work this fish, work him toward me, planning to just drag him onto the bank there at a small grassy spot. I work and pull and give and pull, working, overdoing it because this is my first and only fish of the morning. Finally I get him within ten feet and decide to move back. I ste . . . . .. . . . p, my right foot wont move, I try to move my left foot and it won’t move. Here I am fighting and holding on to this nice trout and I look down and both boots are firmly encased in ice. I had been standing and it felt solid but I was standing in the edge of the water, standing in a large puddle and it had frozen. I looked down and pulled and my boots would not move. “Dang, dang, double dang I said as I tried to keep working mister Brook trout and tried to figure out how to get my feet unstuck. Finally, the fish being more important, I knelt and holding the rod with one hand, untied then unlaced my right boot. Then carefully I switched hands and untied and unlaced my left boot. Then I stepped out of my boots, and ooooooooooh dang was it cold. My feet were wet. I slowly backed up on the bank all the while reeling mister Brook trout toward that special spot. I finally got the bobber to the first ferrel on the rod and then I started to slowly back up, because I had six or seven feet of leader. I slowly worked back, all the while knowing my wet feet were getting colder and colder. I just about had mister Brook trout on shore when I stepped back, “Yeow,” I stepped on a big briar or sticker or thorn bush, I yelled and jumped. Well that jump was just enough for the line snapped and I fell back, and mister Brook trout swam back out into the water with my fly still in his mouth. I took out my sheath knife and chipped the ice from around my boots. It was not that heavy, but heavy enough to not allow me to pull foot with boot out. I got them out and put the boots on my wet feet. I started walking back to the truck thinking about how water turns to ice when it gets below freezing. Dang that was a long cold walk. ~ © Tom (tomWYO@aol.com) You are welcome to use the graphics on this page providing you use them as a set and don't mix them with other graphics. You may use a different title and different text, but be sure to include my button and a link back. (http://www.geocities/writerswinter2004/) All poems and short stories on this website have a copyright. If you wish to use one or more on your website, contact the author for permission. If you enjoyed this page, check these out: I Will Never Forget You Generations Love Makes Us Stupid And.......for many others, click the link for HOME. Home: Writers' Winter 2004 Index