My typical approach to introducing a blog post is to apologize for the long delay and follow with lame excuses and empty promises. This is not required of April. Almost every kind of good fishing thing can happen in April, and serious anglers should be out fishing . Spare moments off the water should be devoted to work (or “work”), sleep, bathing the children, and the myriad other little niggling details that get in the way of proper spring fishing. Of course, this year April came in February and March. That caught me by surprise and by the time I cottoned on, much was lost. But I did my best to give the month its proper due.
April stripers were not quite a bust, but were sub-standard. A few were had, though.
 late Walleye were oddly consistent, of all things, and I was able to catch a couple on every trip. No real sport should have much praise for walleye as a recreational quarry. Fortunately, I eat them every one, so I’m happy.
 eye  baked We observed the spring trout camping ritual with full trappings. We got drunk in the woods and caught a few small trout. That’s all it is really, but it must be done.
 ST  under  fire  small  culvert Mike took me to a secret striper spot and caught a big fish. I caught a big turtle.
 hero  snapper April is out of the way, and hopefully we can all relax.
When there’s nothing to bitch about, I hardly know what to say. As a diehard pessimist I’m nonplussed, frankly, by the good times the gods have showered down on me these last few weeks. (Nonplussed, but, ahem, ever so grateful and thankful and reverent and just downright groveling and lacking in hubris.)
I had been contemplating writing a serious essay to Advance The Sport Of Fly Fishing–perhaps bashing buffs, ridiculing steelhead anglers, a gear shootout with side-by-side comparisons of the best types of empty containers to piss in during long winter kayak trips upon the lake, etc. But alas, spring sprang upon me unawares, boisterously pinning me to the moist, verdant earth, and with heavy passionate breaths…uh, let us abandon silly metaphors for now and get on with the fishing.
Mike and I went out to the river and caught some nice fish. In a fit of nervous excitement, I went over there again “after” work on a weekday and caught some more nice fish. No boats full of bubbas and coolers were seen. No raging floods of muddy water were endured. It was good.
 mike  bent  first  second I thought to do some early season scouting of the morel grounds, in preparation for the first flushes in a couple weeks. So I took the kids to the woods and was astounded to find abundant fungi. We bagged up 21 nice “yellows” that were matured almost past their prime.
 yellow  search Spring is here for real.
It’s leap day so I get to put this up before the end of month deadline. Of course, that’s a self-imposed deadline and so is what I call a “happy deadline”. Generally speaking, I hate deadlines. Apparently, many of you like them. At least that is the impression I get by looking at online examples of cover letters. “I work well under a deadline” the authors invariably lie. My cover letter is direct and disarmingly honest: “I am six feet tall and know a lot of words. I won’t drink or surf porn on the job. Please consider me for the position of Director of Operations. Find attached a picture of me with a 10 lb striper.”
Speaking of stripers I caught some in February. That’s right. Through a new spiritual regime of formalized prayers, curses, and human sacrifice, I achieved this awesome feat. So instead of the usual February drivel where I post about going forth hopelessly to enjoy the solitude of nature, blah, blah, blah…what you get is this: after a fishing hiatus of six weeks, I went down to the river and caught some nice stripers and a fat channel catfish. Bam.
 tilted  early  second  catfish
I went out on the lake in the high pressure, bright sun, and wind. That was foolish and I repented of the decision in the end. There was nothing there.
 hopeless Then I went up in the mountains and camped overnight, the goal being to catch wild trout. I’m having a little trout phase this winter. It behooves me to be reminded that fishing for little wild fish fulfills my angling desires. For one, it’s relatively easy. Relatively. Plus the fish live in a nice place, which is true even if it’s trite to mention it. I assume most fisherman have home waters. My home waters exist in the Appalachians. Anywhere else I fish, however pleasant or consuming, represents a deviation from the original home waters. This stream was particularly nice, with big park-like bottoms that give me the feel of fishing in a hemlock cathedral. But enough of this bullshit. If you want to be exposed to a dewy-eyed nerd yammering on about his extreme sensitivity to natural beauty, you’ll have no problems finding that.
 hemlocks
 hugs
 pink I will mess with stripers a bit the next few weeks, but this is the winter doldrums, a quiet time when I try to improve my character through deep contemplation or perhaps through reading a bunch pulp science fiction.
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