Fishing in the Freezin' Cold

(Reprinted with permission of author, Glenn Busch)

Two friends and I had made plans to fish before Kathy and I had even left for the holidays. And by the time we got back from celebrating Christmas with our children and grandchildren, the temperature was colder than an Arctic freeze. The dogs' water bowl cupped a solid block of ice, and the ground underfoot when I crossed the yard to get the mail was so stiff and unyielding it could just as well have been concrete. It was cold...freezin' cold.

But the fishing date was on the calendar, and that's sort of like a commitment that you aren't supposed to break without a really good excuse, such as when you confirm a doctor's appointment or tell the chairman that she can count on you to give a report at the annual meeting.

This was reason enough to carry through with our recreational outing, despite weather that would make any outdoor activity a miserable exercise in bone-chilling endurance. But truth be told, there were other psycho/social dynamics in play, as there usually are when a group of men make plans to exhibit their brawny hunter/gatherer skills. It doesn't make one tidbit of logical sense, but most wives will know what I'm talking about.

So, it's cold, freezin' cold, if you need a reminder. But plans had been made, and I'm thinking that I sure don't want to be the one to say, "Gosh, fellas, do you think it might be too cold to go fishing?" No way. Besides, of the two buddies with whom I had made these plans, one is roughly the age of my son, and the other, had I been early at producing progeny, could have legitimately been a grandson. How could I disgrace fellow geezers by wimping out? The shame of letting down the geriatric side would have inflicted too much guilt and required hours of repentance to redeem myself.

When I called to check in with one of the guys, the conversation went something like this:

Me, nonchalantly: "Are we still on for tomorrow?"

Buddy: "It's pretty cold; are you up for it?"

Me: "Me? Oh, sure" (hoping he might waver); "how about you?"

Buddy: "Oh, yeah, but let me check with John and see what he says and get back with you."

Later that same day:

Buddy: "I checked with John; he's on if you are."

Me: "Great! See you guys in the morning." (pondering hypothermia, but with pride still intact)

The next morning, I showed up bearing more layers than a royal wedding cake. It reminded me of when my mother stuffed me into last year's snowsuit that was a size or three too small. And I imagine, quite accurately I would guess, that I looked like a green-and-khaki version of Frosty the Snowman--without the corncob pipe but topped with a ridiculous hat that covered my head like a woolen helmet. Then, of course, there were the waders into which I had to shoehorn myself and all of that excess cloth.

For those who don't fish, or more precisely don't fish in cold weather, you probably aren't aware that a defining drawback to the experience is having to remove all of that stuff when you have to pee, which, when you get to be a certain age, is a matter of no small concern. And because there is a tendency to wait until the situation reaches a point of bladder-bursting urgency, a frenzy of unbuttoning, unzipping, and pulling down is required to avoid the humiliation of wetting your pants.

After wrestling into waders and stringing up my rod, I shambled on down to the stream. Because we hadn't seen any rain to speak of in central Virginia for the previous couple of months, the water was unusually low and clear--clear as glass, as was the thin sheet of ice that extended several feet out from the edge of the bank. I never saw that ice sheet until I put a foot on it and went crashing through, weaving and waddling like a Saturday-night drunk, trying to stay upright and keep from taking an icy plunge. The splashing, thrashing and flying water would indicate that the effort was far from graceful, and I sure am glad that no one was there to witness. But it worked, except that my gloves were wet.

About then, the wind picked up, and I had to be extra careful not to lose any flies to low-hanging limbs. For those who claim they never curse, try knotting a fly to a wisp of gossamer-thin line when your fingers are wet and stiff as stones. Bet you can't do it.

As it turned out, there was no real need to worry about losing flies to the trees. I had to continually pause to remove globs of ice that kept clogging the rod guides and didn't get to cast all that much anyway.

But that's all right. Fish are cold-blooded creatures, and when the temperature dips below freezing, their metabolism slows nearly to a halt, and they become inactive, neither eating much, nor very often.

So I didn't catch any fish on that shivery day. But I sure am glad that I didn't tell my two buddies that it might be too cold to fish.

About the author: Due entirely to his father's military service, Glenn was born in Kissimmee, FL, just months before his dad mustered out, and the family returned to their Pittsburgh, PA home. There, he passed the growing-up years in a noisy, ethnic neighborhood, surrounded by the nation's once-profitable steel mills and, like so many of his mates, became part of a first generation to receive a college education. After graduating from Penn State University, he headed south for training and a couple more degrees, which added some additional letters behind his name and Rev. Dr. to the front. He began a career as an Episcopal priest in 1971, served churches in Virginia and North Carolina, and retired in 2008 as rector emeritus of St. Mary's Church in High Point, NC, after a pastorate of more than 27 years. It was during the High Point years that he also became a college teacher. While still serving as rector of the parish, High Point University asked him to become an adjunct faculty member, where, for 18 years, he taught for the department of religion and philosophy. Glenn and his wife, Kathleen, have two children and two grandchildren upon whom they dote as often as time and distance will allow. They retired to Lynchburg, VA in 2008, where Kathleen paints and he writes. "Thanks once again, my good friend, for allowing me this opportunity to share one of your blog posts with my readers."