Ah, January. Days are cold and getting longer. The earth is tilting by slow degrees ever closer to the sun.
Steelhead fin slowly past my house under a bright ceiling of ice.
My little study is still full of boxes and stacks of books, but I'm making progress. I uncovered the tying desk and unpacked the tying materials.
I laid everything out and dug into the bag of wool and peacock feathers given me by The Spinning Wheel Lady and went to work.
And I experienced once again the magic of fly tying: even before it gets wet, even before it actually hooks a fish, and even in the deep of January, a fly springing from your mind into your hand immediately connects you in a visceral way to those bright forms out there under the ice.