Rain washes out anticipated weekday diversion

My rods, tackle bag and rain gear sat neatly stowed in the back end of my truck. The cooler occupied the space next to the gear along with a hooded jacket.

What should have been a great weekday diversion wound up being a major disappointment.

Colder weather and rain often puts an end to planned fishing trips, especially when the foray is to a high, water-sensitive river. So I took one of my exploratory drives to help clear the cobwebs from my head.

It was about 40 some-odd years ago that I roamed the back roads in Wisconsin, when I lived and worked in Madison. I always carried a light spinning and fly rod in the back of my vehicle because one could always expect to come across a secluded stream. Now I still carry rods and continue to carve my way through the countryside.

It was raining the proverbial cats and dogs when I came around the bend of this country road. Off to my right was a small stream, or river, as the sign said, and I parked the truck on the shoulder well out of the way of any traffic.

Raindrops dimpled the surface of the stream while the chilly breeze raced through the trees on both banks. And then I saw top-water splashes no more than 25 feet away from where I sat. Another eruption a few feet away from the first revealed what looked like a smallmouth bass chasing some kind of baitfish. The rain continued with a vengeance.

I had one of my internal struggles going on inside my winter-weary head. Should I suit up with rain gear and boots and work the stream in hopes of getting some strikes, or should I wait for the rain to subside? I went with the latter choice. The surface attacks stopped, so I poured a cup of coffee and enjoyed this brief reverie.

The downpour eventually evolved into a thunderstorm. I pulled out my hand-held GPS and entered the location for a future expedition, and then I drove off down the road.

I have chronicled some of these little adventures in the past, and each one of them has its own, unique elements to remember.

I drove several more miles and made a right turn to the north.

A wide expanse of farmland and woods unfolded before my eyes. My vision locked on the woods, hoping to see some wild turkeys, but instead I noticed a small, snaking stream cutting its way through the trees. And sure enough, right there in the rain was a fly fisherman, continuing the ritual of Sir Isaac Newton. This angler was standing in knee-high water holding his rod in one hand while cupping his eyes with the other hand.

The stranger made a cast across the stream and waited a bit before he lifted the rod. On his third attempt a fish grabbed the fly and jumped across the surface. It looked like a smallmouth. After releasing it, he made a half-dozen more casts and hooked a larger bass.

This wonderful show was the next best thing for me since I wasn't about to interrupt this guy's concentration and fun. It was also like having a box seat right behind home plate.

I know there will be other days when puffy, little clouds will shade one of these streams, allowing me to sneak up on either a tout or smallmouth. But right at that moment my always-present impatience had me squirming like a 13-year-old begging a parent to stay another hour at Riverview Park.

Maybe next time I'll go back to that GPS coordinate and savor some special moments of my own, even if it rains. It's often tough being adult about these life issues.