David Dobbs, New England environmental author

David Dobbs writes about the environment, community, and science from his home in Vermont. A contributor to Audubon, Sierra, Vermont Life, Popular Science, and other magazines, he is co-author of The Northern Forest and is now writing a book on the New England fishery, to be published next year.

After spending the morning writing about commercial fishing, I did a little fishing myself this evening, the first outing of the year taken in earnest. I had only an hour or so, so I took the easy route: I fished under the interstate. This is actually much nicer than it sounds, as this particular spot must be one of the more idyllic under-the-interstate spots in the country. It's just past the cemetery on the edge of town, with greenery both ways up and down the river, a bike path there, too, so I can look up now and then and maybe see someone I know ("Hey Richard!" "Heya Dave, any luck?' "Not yet!"). You park among the big concrete pillars that hold up I-89, slip down a bank, and Voila! -- you're hunting rainbows in the Winooski. I was wading 10 minutes after pulling out of my driveway.

Such pleasures, of course, are very much what people refer to when they speak of the "quality of life" Vermont offers, and Lord knows I agree. I could go on for some time (and have been known to) about how wonderfully scaled this state is, particularly this town, which offers not only three rivers but two good bookstores, two hardware stores (one good, one superb), an independent cinema, a good music store and a great ski-and-bike shop and good restaurants and a Ben & Jerry's and fine parks and probably one too many swank coffee shops (which of course is just the right number). No fly fishing shop, however -- a strange omission. I'll open one when I retire.

As I said, I could write about this town for a while, but right now I'd rather write about the sweet fishing under the interstate. It's a fairly reliable spot, and once I'm in the water I forget about the tons of concrete and cars over my head. At some level, I suppose I'm hearing the swish and hum of the occasional car passing over 80 feet up, but I'm rarely conscious of it, and the noise in fact is never loud enough to cover the gurgle of the water or, more important, the splash of a rise anywhere within casting distance.

Which was the sound that greeted me as soon as I'd taken my position out there at midstream this eve. As I fumbled in my vest for my fly box, I heard a small splash to the left, saw it peripherally as well, a little white flick maybe 30 feet away. I knew instantly that even though I'd spent all morning and afternoon chained to my desk while outside one of the finest days of the years passed -- 60 degrees, sunny, dry under an intense blue sky -- I was fixing to get the best part of the day. The fatigue I'd been fighting all day vanished, replaced by a fine calm alertness, What was that big boy eating? Hovering above the water were three bugs: a goodly number of tiny white tricos, a lesser number of some hyperactive little gray thingies I couldn't get close enough to i.d., and here and there, looking heavy and juicy next to these other insubstantial insects, some big reddish-brown-looking fellas that looked like drakes but when snatched from the air revealed themselves as Hendricksons.

I figured, it that was me in the river, I'd be eating these Hendricksons. So I tied one on, size 12. Gauged the distance to the spot I thought I'd seen the rise, worked out some line, then dropped the fly about one foot short of my target. 'S okay, I told myself; first cast, and better short than long. Second cast was right on target. And for once I was ready for that first quick strike -- maybe I'm learning this game after all, after I don't know how many times being too slow to raise the rod on the first strike of the day -- for no sooner was the flicking sound of the fish's rise gone than my rod tip was up and the fish on. He jumped twice quickly, then a third time, then settled down and came to heel, a lovely rainbow 8 or 9 inches long. He had no real rosiness to his stripe yet, but a lovely line of pale leopardy spots along his side startled me with its painterly beauty. And soft -- I always forget how impossibly soft these fish are. Like holding silk, or cool melting butter, if that were possible.

I caught three more in the following half-hour, none of them big but all of them beautiful, and let each one go, feeling happier with each fish. And just now, sitting in my rocker writing this on my laptop, I've discovered another treat I'd forgotten over the winter: If I raise my left hand to cup gently my nose, I can smell, ever so faintly, the scent of the fish I briefly held: proof that the season -- not just the fishing season but summer, o glorious, long-awaited summer -- has really begun.

So let us be thankful for the riches of this earth.