Outdoors
OUTDOORS Capital City Weekly Thin sheets of ice shatter like glass under my boots, and remind me that fall is rapidly waning. To the peaceful song of a distant water ouzel, I quietly wade into the lower end of the pool. My damp fingers ache from the cold and begin to tingle. Valiantly, I try to warm them by blowing repeatedly into a clinched fist until suddenly, a soft swirl in the middle of the pool catches my attention. It's a late-season coho. With numb and stumbling fingers, I reach for my fly box and struggle to hastily tie on a marabou spider. The November air is bitter cold and feels heavy and angelic mist spills from the canyon and hovers inches off the water. Alder branches on both sides of the river now void of leaves bow like arches from the weight of crystalline icicles. Still focused on the lower pool, I instinctively peel several arm lengths of fly line off my old Hardy Perfect and with a poetic sweep of my fly rod, I carefully launch my first cast - a gentle spiral roll that quietly sends my fly gracefully into the pool. No sooner had my fly completed its slow swing, I feel my line become heavy and taut. I slip my rod to the side, intuitively, to tighten the line. There's a sudden deep throb that radiates up my fly rod followed by a bending flash that boils in the pool. With a seasoned smile I mumble to myself, "game on."

On the fly: Coldwater flies: What makes them special

All successful late-season coldwater flies exhibit one common attribute and that is the quality of subtle movement.
All successful late-season coldwater flies exhibit one common attribute and that is the quality of subtle movement.
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