It was late March and I was sitting at the table looking out the window at horizontal snow. Wind howled steadily and actually blew the falling flakes sideways, noisily tossing them against the windows. That old adage about coming in like a lion and going out like a lamb wasn’t happening, in fact the lion had arrived, found the lamb, and eaten it and remained to make the entire month snowy, wet, cold, and miserable. Spring wasn’t around the corner, it wasn’t even on the next block yet.

Shaking my head in disgust, I complained out loud that at this rate I wouldn’t get fly fishing until June, and the fact that no one was home to hear me and I was talking to myself didn’t even faze me. I returned to the paperwork at hand. In less than two weeks I would make my annual spring trek to Torrington, Conn., to a martial arts tournament followed by black belt testing. I would be shepherding 16 of my students to the early April competition, and four would be testing for various levels of black belt. As a promotional board member, this had become a spring and fall ritual for me for several years, and I was making one final check of necessary paperwork before mailing off entry and release forms.

The invitation

Irritated by the weather and tedious paperwork, the ringing phone was less than welcome and my growled hello far from friendly. “What the hell’s the matter with you?” a cheerful voice quipped, “Someone kick your dog or did the oil bill just arrive?” Recognizing the voice as Jack Smola, another black belt and testing board member from Enfield, Conn., I replied something to the effect of having to start using the answering machine to screen nuisance calls. His reply was to ask me if I wanted to come down a day or two early and fly fish for trout.

I glanced out the window at the blowing snow and a drift on my back deck that would do Antarctica proud, and told him in colorful terms that it wasn’t smart or healthy to tease anglers afflicted with winter fever. He had seen the weather report for northern Maine, that’s why he took pity and called with the invitation. Yesterday, Jack informed me, he had caught nine rainbows and two brown trout, all on fly, and one brute topped 18 inches. Talk about an attitude adjustment; now he had my full attention.

Eight days later, four of my black belt instructors and I checked into the Red Roof Inn in Enfield. Three of the guys were going to visit the Basketball Hall of Fame in Springfield, Mass., and Rod Mahan and I were going trout fishing. Jack, a part-time guide at that time, told us he had plenty of rod and reel outfits and lots of flies to lend us, and the only thing we needed to bring was a set of chest waders and warm fishing clothes. To cover all the bases, Rod and I even packed wool hats, gloves, and rain outfits.

Jack picked us up at 6 the next morning and by 6:30 we were enjoying a hearty breakfast at the Log House Restaurant in Barkhamsted, less than 15 minutes from the stretch of Farmington River we would be fishing. Having taken information over the phone, Jack had procured our three-day licenses at a price of less than $10 each, and all we had to do was sign and attach them to our vests. Our trio was all old friends through our martial arts association, and Jack had fished with me in Maine several times. We retold old fishing adventures, ribbed each other unmercifully, and quizzed Jack about this great early spring river and April Fools’ fishing.

Farmington fishing

A tributary of the longest salmon river in the world, the 400-mile long Connecticut river, the Farmington River has a long fishing heritage. Thanks to the establishment of the Farmington River Anglers Association in the late 1970s, a declining waterway gained new life. Prolific stocking by the state and the establishment of Trout Management Areas has helped a mediocre stream flourish, show yearly improvement through the 1980s and 1990s and become a world class fly fishing destination.

During many years, anglers can successfully fish the Farmington every month even in the dead of winter. Despite the vast number of established, easily accessible pools, and many more secluded runs, anglers line the best stretches throughout most days. Regardless of the crowding and pressure, most anglers catch a few fish, and the experienced fly casters catch lots of rainbow and brown trout, and some are bragging size.

Only four other vehicles were in the parking area, which seemed like a good sign. Jack parked the van and our trio donned waders and rigged rods, 5-weights with sinking tip lines, and walked a well-worn path to the river’s edge. We would be fishing a long 3- to 6-foot deep run, with moderate current and a rocky streambed, called Cold Brook Inlet. No less than 10 fishermen were already diligently flogging the run and my first thought was this spot is so good these guys are carpooling.

The crowd bothered Jack not in the least as he led us upstream 200 yards and across the river through some fast moving waist-high water that only a regular to that stretch would know about. Once on the far shore we each tied a black ghost streamer to the end of our 12- foot leaders and a weighted wooly bugger, I chose olive, to a dropper line 5 feet up the leader. We split up 50 yards apart, waded in past waist level, and began casting.

Casting and properly fishing a two-fly dropper rig takes a bit of practice. The streamer swings in an arc about a foot off the bottom while the dropper fly bumps and hops along the streambed. Casts are made at 90 degrees to allow more sink time for the flies to get down and the line must be kept taut in the fingers to feel the lightest take in the moving water. The Farmington is fed from the bottom water of two huge reservoirs, Cold Brook and Hog Back, and on the hottest summer days the stream seldom tops 50 degrees. Even with long johns and neoprene waders my legs were chilly, so I knew the trout would be lethargic and strike lightly.

Having seen only one other person hook a fish since we had arrived, I wasn’t expecting much action, but at least I was fishing without drilling a hole in the ice. I’d made less than a dozen casts when midway through a sweep my line hesitated, so I raised the rod tip just in case it wasn’t a rock snag. Something pulled back, and with enough force to surprise me, and when the fish actually began taking line and performed a half-hearted jump, I was elated. In spite of the frigid water the 15-inch rainbow put up a strong battle and quickly finned away when I removed the nymph.

Over the next hour I played and released seven rainbow and two browns and lost at least six other fish between the hook and the hand. Rodney landed half a dozen and Jack brought in eight, and I’m sure had they been first in line rather than second and third, the numbers would have been reversed. All of the fish were between 12 and 16 inches, and most of the rainbows leaped or at least thrashed on the surface, while the browns fought down and dirty putting up a tough battle. I’m also sure that Jack’s intimate knowledge of the pool and fly selection produced our steady action, since casters on the opposite shore hooked up only sporadically.

After walking around on shore for 15 minutes and even peeling our waders down to our knees to let the sun’s rays restore feeling to our chilled and nearly numbed legs, we were ready to make another casting pass. Rod went to the head of the line, I was middle man, and Jack once again was third, lamenting loudly about the hazards of being host.

By lunchtime at 11 a.m., Rod had tallied seven trout, including one double with a rainbow on each fly, that I’ve yet to hear the end of. It was quite a battle with both fish more than 14 inches, and Rod kept up a continuous dialogue throughout the tug of war, taunting us with frequent excited references to his profound abilities. By the time the fish were in the net, Jack and I were ready to keep the fish and throw the fisherman back.

Jack also caught seven fish, including one rainbow more than 17 inches. I had changed streamers, tying on a Jasbo, an old family pattern deadly on Maine streams, and it really worked. Of my 10 trout, half were on the streamer, and one was a wild 17-inch brown. We had lunch, reviewing an unbelievable morning of fly fishing culminating in 47 landed trout.

Our afternoon foray was to Ovation, a pool named for the nearby, age-old Ovation guitar company. Fishing was slower on the smaller pool, but we still managed 21 trout during the outing, and four were more than 17 inches. Oddly, most of the fish ignored the streamer, but devoured the olive, purple, and black wooly buggers.

Day two began at Church Pool, where we were joined by Father Brown, one of Jack’s regular fishing buddies. Rod and I both agreed that having a priest along couldn’t hurt our odds. I also said that now I understood why guide Smola’s luck was so consistent. Our quartet accounted for 25 fish in the a.m.

Because of early evening commitments, an abbreviated visit to the Hitchcock Chair pool, a gorgeous run behind the old Hitchcock chair factory, filled our early afternoon. Unlucky 13 was our catch over two hours, but the ferocious fight put on by a 19-inch rainbow Jack hooked made the day.

Since that inaugural outing, I’ve left the frigid north for the fish-filled Farmington many times in early April. Jack is a busy, full-time guide now, but always makes time to fish with me and the friends who join me. Occasionally we visit the Deerfield or Housatonic rivers for a change, and we always catch fish, but the Farmington remains my favorite and sooner or later I will land one of its 20- inch trophies.

If you’re one of the many Mainers with relatives or business connections in Connecticut, you might want to start traveling with a fly rod. Even if you have no other excuse but fishing, the Farmington is worth the trip. Visitors to the area who desire guidance can always call Smola’s Guide Service, and Jack will pick you up, provide all of the gear and lunch, and drop you off after a half- or full-day outing with fish guaranteed any time of year. Check his Web site at wwwjacksmola.com or call 860-763-1856 for more information, and don’t’ be surprised if we run into each other some spring. Green grass and taking trout beat the spring thaw every April.

Outdoor feature writer Bill Graves can be reached via e-mail at bgravesoutdoors@ainop.com