The sky was a steel grey as light snowflakes drifted in the windless air as I stepped out of the truck. Off-loading my gear into the camp, the months that separated this day from the last time on the water carried a small amount of urgency. I would be fishing alone for the first half of the day, being the latest arrival to the gathering. But ahead of me was a crystal clear stream although a bit heavy on flow, and not a soul wading its banks. Such are the rewards of the winter fly fisherman, if willing to deal with the lack of feeling in your fingers and ice in your guides.