I have exactly two western Massachusetts fishing trips to my name. The most recent one took place this past weekend as I continue to branch out from my new digs in Boston. My friends Jon and Charlie and I had a high volume two days exploring a number of mountain creeks that were running high and cold after heavy rains. During a summer of very little trout fishing, it was both a familiar and refreshing change to be back in some dark New England forests hunting down unpressured brookies. This trip bore very little resemblance to the first time I fished the region, but one evening when we ended up stopping at a location that I had visited during my original outing I had to reminisce about one of the more memorable experiences I’ve had on the water.
January, 2018. During winter break in my freshman year of college, my buddy Franky invited another friend Chris and I to fish his home state of Massachusetts. It doesn’t really matter how or when we chose the three day window after New Year’s Day for the trip. The bigger decision (or lack thereof) involved moving forward with the plans after the dates ended up coinciding with a bomb cyclone.
If you’re anything like the group of nineteen year olds embarking on the fishing trip in this story, you probably need a definition for the term “bomb cyclone”. It’s an intense winter storm carrying heavy snow and high winds that forms very quickly, brought about by a drop to a certain atmospheric pressure benchmark. Our trip didn’t line up with the exact arrival of the storm, but immediately after its end. By the time we got there the winds had dropped and the roads had been mostly cleared, so travel safety wasn’t much of an issue here. The lingering danger, and the one we chose to overlook, was the cold.
The stunted winter day was already drawing to a close by the time we arrived on day one. With just a couple hours of fading light remaining, we rigged up and hiked into the Swift River. The air temperatures were measuring in the low single digits, and in the back of my mind I knew this was the coldest weather I’d ever fished in.
Tailwaters are certainly fishable in such conditions, and we actually did pretty well during that short evening session, but it didn’t take long for something to feel off. My fingers on that day started getting tingly.
I should make it clear early on that this was completely my fault. I had gotten these fancy gloves over the holidays. Well insulated and water resistant, they were perfect in every way for the winter except for the fact that they were fingerless. In my ignorance to how dangerously cold it was and my excitement to try out my new gift, I made a really stupid decision and wore the gloves out into the elements.
By the time we wrapped up for the day, it was no surprise that I couldn’t feel my fingers anymore. I was uncomfortable, but not too worried since my extremities often became numb during winter fishing trips. The real panic set in once I started warming up. The usual flushing feeling of the blood returning to my hands was accompanied by a searing pain that throbbed around the tips of my fingers. Any pressure put on the areas were met with a sharp sting. I couldn’t get out of my waders until we made it back to our motel.
The shooting sensations stopped after the initial warming, but the feeling in my hands didn’t come back that night or the next day. I started noticing other common symptoms of frostbite- my fingers were cold and hard, and the skin stayed a waxy sort of white color. I remember being thoroughly panicked at this point and not feeling sure how to proceed. We still had two full days of fishing left, and my newfound internet acquired expertise on frostbite told me the worst thing I could do was to bring my hands back into the cold. The air temps had risen into the 20s for the rest of the trip- not much in the way of improvement, but at least something I was used to fishing in. Reminding myself that whatever I did now couldn’t be much more stupid than the choices I had made the day before, I made the call to go for it. I went to a hardware store in Amherst, bought the thickest pair of leather gloves I could find, and headed back to the Swift with Franky and Chris.
Long story short I fished out the rest of the trip bundled to the maximum, and only removed my handwarmer-filled gloves to deal with fish and tie knots. I made constant hikes back to the car anytime I felt my hands getting cold. And despite the brutal weather, we crushed fish. I think our trip held the record for the amount of trout I’d caught in a day at that point in my life. The pain and numbness in my hands stayed but didn’t get any worse. Even so, the symptoms didn’t fully go away for a couple of months. I’ll spare the fun details of what it’s like for all of that dead skin to slowly get replaced, but the important part is that it all worked out for the best.
There’s no moral to this story. I was inexperienced and made a really bad judgment call, and had to deal with the consequences for a bit. I still own and fish in those giant leather gloves when it gets cold. I even learned to cast and handle fly line pretty well in them. I was definitely scared at the time, but can laugh about it now.
Fishing brands and philosophical anglers like to say that the fishing memories often come second to the experiences we have along the way. I know the outlook they’re referring to is more related to comradery and time in nature than with soft tissue damage, but my 2018 Swift trip remains my best example of that sentiment. I sure hope it doesn’t get beaten.
And when my working fingers and I made it back to the Swift on a hot August day six years later, I tried to give the fish a little more priority.
