The temperature outside dropped into negative digits seemingly overnight, and while I’m typically anti-sock the rest of the year, I despise numb toes, so the wool stays on the feet. Time to switch gears. It’s winter—accept it. Pack on the fat and replenish the boxes.

In one hand I had a fresh, steaming beverage of one part apple cider and two parts Captain Morgan—one to take the edge off, and the other for good measure. In the other hand, a fresh spool threaded through a bobbin, tapping on the base of my vise while I mentally shuffled through a to-do list of depleted patterns. The question was where to start? Simple dry flies? A dozen streamers? Something with a bead head, or possibly a tandem rig?

I started simple with carp flies. Dumbbell eyes, coyote hair, a little flash—the perfect finger warm-up exercise after a long break from the bench. Even if I screwed up, who cares, they’re carp. I’ve seen those fish eat cigarette butts.

Hours later, I’ve veered off course, rummaged through my bins, and lashed together creations that don’t resemble the apple-and-rum induced blueprint in my head. Big and small bugs waiting for head cement and nary one of them worthy of a parking space in my boxes.

But by then my back and neck were sore, I was out of cider, and the mood was gone. Maybe I’ll get back on track in a day or two. So much for opening day of my fly-tying season.