Water...What can I say?  On it life ensues and maybe you learn a little, or catch a few fish.  The fish are smalller than the ones you remember but, then again, in the U.S. everything could be a little bit bigger or at least it should be.
You soometimes forget why you go, in the dead of winter, yet frozen toes remind you that it's all for the fish and while some speak of experience it is a connection you feel, to yourself, to nature, and of course the unknown.  It is cold and there may even be a little ice against the banks but it isn't hell and close to heaven so you you don't mind and keep casting with that little bit of hope.
In winter fish come seldom and they don't fight hard.  Matter of fact, I'd tell you it isn't worth it but the secret is it is.  Even on a day when you get beat, you've made it to the water and the edge of society, which you see going to hell around you, and yet, are powerless to change.  As of right now, a bombastc asshole is president, though maybe they all are.  President's bombastic assholes, though not all bombastic assholes can be president.  It's just the ones we learn to like tone it down a little.
The fish I caught two days ago after an hours work on a day that registered way to warm for winter shook his head like a monster.  I get the distinct suspicion he felt I did something wrong, though, all I wanted was to touch him.  In society, say that, and act, and you could get arrested.  I guess the secret is to keep your exploration to a minimum unless you're actually gonna find something.
A little work for a fish seems worth it and your hollering may indicate that, but everyone within earshot is wondering if someone is gettiuing murdeed, or why someone would be fishing in the dead of winter.  Maybe they are right, about the fishing, though I tend to beleive otherwise.  They think they do, but moving so fast, innundated with imagery, it hard to make sense of anything, so they are probably wrong or see things a little different, which I don't mind at all.
In winter the river flows with the depth and thickness of ink from an inwell.  On warm days it flows high from icemelt and on cold days it flows cold from temperature though you'd fish either of those day and do so with abandon.
Some claim six hour days, though I think they tend to exagerate.  After all, fishermen are great liars.  They say what they mean and though they remember it a certain way, it may not be the way it truly happened.  Thats the essence of lying I guess; to get caught between reality and fantasy and say something that sounds plausible, but is really just off.  You may beleive it and it may have happened once but probably not recently, and probably not to you, but you swear by it, and they beleive you and thats how politicians are amde.
Oh ya, and really, the world is going to hell and I'm going to heaven.  Beleive me, I'm a fisherman.  I wouldn't lie.