Yes, the brook’s roaring, the songbirds’re singing, the snowbanks’re shrinking, and my last load of cordwood’s drying ever so slowly, stacked under the eaves of the sunny carriage sheds. No, it isn’t time for stream-fishing here in the northern tier of Franklin County. Too much snow, way too much, in fact; even worse, annoying mud to follow.

Yee-uck!

But still, before you know it, stocking trucks will be rolling on our roadways. Trust me. And what a welcome sight they’ll be for everyone, especially anglers, who in better days could, in print, be called fishermen. There is a difference between fishermen and anglers, you know, but I guess your DOB would have to fall before 1980 to understand it. Sad but true. That from an understander, sorta like a decider, if you know what I mean.

The stocking has already started south of here, where the snow disappeared weeks ago, as unimaginable as that may seem to snowbound hilltowners. But it’s fact. Travel the valley Interstate and you’ll find the snowline following the Whately/Hatfield line. South of there it’s gone, very April like. But not here, where winter is lingering like a slobbering drunkard at an open-bar bash. You know the type. The longer they stay, the louder they get. That’s what this winter reminds me of, the barroom bore spitting praise of that great American hero, Grampy McCain, who’ll beat that b-word Hillary and n-word Barack like he himself was beaten at the Hanoi Hilton. Just you wait and see. God bless America. Praise the lord. Slaughter the anti-Christ terrorists. … Haven’t we been through this drill before?

But let’s not digress. What I’m trying to say is that if you haven’t already done so, it’s time to rescue your fishing equipment from the dusty shed for its annual once-over. Cleaning and oiling and replacing line are perfect chores to perform with March Madness dominating your inner sanctum, color analysts, themselves former players and coaches, extolling the virtues of sport, how it builds character, makes America a better place. As they preach, believe me, the chores won’t interfere with your brackets one iota.

Brackets? Yeah, you know what I’m talking about. Doesn’t everyone have at least one? Well, not everyone, I guess. In fact, I must admit I don’t. Must be the malaise brought on by male menopause. Yeah, that’s it, male menopause, middle-age lethargy. I’m sure I can find a doctor, maybe a therapist, to support my layman’s diagnosis. And there’s definitely a pill to cure it, maybe a handful three times a day if you’re willing to bury your face in a Reader’s Digest for an hour before spilling your guts to a total stranger in a stifling, antiseptic space. Praise the world of office visits and pharmaceutical solutions: gulp … ah! … your troubles behind you.

Myself, well, I guess I’ll just deal with such maladies the old-fashioned way; keep plugging, a day at a time, steady she goes, don’t even glance in the rearview. Yup, that’s the route I’m gonna take, even though it does absolutely nothing for the economy or hungry Pfizer shareholders.

Enough! There I go again, getting distracted by current events and modern solutions to ancient issues. What I really wanted to say is that trout-stocking has begun. Those trucks with insignias on their doors, purring, aerated tanks on their spines, will soon be depositing nets full of shiny trout into sparkling waters near you. Thankfully, waters like that still exist here in the impoverished valley and its glorious hills. But don’t take them for granted, these hills and dales, rivers, streams and bogs. Neglected, they’ll be devoured by glutinous big-box development, wiped from the face of the earth for a buck and a quick, unimaginative fix.

Why can’t we all just get along and look like Arkansas or Texas or Tuscaloosa, places where you wouldn’t stick your little toe into a river, never mind eat something from it? Why can’t we all buy cheap toys made in some Chinese sweatshop, and poisoned food for our pets and selves? Everyone else is doing it. Why not us?

Whew! Glad I finally spit-up that hairball. But if that’s where this bus is headed, count me out. I have another destination in mind. Me, I’ll be the deranged loner, a little rough around the edges, unshaven, wetting my worm in the whitewater froth below the damp, shaded gristmill ruins. It’s a better place. Far better.

If y’all don’t believe me, then order yourself a fat Cheezdawg to-go and take a little nature walk. But please, I beg, don’t leave the wrapper at the water’s edge. It’s toxic.