04/11/2026
Wednesday, April 8, and it’s cold—cold like February cold. Temperatures in the low 20s have made this spring up the gorge come in not on the “little cat feet” of Carl Sandburg, but more like the “little fainting goat feet.” The daffodils that have blossomed along the roads are all tipped over and flat. Not to worry, for the daytime sun and warming will revive them, as if they had never fainted.
The tops of the trees, on a warmer day three days ago, were crowned in a rose hue as buds swelled to burst. This kind of weather makes them retreat indoors, leaving only a hint of red to be seen above all the gray and silver trunks that speak of unrelenting winter.
The creek is clear of ice, but the rock walls beside the road are covered in icicles, or a shimmering sheet of ice. The waterfalls from recent rain are strong enough that they simply break through, roaring in culverts under the road to the creek—and in a couple of instances, over the road in an icy moving stream. After a winter of brutal cold, snow, and ice, it looks wintry, with just enough green to alert you that this is the last breath of winter, and spring, hiding this morning, is stepping out.
April, with the Mountain Home “fishue” edition (devoted to fishing), is usually the first trip all the way up the gorge for the year. In the winter, I mail the magazines above Waterville, as there are only two locations and they need only a winter amount. But last month I made the trip quickly on a day between storms because I needed to deliver some books to the Millers in Blackwell. Today is the official start of the Pine Creek trips. And it starts with an impossibly blue sky. Yes, it’s too cold, but there is activity on the roads. Plenty of tankers and flatbed trailers coming south. My guess is that the gas wells in the area are busy.
My first stop, McConnell’s, has a few fishermen ordering sandwiches for the day before heading back into the store. First to comment on the ammo displayed, then back to examine all the fishing gear.
From there, I travel north behind a cement truck. Long before I get close enough to see the mudflaps, the design on the cylinder says it’s Red Rose, from the Rauchtown area southeast of me. The driver knows the road well, so he is moving at a good clip for a large truck on the winding roads. That’s a delivery for about five miles north, and might well be the first delivery of concrete for projects up here since last year.
I’m looking for cars along the side of the road, and fishermen in the streams. After all, it’s the beginning of trout season. But there is no one out. Just one Canada goose diving into the water, then taking a look underwater at the current offerings. That continues all the way up to Slate Run, where the Manor Hotel is welcoming the fishing season in fine style.
“It was 17 degrees at my house this morning!” exclaims someone behind the counter at Wolfe’s General Store as I fill the rack with magazines. We agree that it’s just too cold. But the shelves at the store, a little empty last month during the winter, are restocked and ready for the campers, hikers, and the fishing folk who should be here right now.
Heading north, I catch up to a C.H. Waltz mobile RV repair van and follow him five more miles to the turnoff for Cedar Run. There are lots of RVs that spend the winter there on the lot where the owners spend their summers. Just beyond, after the sign for “Road Narrows” there are the portable signs for road work. It’s an electrical crew, trimming trees off the lines and doing repairs. Winter is hard on rural electric. The flagman is not expecting ANYONE up this far, and they’re just talking in the little piece of road still left to drive. I stop and they finally see me, get off the road and wave me on. From there, I head to Blackwell and a chat with the Millers on books, businesses, and rural life in general.
It’s the last moment before spring rushes in.
