Forty two-degree breeze, clouds carried obediently like mass transit shifts the city status quo. Sometimes Round Valley Reservoir is burdened from above. Nothing is looking down as something moves by, and nothing lingers to hang along mountain edges like spirit imbibing substance. My boots found enough crunch in the gravel to ground senses to water within range I cast to, which promised trout somewhat, but the clouds didn't seem to swing low enough and as suspected, no hits.
One of the men I met fishing two days ago had been out since 8:30 a.m. and caught two 18-inch trout.
I've caught plenty when the sky is a blue dome. But when the weather seems angry, when clouds bear down low and spit rain like they mean it, that's fishing weather.