A few days ago, in my yard surveying the damage from the Patriots Day storm, I was pleased to find a mosquito on my left hand, preparing to drill for blood. Her life was brief; she was slapped down in her prime by my right hand. But her presence signaled the awakening of the insect world, and soon there will be more mosquitos alighting on my hands, my neck, my ankles, my ears and any other exposed flesh, and they will be joined by clouds of blackflies, whose purpose on Earth is to temper the pleasure we get from fishing. Without biting, bloodsucking insects we might never leave the stream, and who would feed the cat and take out the trash? Not to mention run the world.

And verily it comes to pass that the non-biting bugs also appear, whose purpose is to feed the fish. So when I say I was pleased to see a mosquito what I was really saying is that the return of the bugs means the return of the fishing.

Ephemeroptera, Plecoptera, Trichoptera, Diptera, Odonata.

Without Dave Whitlock's Guide to Aquatic Trout Foods I wouldn't know what they were, either. And even Mr. Whitlock confesses that were his profession not angling, he wouldn't have gone through the pain of learning the Latin names of Mayflies, stoneflies, caddisflies, midges and dragonflies. Fortunately for us the trout don't seem to care whether we speak of the bugs in Latin or Pushtu. What is sort of important is to figure out when each of these bugs is likely to make an appearance at our favorite fishing holes, and to be there with the right stuff in our flybox. We don't want to suffer the embarrassment of making a perfect presentation of a Hendrickson or a Quill Gordon only to have the trout sneer, "That is so last week."

The bugs are coming back, to fill the bellies of the fish and to gladden the hearts and raise the hopes of anglers. Now if only the floods would subside and the waters warm up. Is that asking too much?

Flyrods and other fish sticks have an amazing capacity for reproduction. They're like rabbits -- you let one in the house, and before you know it they're everywhere, hanging on the walls, leaning in corners. Sometimes I'll look at a rod and try to remember what excuse I gave my wife-at-the-time for squandering food money on another -- "Another!" -- fishing pole. The excuses were all a waste of time and breath, of course. Not one of my wives, magnificent women all, was an angler, and all my talk of line weights, casting conditions, rod actions or even bargain prices amounted to unintelligible ambient noise; I might as well have been speaking Turkic or Tagalog. Now that I'm single again, I don' need no stinkin' excuses. I simply obey the law of nature, the eternal verity: one can never have too many fishing rods. Thus, it was pure reason that led to my latest acquisition. I'm going traveling, ergo I must have a travel rod.

The new baby is a 6-piece, 5-weight, 8-and-a-half-foot flyrod from L.L. Bean. All six pieces pack into a 21-inch tube, which will fit right into my carry-on. Come June it will cast my fly upon the waters of Montana's Bitterroot. Before then, I'll test-drive it somewhere closer to home.

The new rod, in its brown Cordura-covered tube, brings back a memory from Baxter State Park, when a new friend named Andy and I paddled across Daicey Pond and hiked in to Lost Pond. Andy had the identical travel rod, and he had hung the tube on his backpack. As we were leaving Lost Pond for the hike back to Daicey, Andy shouldered his pack in such a way that the rod tube came swinging around from behind his head and conked him squarely on the nose. Blood gushed from Andy's schnozz as he stood there cursing and frantically searching for a bandana to stanch the flow, while I bit my lip trying to keep from laughing out loud. It was one of those perfect moments of unintended slapstick comedy. It was also a lesson I won't forget, about how not to attach my new rod to a backpack. So, Andy, thanks -- for the laugh and the lesson.

The story of Andrew's Canoe continues. The beautiful wood-and-canvas boat that Andrew Weegar made by hand for me in 1991 has, without leaving the garage, taken me to Montana. It also took me to a funeral today in Augusta, Maine.

The story of the canoe resonated deeply with people who knew Andrew, and set a number of events in motion. Andrew, as you may or may not know, was many things in life, so many things that friends and admirers -- and there were many -- called him a Renaissance Man. His environmental journalism, and his training and mentoring of other journalists through the Institutes for Journalism and Natural Resources (IJNR), touched many people. When Andrew died in an accident on his Maine farm in 2005, the mourning was widespread, deep and genuine. His death was felt most grievously at home, where he left a young wife, Abby, and a beautiful daughter, Molly, then barely six.

When I wrote about my annual dilemma over the Weegar canoe -- keep it or sell it -- quite a few people wrote to say they would be interested in purchasing the boat. They all seemed to be people whose lives Andrew had touched, and who would be good stewards of such an heirloom. Then I received an e-mail from Abby Holman, Andrew's widow. Here it is, in part:

"...if you ever want to sell Andrew's canoe, I would like to buy it for his daughter. (Andrew was my husband). When Andrew died, he didn't leave behind any of his canoes, not that he was expecting to leave us...So I am very sad that Molly doesn't have one of his canoes and I don't know anyone that owns one."

I replied that when the weather warmed up and the boats left the garage I would put Andrew's canoe on my roofrack and drive up to her house. I didn't say so, but my plan was to simply give the canoe to Molly. Of course, the weather still hasn't warmed up.

After Andrew's death, Abby had joined the board of the IJNR, and after our e-mail exchange she recommended me for an IJNR fellowship. Frank Allen, the director of the Missoula, Montana based organization, graciously accepted Abby's recommendation and as a result I'll be joining 16 other journalists in Montana in June for a High Country expedition. I wrote to Abby to thank her. She replied:

"Good for you! Have a great time out there. Give my regards to Frank and Maggie. Best - Abby"

That was March 30. Eight days later Abby Holman was dead. After crossing the finish line in a charity ski race at Sugarloaf Mountain, she hit a tree.

At Abby's funeral today in Augusta, hundreds of people filled St. Mary's Church to overflowing. Just as Andrew had been, so, too, was Abby Holman a life force, someone whose spirit, joy, power, integrity and love had bonded legions to her. Abby had been a force in politics for most of her life and had been elected to the state legislature in November. I think most of the legislature was in the church today, along with three governors, Abby's extended family, and scores of other mourners, testimony to the living spirit of Abby.

And of course there was Molly Weegar. There was no more heartbreaking sight in all the world than Molly's stunned, sad face following her mother's casket out of the church.

Molly, I will tell you one true thing: Andrew and Abby live on, in you. I know you are in unfathomable pain, but they are with you and always will be, and will guide your own life in ways you can't yet imagine.

Your father's canoe -- your canoe -- is waiting in my garage. It's a beautiful boat, and I know that in a deep and subconscious way, Andrew was thinking of you when he made it with his own hands, even though you were still years in the future. When you are ready for it, tell me and I will bring it to you.

The calendar says April 7. The ground cover says winter. Wednesday night's snow lies round about, deep and crisp and even. All up and down the road, tree limbs and in some cases whole trees lie lifeless, felled by the sudden, heavy snow. Most are pines, whose needles trapped the snow while it sifted harmlessly through the bare limbs of their deciduous cousins. The first limb on the pine outside my window extends horizontally from the trunk about eight feet from the ground. The snow piled up on its needled branches, forced the limb all the way to the ground and pinned it there, bent like an archer's bow. When the melting snow finally released it, the limb sprang back to the horizontal like a boxer leaping to his feet after the mandatory eight-count. Down, but not out. The resiliency of life.

Snow in the backyard, yes, but the ice is gone from the bay and yesterday I spotted a flock of terns diving enthusiastically for baitfish. With baitfish come bigger fish, so the migrations have begun. Shad are moving up. The stripers and blues will soon follow.

In Augusta, Georgia, the azaleas are in bloom, decorating what may be the most beautiful golf course for its most revered tournament.

Farther north, Sugarloaf reports excellent skiing. Ice still covers the ponds. But the weather can't defy the calendar for long. Life is moving under the snow, under the ice, and will again triumph. Trees will bud and leaf out, the crocuses will bloom, the grass will green, the does will fawn and the moose will calve and the foxes will whelp and the voice of the turtledove will be heard in the land. The ice will melt, the waters will ripple, and the fish will rise. As all things rise in the Spring. Resurrection.

Have a Happy Easter.