Whenever I came to a gravel turnout, I'd pull over to look at the river, incidentally letting a line of cars pass me and ignoring the dirty looks. The water was low and clear, the air chilly, the sun bright. A breeze was coming upstream so gently you wouldn't even notice it on a warmer day, but that afternoon it was enough to cancel the effect of the sun. This was late November, approaching Thanksgiving, and a big snowstorm was in the forecast. If the weatherman was right, the barometer would already be falling, and I'm one of those who believe that low-pressure fronts bring on hatches and make trout want to feed, although I couldn't tell you why.