If you see surface action in the winter, it's most likely chironomids -- midges that resemble tiny mosquitoes. Hatch sizes are generally in the No. 20-24 range. Photo by Mike Barlow.

Winter grips Utah in a vise. Storms streak across the Great Basin and pound the Wasatch Front, dumping mountains of snow.

Schools close, pipes freeze, tires spin and fog, smog and exhaust clog the Salt Lake Valley.

Maybe that's why I am standing knee deep in the Weber River.

Winters are long in Utah, and I need the open air. Come January, there is almost always a break in the weather: a period of two to three weeks of cold, still air with no storms and brilliant sunshine. Skiers complain as the snow gets harder with each passing day. Ice-fishermen huddle around holes at Strawberry Reservoir. And me, I put my bamboo fly rod, a thermos of soup, hand warmers and my seldom-worn waders into the back of the car.

On one recent day, there was no one else there. It was barely 32 degrees, but the sun felt warm. There was no hint of a breeze, only the quiet ripple of the water and the hiss of the line in the air. Snow hid in the brittle stalks of tall brown grass along the banks. The cottonwood trees stood stark and still in the winter sun.

A brown trout surfaced. I watched the spot, waiting for the fish to return. There was a swirl and then the head, dorsal fin and tail of the big brown appeared, as it lazily took a bug.

I retrieved my line and removed the Hare's Ear, Brassy and indicator. Along the bank there were tiny insects, midges, about a size 20.

I never fish with anything I can't see, so I tied on a No. 16 Renegade and a No. 20 Black Gnat.

The fish rose again. I cleared the ice from the eyelets of the rod tip. (Perhaps I had overestimated the temperature.) The line whipped above the sunlit water. Thin silver crystals of ice shimmered in the air. The fly landed just above the feeding trout and floated high on the ripples.

The surface erupted as the fish struck. I raised the rod tip, pulled down firmly on the line and felt the weight and fury of the brown.

The bamboo rod bent in a tight arc. Instinctively, my left hand loosened the drag on the Pflueger Medalist and the fish made his run upriver.

But line was no match for this fish. I maintained pressure just below its breaking point, and winced in anticipation of the snap of the line. The fish fought current and line as the nail knot slid through the eyelets. I was out of options. It was up to him.