Text: Shota Igarashi

It swayed gently at the bottom of a narrow, gently sloping, meandering stream. Each time it moved, the spring sunlight shimmered faintly within the water. A small char, perhaps a little larger than the palm of my hand.

Of all the seasons, spring is my favorite.There is an indescribable joy in this season.

If we divide spring into early spring, then full spring, and late spring, my favorite moment is the entrance to full spring when the trees begin to bud. That beautiful, vibrant green is irresistible. Looking at the mountains, it feels like every single plant you see has been waiting for this spring. Thinking that makes me want to shout “Yay!” out loud. My joy just overflows.

And during this season, walking through the forests and along the rivers, surrounded by fresh greenery while fishing, feels truly wonderful. The young leaves on the trees, greening day by day, seem to sprout with such vitality that they appear to have grown a little more by midday than when I saw them in the morning.

Snow still lingers along the riverbanks, and amidst the steady flow of snowmelt, I head out to the streams a bit early. (By the way, I'm a fly fisherman.) Lately, it's become my routine to head out to rivers no wider than a small stream.

By “small stream,” I mean rivers with a manageable flow even when swollen by snowmelt, or perhaps rivers so tiny they don't even get much snowmelt at all. Rivers you can easily step across. I have a few candidates, choosing one based on the year's weather and my mood.

Incidentally, I've stopped targeting the main riv

er before the snow melts. Partly because it's just too cold, but also because it overlaps with the last bit of the ski season. It's going to get warmer now, so I'll take my time enjoying the fishing. That's the mindset I'm in.

Of course, there are no big fish in the small streams. Catching a 15cm fish would be nice enough. But that's fine. Just getting a bite is enough. Simply walking along the spring river, basking in the sunlight and gazing at the greenery, fills my heart. Honestly, I wouldn't even mind if I didn't catch anything.

Of course, catching a fish is always a thrill. Even if it's small, I find myself mesmerized by the beauty of the first mountain stream fish I see that year. I feel like saying, “Happy New Year,” but well, the fish probably don't care about that at all.

Here, the beauty lies in not reaching for big fish. Savoring spring quietly, relishing the start of the season—that's my style. Hooking a 50cm or 60cm fish would be too much commotion. Let me be clear: this isn't an excuse from a fly fisher who can't catch them. It's my style.

Now, it's truly a delightful season just to walk. Strolling along the riverbank, the first signs of spring's main attraction appear here and there: wild mountain vegetables. Each time I head to the mountains in spring, the season slowly advances, and the wild vegetables sprouting change too.

The first to appear, of course, is butterbur shoots.

In Hokkaido, they grow everywhere—so abundantly it almost discourages picking. But I seek out those with that premium “riverbank-grown” feel.

They're delicious as tempura, and fukinoto miso is also tasty. I recommend stir-frying them with a bit more oil than usual. Placed atop steaming hot white rice, the oil and umami seep into the grains.

Every year, I visit a certain spot. After driving down a rough road that makes you wonder if you'll ever get back, a prime fishing spot appears right before your eyes—the kind where big trout seem to lurk. You can park your car right beside it. Large boulders line up to form a wall, where the current hits and creates a deep pool. The flow emerging from that pool hits a large submerged rock, creating a sluggish current and forming another pool.

It just screams potential! Yet, I've never caught a fish there. But that's perfectly fine.

Here, I set up a chair and table, brew coffee, and fry up some wild mountain vegetables like udo, picked nearby, into tempura right there. With that prime spot before me, I let my thoughts wander, letting my imagination run wild, and slowly pass the time. It's a truly luxurious way to spend time.

Occasionally I cast a fly at the spot, but still no luck. Yet if I did catch something here, my angler's greed would kick in, and I'd surely lose the ability to relax. If a big trout smoothly sucked in the fly, I doubt I could control myself.

Once, I considered how many fishing seasons I'd have left in my life. Not trips, but seasons. I'm still young, but how long will I be able to vigorously trek through mountain streams? Thinking about it suddenly makes it feel like far too few. When you regularly enjoy the outdoors and feel the seasons on your skin, there are times you sense time passing, being consumed, moment by moment. The seasons shift one after another. Perhaps that's precisely why I feel the urge to truly experience nature and the seasons.

Well then, the fun season is upon us.

How do you all enjoy the seasons?