The first dry fly trout of the year was a foot long brown that took a size 20 blue winged olive on March 27th near Junction Pool on the Delaware River; the last may be the fifteen inch brown that took my size 22 Olive T.P. Dun on October 26th. It is raining now, and snow remains in the forecast for tonight and tomorrow. Beyond that, the nighttime lows will head down into the thirties, then the twenties, those lows and the cold rain and snowfall causing river temperatures to drop drastically.

A seven month span of dry fly fishing is a wonderful thing, a remarkable gift given freely by nature, and cherished by seasoned anglers devoted to the dry fly. I am grateful for another year of pursuing the lovely wild trout of these Catskill Mountains by the means I most enjoy; casting dry flies born on my vise, with bamboo rods both old and new.

Fishing is not over for the year, as some of us simply cannot stay away from bright water for five to six months of the year. Though the wet fly will see the lion’s share of drifts, there will always be a few small dry flies among our gear. Hope springs eternal they say, and for the dry fly fisher that is a well kept truth.

As winter brings it’s freezing winds, it’s snow and ice, I will recall balmy days on the rivers of my heart. Flies will be tied with an eye toward spring, and the first glimpse of the early mayflies: Quill Gordon, Blue Quill and Hendrickson. My dreams will be of bright gravel nurturing the next generation of trout and the hatches that sustain them, and pools filled with fluttering wings and dimples in the film!

I am hoping for an epic hatch of Hendricksons next year, as it has been some time since I witnessed one. Fifteen years ago it seemed an annual occurrence, and I travelled here each spring to take part. Millions of tan bodied flies filled the surface, and the trout feasted. They were never easy to catch with so heavy a larder, but the challenge spawned new fly patterns and long hours upon favorite pools waiting for a chance to play the game on nature’s grandest stage.

I am likewise longing for a good Green Drake hatch, the epitome of the hatch matcher’s season. The huge duns are hard to imitate, and the ultimate challenge to both fly tier and angler. I found no honest hatch this season, witnessing merely a handful of duns on the water for a day or two, then nothing. My favorite hatch, and I have missed it two out of the last three years.

It has been a trying year for mankind, and I am particularly thankful to be standing, contemplating my love of angling, and looking forward to another season upon bright water. My family and friends are well, all are safe, at least as safe as any of us can be amid this challenging time.

The rain refreshes the rivers, and there may still be a window should a warm front fly through to replace the cold. Who knows? If it is meant to be, it shall be. If not, then I will wait until spring to feel my heart jump at the year’s first vision of the ring of the rise.

It was forty-five degrees when I reached the river, wisps of cloud hanging on the ridgeline, the autumn colors so full and bright just days ago, now gone. Last week I fished in shirtsleeves, and today in a poly fleece hoodie, Thermoball jacket and rain gear; enough insulation to stay comfortable while I waited and hoped for a trout to rise.

I called the wardrobe right, as I was still comfy after standing and scanning the surface for an hour. I was about to consider the merits of a sunken fly when that little ring appeared near the opposite bank. Try as I might, I could see nothing but a bubble line on top, yet that trout had risen to something. The rainy day, and being nearly November convinced me it had to be olives, something between a size 20 and a 24. And so the game begins…

It was another half an hour I guess before that rise was repeated, and the fish settled in to feed lazily on something I still couldn’t see. I went through all three sizes, T.P. Duns with and without a trailing shuck, a tiny Flick BWO, and a couple of CDC sparkle duns. Mr. Trout was unimpressed. I changed it up for a few casts with a beetle: nope. Finally I was able to see a speck of gray here and there, and once or twice what looked like upright wings. Hmm… the twenties looked too big, but the 24 didn’t draw any interest either.

On the third dig through my three fly boxes I found a single size 22 T.P. Dun, and decided that just had to do the trick. Twenty or more presentations later, it finally did. The fifteen inch brown cavorted in the shallow water and pulled some line from my CFO, a nice fish. I twisted the fly free when I had him in the net, and he settled to the bottom right in front of my feet. He seemed to like my company.

Perhaps half an hour later another trout rose once or twice, and came for that 22 right there in the bubble line. I was maybe a split second late in my reaction, the tiny dry lost in the bubble line, but I hooked him, at least for a moment.

I whiled away the afternoon presenting different olives to the occasional riser, but the two that had felt the steel in my frauds must have spread the word; there were no more takers. A couple of times the rises stopped altogether and, just when I had decided the game was done for the day, a new fish would show himself with a bright little wink in the surface. The possibility kept me interested, the insulation kept me warm, and the activity actually picked up as it got later, the opposite of my expectations for a forty-five degree rainy day and forty eight degree water.

It was getting on after four o’clock, time to be heading out, when a good fish sucked in the half drowned size 20 T.P. that had the honor of being my last fly of the day. He wasn’t happy finding the sting in his supper, and I was equally surprised when a good size brown leapt out of the water to show me his indignation. I guessed him at better than eighteen inches, with a dark back that blended with the stones on the bottom. He made a second jump, convinced me that he meant business, and I began to slowly work him toward me. Everything was working out perfectly, the best fish of the day on the last cast and all that, when the hook let go.

I checked the traitorous fly, but found the bend secure and no reason for the hook to have let him go early like that. Must have had him in the bone of his lip where the hook didn’t penetrate enough to hold I thought, so I tipped my hat to him and headed for the trail.

On the way out I was pleased to see my friend the eagle heading home upstream. “Hope to see you again”, I told him, “and if not then goodbye until next year.” I do hope to get back, maybe find a few nice browns sipping those cantankerously tiny duns again. It makes for a fine way to spend a wet, chilly autumn afternoon.

I sat on the porch Saturday afternoon luxuriating in the last of the day’s seventy degree sunshine; apparently the last of the year’s seventy degree sunshine. Twenty-four hours later I sat there once more, huddled in a hoody and a Primaloft jacket, tending the grill with a pair of Porterhouse steaks nestled in the flames. Twenty degrees colder in twenty-four hours, with the addition of a chilling wind just to drive the point home: summer, and the last sweet kiss of autumn is behind us.

I always mourn the loss of dry fly season, and a full Catskill season is a cherished thing, so I feel the loss here most of all. Yes, I will still hold out a bit of stubborn hope, I will continue to spend time upon the rivers of my heart, looking and hoping for a glimpse of wings upon the surface, a subtle movement at odds with the current; a little something that says life!

My friend called me the other evening to tell me that rain had come to the Erie tributaries, and that he was gathering his steelhead gear for an assault. He asked me to join him. My heart leapt at the thought of fresh run chrome and a chance to swing some flies with the old Orvis bamboo rod I have kept for that purpose. It has been a number of years since I last had the opportunity to chase steelhead.

Sadly I declined his generous offer, knowing there would be a rush of anglers to this first good run of the season, and crowds are not good places for me to be with Covid still hovering in the air. Mike assumed that I would take that safer road, but he wanted to give me the first chance anyway. I hope he hits the run just right and battles some of those big, beautiful bright fish into the net; and most of all I hope he stays safe and well.

It is hard to turn down a chance at steelhead fishing, for they are the most electric trout of all!

Though I have no expectations of landing a fish larger than my Michigan buck, I do have a strong desire to fish with and catch steelhead on classic tackle. I have a vintage Orvis bamboo rod once owned by Dr. Livingston Parsons, author of Salmon Camp: The Boland Brook Story. At eight and one half feet, the rod casts an eight weight line with authority. My steelhead tackle bag contains a suitable companion, a vintage Hardy Zenith reel with a spring and pawl drag up to the task of fighting salmon and steelhead. The next step in my quest for chrome involves swinging an appropriate spey fly to entice a significant steelhead, so that I might battle him one on one as fly fishers battled them during the Golden Age. That goal still lies before me, un-assailed, but not forgotten. Perhaps next year…

It is well past time for the mountains to draw more of my attention. I have wandered only twice in search of grouse, instead feeding my burning desire to find the rising fish that seemingly deserted me on October first. I simply refused to accept the end of my dry fly season at the turn of the calendar. Thankfully my perseverance was rewarded, though it took two weeks of trying to find that first lovely ring upon the surface. Now however, I feel I must begin to accept the inevitable.

The warmest weather to come in the next ten days advertises a high of fifty-two degrees, and the first flirtation with snow may occur on Friday morning. I began my dry fly season on the heels of snowfall, and it may well be that I am forced to end it the same way.

I have missed walking in the woods during the glorious peak of autumn colors, though I have taken plenty of time to stare from river’s edge. It is time to return to the forest, to see the last moments with the mountainsides ablaze in the sunlight, smell the smells of autumn, and walk the ridges and the hollows where all bright waters are born.

We dry fly anglers simply live for the riseform; it is our greeting, our magic wink, the single natural phenomenon that calls us to cast a fly just upstream. Ah the telltale ring upon the surface: a trout is feeding here, taking on top my good man, go ahead and see what you can do!

There are times of course when we search in vain for them, finding none, and leave the river dejected, particularly so if there was any sort of hatch on. The presence of insects and the absence of riseforms leaves us spare, with only questions and no answers. Sometimes they are there but we don’t see them, failing to recognize the clues, to read the signs the river gives us. This was nearly such a day. The river flowed, just barely; the water being lower than I have ever seen it. The breeze was strong and gusty, and the surface littered with leaves: everything to see but what I’m looking for.

There are places on familiar waters where we expect a rise, places where we know that trout will feed if there is anything, anything at all to draw their attention. I watched such a place for half an hour, seeing nothing. I moved on, knotted a Grizzly Beetle and went prospecting, though to no avail.

My thoughts wandered to yesterday’s good fortune, when a handful of tiny olives brought one fine trout to the surface. A different day, a different river, though perhaps early afternoon would still bring a few flies to the surface.

I returned to one of those places, a reach where trout hold, where they feed and where they shelter, but still there was nothing to be seen save thousands of drifting leaves. Patience is oft rewarded, and the retreating clouds allowed the sun to light the water. Leaves, more leaves, colors and shapes, and the barest glint of something in the spaces between them. Wings!

I tied the duplicate of yesterday’s size 20 olive to my tippet and watched the steady parade of leaves that had collected in one primary line of drift. Every few minutes there was something along that line of drift; not a proper riseform, no ring, no dimple or bubble to give him away, just the barest, most discrete little movement on the glassy surface. Might a gust of wind have turned over one of those leaves? Could some tiny bit of bark or vegetation have blown down from the trees, or was it truly evidence of life? I never cease to be amazed by how invisibly a twenty inch wild Catskill brown trout can feed in a drift line.

I added my little olive T.P. Dun to the assortment of flotsam in the drift line, tracked it carefully as it floated oh so slowly downstream, cast after cast, drift after drift, until at last that imperceptible motion of the surface coincided with it, and I tightened and felt the full arch of the Granger’s tip and midsection. Nothing had become a trout!

The Hardy sang above the wind, the cane throbbed, and my smile widened. Bringing him close at last I spotted him beneath the shimmering orange and yellow of the drifting leaves, reeled half the leader through the guides, and slipped him head first into the net. I checked his length, levered the small, sharp hook from his lip, and slipped him back into the bright, cold water.

Indian Summer, well no, just a short two day remembrance of one. Two days with highs in the low seventies, then the temperatures begin to crash.

Once more I will string the four weight Granger and search the quiet waters for a rise. Though the October sunshine would be welcome on my shoulders and a delight to my eyes, the cloud cover I expect is much better for the fishing. The river is down to its bones, as clear as air with little current in the pools. The shy wild trout will scrutinize everything!

Perhaps I will repeat yesterday’s good fortune, perhaps I will simply take in the beauty and serenity of the river amid the last blush of fair October.

Another “rainy day”, yet the rivers are still dropping, as something keeps highjacking the rainfall we are promised. My hope for freshened flows to start the week have been dashed once again, and I resigned myself to the fact that last Thursday’s fishing was likely the end of my dry fly fishing for the year.

I had rigged the Kiley eight footer with a seven weight line, a heavier leader and one of my little pheasant and flash soft hackle creations, and I set about swinging that seductive little fly around the deeper boulders at the tailout of the pool. A twitch produced the feeling of weight, and I stripped quickly to set the hook into a substantial fish. A short, quick run spun the reel and convinced me that I had a good trout, though the dark bottom gave no visual clue despite the startling clarity of the season’s lowest flow.

After a couple more of those short runs I glimpsed a dark fish, thinking brown trout until I got a look at the wide mouth that said smallmouth bass. It was a strong, chunky fish, nearly a foot long, and I recalled the June evening in this place where an unseen foe grabbed my caddis in the darkness, pulled amazingly hard and broke my tippet. Could that have been a smallie measured in pounds rather than inches?

I had seen a tiny dimple or two around the rocks closer to shore, and expected small bass or chubs might be frolicking in the low water. I was pleasantly surprised when a nice ring appeared, and I retrieved my line and cut the wet fly from the leader. I checked the 4X tippet for nicks and, finding none, I plucked a Grizzly Beetle from my pack, knotted it fast and watched for another rise.

Whatever the fish was that was sipping among the rocks, it showed no interest for my beetle, so I cut it off and pulled four feet of 5X fluorocarbon from its spool to affix a proper dry fly tippet. When all was ready I waited for a new rise, as the mystery fish seemed to be moving around. When it came I lofted the line and dropped the beetle upstream, learning within a few more casts that it wasn’t the tippet that kept that fish from taking my fly.

I hadn’t seen anything in the air or on the water, but now I crouched and searched the mirror intently. Something drifted past just out of reach, buggy looking but unidentifiable. Scanning upstream I finally saw a tiny pair of mayfly wings drifting along.

The beetle was exchanged for a size 20 olive, one of my T.P. Duns with a sparse trailing shuck. I fluffed the wing but chose not to add floatant, hoping the fly would settle a bit into the glassy film and give the appearance of a trapped dun: an easy meal. While choosing the fly and tying it on, my mystery fish rose with a heavy bulge and a soft dimple, making it quite clear that my quarry was a substantial fish, and likely the trout I was hoping for. Decades ago I had fished the white mayfly hatch on the Susquehanna River during extreme low water, and saw smallmouth bass sipping the flies very daintily in the shallow flats, so a bit of doubt remained as I made my first cast.

It is my habit to make that first cast short, allowing a chance to check the drift with the fly far enough from the fish that any unexpected drag won’t spook the riser. The float looked perfect, so I picked the fly up once it had drifted well downstream, fed a few feet of line into the back cast, and made a down and across stream reach cast right on the mark. The fly drifted down a foot and a new bulge and dimple engulfed it!

The fish pulled hard and ran downstream, pulling the slack line through my fingers as I worked to control that first rush and get him on the reel. The boulder field worried me, so I kept the tip of the rod elevated, letting the big fish fight the arc of the supple cane. The Kiley has a lot of flex for a seven weight fly rod, and I used it to full advantage. My first look came as I drew him close, a brown trout easily topping twenty inches!

That fine brownie wasn’t happy dueling in such shallow water, and ran again against the drag. He reached the deeper boulders but the sweep of bamboo turned him short of any hangups, and we continued our dance back and forth, and all the way to my waiting net. He was heavy and beautiful, twenty-two inches of autumn brown trout that chose to rise at just the right moment.

Once he darted away to the safety of his boulder field, I scanned upstream and down for a sign of additional mayflies and another rise. There were none to be found. Dry fly magic: that brown had appeared in front of me for the briefest moment, one chance to make the afternoon particularly memorable; truly a gift from the river.

Can you imagine fishing a size 20 dry fly on glassy water with a seven weight graphite rod? Not a high probability of success in that scenario, but bamboo adapts. I extended my leader to roughly thirteen feet, and the sweet action of the bamboo allowed the gentlest of presentations where there was no margin for error. Is it any wonder I love fishing bamboo?

It is thirty degrees in Crooked Eddy, with a coating of frost befitting mid-October. There is snow north in Vermont the Weather Channel tells me, and more of the same coming for Montana. The Catskills though appear to be looking toward a warming trend, and highs in the seventies by mid-week. Precious rain is in that forecast as well, and these mountains are as anxious for that as for the promised gentle sunshine.

I lost most of yesterday, whiling away the time at the tying bench, caught between tying a few soft hackles, re-sorting the flies in my chest pack, and reading the just launched first issue of Hallowed Waters Journal (www.hallowedwaters.com). I knew Matt and Laurie Supinski would produce a wonderful online magazine, and I was thrilled with the result of their efforts and creativity! Imagine reading an artfully written article, enjoying the beautiful photos, all without the distractions of ads placed on every page. Fine content presented as it should be, as the center of attention. Bravo my friends!

The warming trend promised to us brings new hope for a handful of precious days of dry fly fishing! Yes, I tied those soft hackles and placed them in my fly box expecting a continuation of the dearth of surface feeding October has provided. I was convinced that Thursday’s magic was the end of my season, that the tiny mayflies and terrestrials had offered their final gift. The four weight cane rod was wiped down and put away, and the reel rigged for the seven weight Kiley, my off season rod, was retrieved and its leader inspected; ready to go.

Of course I still stubbornly packed that re-organized daily fly box with little olives, Grizzly Beetles, ants, Hebes and Isonychia. It is very hard to give up what we love. Friday’s damp chill had once again turned my thoughts to winter, but this morning’s forecast appeared like a warm beam of sunlight cutting through the rain and clouds that threatened my spirit.

I feel the urge to tie more flies, dry flies, though more than one hundred and fifty dozen have spun from my vise this year. If I’m caught unprepared for a hatch, its through forgetting just which box holds the matching patterns; Lord knows I have tied them.

Breakfast seems the best idea right now, a real breakfast for a bright Sunday morning. I cannot enjoy them too often.

Thoughts of winter’s approach provoke my melancholy, though in truth it is the cold months of winter that make the dry fly season more precious. It is a long wait, six months before that wonderful day: high water, biting winds, cracked freezing hands and shivering legs not yet ready for slippery stones and current; and those first fluttering wings upon the leaden surface of a river still half in spate. The rise is startling after so many long months of waiting, dreaming: Quill Gordon or Hendrickson? The quill, yes, yes, there’s one! Was that take on top? Lord please let him be taking on top!

The frozen fingers struggle with the knot, but is it just the cold, or anticipation? Finally the cast can be made, short at first to check the drift, make any adjustments to the tippet, then on to the rise. The fly doesn’t settle as perfectly as it did last autumn, the muscle memory must be reawakened. After a few tries the leader turns over with the familiar delicacy and the fly settles gently and bobs downstream. I have lived to play the grand game once again!

Truly winter is necessary, a chance for the life of the river to replenish itself, as the snows and ice slowly replenish the aquifers that feed the mountain seeps, the rills and brooks that feed the creeks and the rivers themselves, all of the cherished bright water that we love so deeply. It is also a time for those of us blessed by bright water to replenish, to give thanks for the season past, to tend to all of those things that would have kept us from the rivers had we let them.

Living and fly fishing in Maryland, Pennsylvania and now New York I have never really had to face the wall of a closed season. There were always trout waters open to fishing, winter, spring summer and fall. The opposite side of that coin reads that I have not experienced Opening Day with a flyrod in my hand.

I fished familiar water yesterday, on the final day of open season on that lovely reach of river. New York still closes much of its Catskill trout waters to protect spawning trout, though sadly those regulations may be due to change next year. I like the idea of giving the trout a rest, allowing them the sanctity of reproduction without dodging anglers.

I arrived later than when I fished this reach in summer, hoping to enjoy the day with no real expectations for rising trout. The wind was up, stronger than I expected from the forecast, but I knew that my relaxed mood would be right for the patience required to angle on bright, blustery days. I walked upriver watching leaves blowing in the wind and sailing onto the gentle current, bidding goodbye for another season.

Little did I know that I would make a new friend on this day, and enjoy the dry fly fishing that had eluded me for more than a week.

I saw a gentle sip as I neared my destination, then another. I had decided to tie my Grizzly Beetle to my leader upon my first step into the river, knowing that such a blustery day ought to deposit plenty of terrestrials on the surface, and that trout weaned on a summer of sparse hatches of tiny flies ought to be more than willing to partake. I stalked the first good riser I saw, waited for a lull in the wind, and made my pitch, the long 6X tippet wafting my fly off target as even the lessened breeze played its aerial games. A pause, then another cast corrected the drift, and I was pleased to see a good trout tip up and inhale the beetle gently.

He struggled with the steady pulls of a low water autumn, no longer streaking into the backing as his brethren did in the highly oxygenated flows of springtime. Nevertheless I enjoyed the pulses of the old Granger bamboo as he rolled and changed direction repeatedly. Netted, I slipped the beetle from his mouth, noted his length and color, and slipped him back home; until next year my friend!

I had begun working a second riser when I heard a splash upstream, and saw an angler crossing to my side of the river, then slowly walking my way. Trout number two proved beetle shy, and while looking between the thousands of drifting leaves I spied a tiny spinner on the surface. Tricos. I reached for them and raised my dripping hand to my eye to be sure, and yes, despite several frosts and the late date, these were trico spinners. Upstream, the lone angler continued his approach.

I wasn’t willing to enjoy the frustration of 7X tippet and a size 24 spinner in the rush of autumn wind and leaves. No sir, any trout that wanted to dance with my Granger was going to eat beetle or go hungry.

I was still casting to that same beetle shy trout when the angler stopped along the bank behind me and asked my name. I was taken aback, having done all I could do to avoid contact with people under threat of China’s dreaded virus, and here was a stranger willing to slowly walk a hundred yards of river to say hello. My response was cryptic, until he smiled and said “its Chuck”. Chuck Coronato is the editor of the Catskill Fly Tiers Guild’s Gazette, a man I had never met, but one who had honored me by inviting me to contribute a column to the newsletter. That recognition caused me to relax, and we enjoyed an afternoon of conversation and angling, hooking trout and leaves under the brilliant October sun.

I was glad that serendipity had brought us together on this pool of bright water, each thinking it a good spot to breathe the autumn air and bid farewell to the season. Correspondence through email had been our only contact, but I had sensed a kindred spirit when I learned of Chuck’s fascination with trout flies and bamboo. Covid has cancelled all of the Guild’s functions since February, and I had no idea when I would get a chance to meet the man who had so graciously invited me to share my thoughts with several hundred Guild members. I look forward to our next opportunity to wet a line together, and a simple handshake, in a world where such gestures are no longer dangerous.

Several trout continued to rise, and I landed a trio of fine browns. Chuck was kind enough to take some photos as I played the largest of the day, a darkly spotted brownie pushing nineteen inches. As we parted later in the afternoon, we wished each other well, both saying farewell to a quiet reach of river until next season brings us back to stalk trout that sip dry flies in the cold, crystalline water.

Walking downstream, I paused for a lone rise until the wind returned in full force. Looking back, there was no sign of my friend, and I wished that his last stalk had been rewarded. His email this morning brought a smile, as it shared the brilliant colors of the autumn brown he had taken on that last cast.

I traveled a bit yesterday, at least I would call it travel as far as this year is concerned, saying hello and goodbye to the storied Neversink in an afternoon. Expecting crowds throughout the season, I had avoided this lovely river since my visit with Matt Supinski last autumn. I had been told the crowds had vanished with the coming of autumn, and I wished to spend at least a few hours where past memories had been made.

NYC has been playing games with reservoir releases of late, and the Neversink has been one of its pawns, dropping to less than 90 cfs, then bounding up to more than 200, before dropping again. I wondered if the trout would be active, though I did not hold out a great deal of hope. With some 237 cfs of flow yesterday, the little river looked grand, clear and cold with the tannin color I expect, but my flies found no takers.

I saw one rise, a significant splash along a windswept grassy bank that recalled last September’s foray. Arriving at water’s edge, I plucked a fat grasshopper from the hood of my car, and told Matt I had expected isonychia mayflies rather then hoppers. He smiled and dug into a fly box, handing me a huge hopper pattern he’d tied with one of Frosty Flies’ realistic bodies. The fly was twice the size of the live hopper on my hood, but I cut back my leader and tied it on, and at Matt’s urging, set about prospecting the hides along the grassy banks upstream.

Working a pocket on an edge where I had taken a chunky brown the previous summer, Matt’s mega hopper disappeared in a heavy swirl and a fine trout bolted into the current, putting a decided bend in my light five strip bamboo rod. After a spirited battle, the Neversink surrendered a beautifully colored wild brown trout of nineteen inches. Moral of the story: if a world class guide and fly angler gives you a fly, fish it; even if it makes you chuckle a bit!

I worked that heavy run with one of my hoppers, two isonychia patterns, and an October caddis. The rise was never repeated, and I must admit I wished I still had Matt’s big hopper in my fly box this time. It would have been nice to tempt another big brownie from the dark, mysterious waters of the Neversink.

Matt has been hard at work preparing the debut of his new online magazine, Hallowed Waters Journal. The first issue is due to arrive today, and I am looking forward to enjoying my friend’s noted flair and creativity. He’s likely in the beginnings of a run of Chinook salmon or Michigan steelhead by now, so I have no doubt his world is a whirl of activity. Wish I was there swinging flies in the mighty Muskegon beside you Matt!

Once again the western Catskills have been cheated by an approaching weather system, and our rivers are terribly low. We were forecast to receive better than an inch of rain, and now today’s revised estimate is three hundredths of an inch, barely enough to dampen the grass. The eastern reaches of our mountains are getting something right now, but only time will tell if they get enough to do the rivers any good.

I have been searching for rising fish for more than a week without finding any. I had hoped that rain and freshened flows might improve that situation. Skinny water cools faster overnight, and the water temperatures are already well down in the fifties at their daily peaks, and the forties are knocking at the door. Certainly I could simply be missing the little hatches and activity periods, that is easy to do when these occurrences are brief and spotty, but I fear that winter approaches with haste. It is a feeling I have had since September.

The long range prediction was for the second half of October to be warmer than normal in the East, but our chances for that Indian Summer are fading fast. Our only hope seems to be the last week of October. How I would love to enjoy one last burst of dry fly activity!

I am a dry fly fisherman by choice, and that choice limits me to six months of joy each year. There are seasons when Mother Nature shaves time from each end of that wondrous period; winter lingers, droughts and heat waves persevere. Yes, I do walk the rivers in the off season, for I am drawn to bright water, but a mild, knowing melancholy is my companion until the trout rise again.

My thoughts have followed me to the tying bench, where my fingers have fashioned soft hackles of late. Swinging flies is how I get through the other six months, that and wandering the mountains.

I dressed to go out yesterday, but the chill from the damp breeze caught me short. There is something about a damp fifty degree day that chills me to the bone, much more than winter ever could. A bit warmer today they promise, so I’ll go, go and try to find a run deeper than the toes of my boots. I’ll search the surface for a little boil, a dimple, those blessed concentric rings that promise me the end has not yet come.