It was another gorgeous day, even more beautiful than the days before, and I sat a while then stood in the river waiting for the inevitable. Inevitability doesn’t come with a time table. The rivers have continued to recede, offering perfect conditions for the dry fly and a rush of spring hatches. With water temperatures once again reaching the magic fifty degree mark, I was certain something wonderful would happen.

After three and a half days of waiting, the sinner within me reared his ugly head. I cut away my dry fly and knotted a Hen & Hare’s Ear to the 5X tippet. Curiosity got the better of me after staring into lifeless, perfect water for two hours, and I had to know if there was a trout out there. I made several swings nearly convincing myself that the trout had vanished and only magically appeared upon the wings of the season’s mayflies. About to rebuke myself and cut the fly off, I made one more cast, longer and further upstream, and then fed a lot of slack line out behind the mend. The fly swung deeper, and a fish took hold.

Though the life I felt through the quivering bamboo excited my senses, I had mixed emotions. Nevertheless I enjoyed playing this fine brown trout in the clear, sunlit water, at last bringing him to the net, only to be startled by an exclamation from behind. An audience, a witness to my sin! The voice seemed somewhat familiar, and I recalled a gentleman I had met at the Dennis Skarka Fly Fest last February.

I released the brown, eighteen inches of vibrant gold and bronze, and thanked him for his service before turning to speak to my unexpected companion. Indeed the gentleman knew me and was the same fellow I remembered. We had shared memories of the Cumberland Valley more than a year ago, a place near and dear to our hearts. We spoke pleasantly for a few minutes, before he excused himself to find other water, like me, ever hopeful for a rise of trout on such a gorgeous afternoon. I hope he found one.

Upon his departure, I cut the weighted fly from my tippet and offered an apology to Mr. Dorsey and the late Mr. Maxwell for subjecting their beautiful, classic dry fly wand to such indignity. Perhaps I am too harsh in judging my own shortcomings, for these venerable masters of the craft, in describing the Hendrickson models among their Individualist bamboo rods had this to say in 1979: “These rods are graced with exceptional ability to adapt to diverse fishing situations. The Hendrickson rods are capable of long casts, yet meet the challenge of short in-close dry fly work with equal ease. They do not differentiate between surface and subsurface work and adapt to both equally”.

I do not dispute that the rod performed admirably, nor that I enjoyed catching a nice wild trout on this breathtakingly beautiful afternoon, though I cringe a little any time I cast a weighted fly on a fine cane rod, even the off-season rod I often carry for winter fishing. Bamboo represents experience, skill, tradition and an unwillingness to compromise on the part of a rod maker, someone who appreciates these things as essential to the soul of fly fishing. My apology was an honest expression of my belief that it was deserved.

There were evils far more potent at work on this day than my minor indiscretion. The engines of construction offered evidence that a small but favored wild place may soon be lost. Most of us have but a few such places if we are lucky; places where our spirits soar as we approach, and all in our lives seems better while we linger there. Penance for my indiscretion? I place too much portent behind the brief, simple act of a fisherman. Perhaps simply, cruelly, inevitability.

An eventful spring so far: haunting rivers earlier than expected, cane in hand and dry fly at the ready, I am enjoying the gorgeous May weather this first week of April. Trees are budding, and the first tinge of green is appearing on the mountainsides. I saw flowering trees along the Quickway yesterday afternoon.

Standing in the river Sunday I glanced upstream to see a pair of young deer searching for early sprouts along the bank. I am glad to see they made it through a challenging winter. The eagle greeted me upon arrival, and bade me good night as I trod the banks toward home. Quite vocal, though unseen, I returned his greeting with a smile.

Monday afternoon I sat along a favorite stretch of bank, surprised when a full grown wild turkey launched itself from a grove of trees straight across the river. Minutes later his companion deemed it safe to cross and followed. The grouse have been drumming for a couple of weeks. Catskill wildlife has awakened and responded to the early spring, ready to fatten up after lean months in the snowy mountains, and set about their rituals of courting and procreation. All save the trout and their mayflies seem ready.

Strangely I am quite content, with my lust for rising trout subsided, at least until an early stonefly buzzes up from the river and makes me tighten my grip on the cork just a little. Oh, certainly I want to embrace the full measure of spring fishing, but I am simply at peace to be out along bright water again.

If I was privy to the mystical count of those degree days I expect determine the timing of the hatches, it would be easy to sustain that sense of calm. There would not be the delicious excitement of Nature’s uncertainty creating daily rushes of anticipation. Part of me covets such knowledge, though the other part relishes the mystery and expectation.

Some laugh to see the solitary angler, sitting quietly with eyes ever watchful, wasting the day they think. For they are among the many too hurried to see what lies before them, rushing to “the spot”, eager to get lines in the water, believing all they have to do is cast their fly to catch all of the trout in the river.

There were times that I fished with more energy than knowledge, though I am thankful I always took a moment at least to appreciate what was before me, to acknowledge the color of light in the sky, the soft tones reflecting off rippled water. Yes, as an eager fly fisher I sometimes felt I had started too late, missed too much. A prisoner of geography, I fished since I was seven or eight years old, wherever I could. My Uncle Jim, and later my father brought me to the ponds and tidal rivers of southern Maryland. I longed for trout, the impossible quest I read fervently about in every sporting magazine I could get my hands on, and fly fishing!

The appreciation of the outdoors, the rivers, lakes and streams came from that beginning. Uncle Jim and I would find a spot along the bank of the slow Patuxent, bait our hooks and set our rods on forked sticks. We would watch the river go by, take in the sun and sky, marvel at the ducks and birds, wonder at the splash in the water: a fish!

My first real trout fishing came many years later, in a tiny Berkshire mountain brook, down the hill from Uncle Jim and Aunt Carole’s cabin. The wild brook trout came to spinners flicked from my ultralight spin rod when I visited in summer. I’d keep two for the celebratory annual breakfast, release all the rest; and I wished hard for a fly rod. I bought my first one back then, the only one I found at the little store in town: heavy fiberglass with a Martin reel and a level seven line. It wasn’t a trout outfit, but there were no trout at home. It saw duty when the bass fishing slowed, and I cast tiny flies and mini jigs for crappie or sunfish. It was another decade before a move put me in reach of trout water and I finally secured a proper rod, reel and some trout flies, and began to spend time in the most beautiful places around; places I had dreamed about all through boyhood.

I had so much to catch up on, so many years of dreaming and wanting this experience made me rabid for it, and I delved into it with abandon. Covered water, fished with that energy, fished too fast yes, too fast. That appreciation for what was special about the outdoors brought me back though, taught me to take my time, to watch and learn before wading in and casting. Thanks Uncle Jim.

Now I am that solitary angler, sitting on the bank or standing in midstream with an old cane rod in the crook of my arm; watching. The others pass by on the trails – how’s the fishing with a raucous laugh, and I hear them snicker: that guy don’t know you can’t catch ’em just standing there, on their way to rip some lips.

The brash voices have faded when I see the tiny dimple behind that rock on the far bank. Observation has long since given me the fly. The old rod comes up, pauses as the slow loop uncurls behind, and then curls forward tight and slow and gentle. The fly drifts, slowing in the current an inch from the rock, until the dimple appears again. The boisterous intruders are forgotten now, as the golden toned shaft bends deeply and the ancient reel purrs.

Yesterday felt like the day, but the flies and the fish weren’t ready yet. Still to be along the rivers again, walking and noting the subtle changes winter’s high flows had wrought was enough to bring joy to my spirit. Sitting on the warm budding grass along the river bank is far more pleasant than in the padded leather chair before my tying desk.

The weather for the week seems to be improving as we go. Where the low sixties were a welcome promise just days ago, we now look forward to beautiful sunshine to drive the afternoons close to the seventies. Though the hatches are still in waiting, spring has certainly arrived, and I am all the better for it.

The anticipation is palpable now, and I find myself wandering around the yard casting rods and trying lines with visions in my head. A few new ideas at the vise have materialized, the product of nervous energy as I have more than enough flies and plenty of new patterns to test.

The Fox Squirrel, my own buggy Catskill Style dun has found time on my tippet in the opening hours of this new season. The fly offers a more traditional answer to the looks enough like a mayfly and its alive puzzle. My thought is that, since the trout aren’t tuned into specific hatches yet, a buggy tannish, grayish mayfly sized bug like the Fox Squirrel might just elicit a rise should I be lucky enough to put it over a neutral trout that’s enjoying the warming water and at least some stirrings to his metabolism. Fellow Guild member and Esopus Creek sage Ed Ostapczuk turned me on to the Dorato Hare’s Ear, a long lived Catskill pattern conceived along these lines, and even buggier when you take the time to blend your hare’s mask properly. The Dorato is one of his favorite flies.

It is a long standing tradition among fly fishers that buggy flies look like something to eat to a trout. My memory of the Cumberland Valley days brings a smile when I think about fun with buggy dries. My friend Jerry Armstrong was one of the leaders of Falling Spring Trout Unlimited, and I can recall his laughter when he told me about some of his fishing in the nearby mountains. He cajoled me into tying some big size 10 deer hair ants and then we took a drive to one of his favorite mountain creeks. “The more trout you catch on it, the better it gets”, he assured me, and after releasing my first brownie I could see how frizzy the ant had become with folded hair cut by the fish’s teeth. “Keep fishing it he cackled”, and I did as I was told. After two or three trout had mauled it, hairs stuck up everywhere, and any resemblance to an ant had vanished. All that was required was to cast this hairball to a likely lie and wait for a brown to blast it! We both caught a load of brownies that afternoon, none with subtle takes, as our laughter echoed off the neighboring ridges.

Springtime and fishing bring joy. The fishing can be spectacular, but it doesn’t have to be to be enjoyed.

Twenty degrees this morning, though the bright sunshine has returned to restart the warming cycle with a new week of spring weather in the offing. Now I will begin to search in earnest for the first hatches of the season. Despite the warmth of March I have seen only the little stoneflies, tempting to the trout in warmer climes, though ignored here once again. Olives should be on the water, though the bright skies which lead to warming rivers are not conducive to heavy emergences of these faithful little flies.

I am hopeful that the rivers’ flirtation with fifty degree temperatures has awakened the stream life, that those several warm days in March urged the nymphs forward in their last push to maturity. Early hatches are a rare blessing in the Catskills, one not seen by this angler in a decade. I can picture the cloud cover increasing on a warm afternoon, and a stirring of life in the quiet water. Tiny wings upon the surface, just a few, sporadic but there, and the first soft dimple appears. There, along the bank that was long in the glare of sunshine, but now lies in shadow! Was that trout there all along?

Fingers tremble knotting a wisp of silk and CDC to the thin tippet; shoulders tighten with anticipation, and eyes scan for the proper casting station. The lobbing stroke of winter and weighted flies is abandoned now, and the wrist action is crisp and short. The tight loop unrolls smoothly and the leader kicks, its energy expended just above the surface, and floats down in soft curves. Dimple, pause and tighten…feel the essence of life in the cane, the electric charge to the spirit brings pure emotion.

Daylight, and it is snowing in Crooked Eddy. April First is the final traditional Opening Day of the New York trout fishing season, and Opening Day for Major League Baseball. Last evening I noted that our forecast had improved somewhat, though the high winds were still expected. It seemed that a window had opened that might allow me a couple of hours of fishing this afternoon. River flow was favorable, and the high temperature was supposed to reach forty degrees. April Fool!

As of 5:45 this morning that flow has risen 141% and is still climbing, steeply. The rain seems to have continued through the night, and it appears I will have to forego the pure joy of fly casting in snow laden twenty-five mile per hour winds in the name of tradition. The Red Gods do love to tease fly fishermen.

I have had many experiences to reinforce that belief. Hundreds of times I have stalked rising trout, slowly and carefully, armed with the perfect imitation, all in ghostly calm conditions. Reaching the ideal casting station I have lofted my backcast, only to have a terrific gust come up out of nowhere to blow my forward cast thirty feet off target and slap it down on the water. That scenario has replayed so often I could swear those ruddy beings have it on a tape loop.

Perhaps Nature simply decides that we brothers of the angle must pay our dues in deference to the marvelous gifts she offers for our enjoyment. How many perfect afternoons have we spent, enthralled by the magic of trout and fly? Some of the most fulfilling often involve very little catching; the fishing itself being quite sublime. I am certain I am not the only angler who has spent hours in a trance, bewitched by the vagaries of current, and a fine wild trout’s uncanny abilities to select the exact lie where achieving a drag-free float is virtually impossible. We cannot tear ourselves away!

Consider that Opening Day is simply the first installment of our annual dues. It is only right that we suffer a little. The cold, the wet, the biting wind that suddenly wraps our fly lines about our shoulders and inserts our fly onto the tops of our hats: all little tests to determine our worthiness for the season before us.