I had no local friends, no contacts when I moved to Chambersburg, Pennsylvania and opened Falling Spring Outfitters, my little fly shop in the neighboring village of Scotland. I remember Bill Ferris as one of the first to stop by and offer the warm hand of friendship. Bill was the outdoor writer for the Shippensburg News Chronicle at the time, and he helped spread the word that the area had a fly shop once again.

When I began writing a weekly Outdoors column for Chambersburg’s Public Opinion newspaper, Bill was full of encouragement, and sponsored me for membership in the Pennsylvania Outdoor Writers Association, a membership I have maintained for twenty-six years.

Some twenty-four years ago, Bill stopped at the fly shop with a big smile and a bubbling enthusiasm: “there’s something I want to show you”, he grinned. Bill had bought something he had wanted for a long time, a beautiful Sweet Water bamboo flyrod made by Pennsylvania rod maker George Maurer. We hustled outside, rigged up a reel and line, and Bill put the treasured rod in my hand. I fished graphite rods in those days, my lone bamboo being my late grandfather’s old H-I nine footer. The Sweet Water was inked “Queen of the Waters”, an eight foot flamed beauty for a four weight line, a perfect foil for our beloved Cumberland Valley spring creeks.

I cast Bill’s new rod there on the lawn and marveled at the smoothness with which it formed a tight loop and whisked it to the target. I pulled more line from the reel, and the rod easily cast it. I continued lengthening the line with the same result: wow! The cane masterpiece didn’t feel stiff or powerful like the graphite rods I used, just smooth and… willing. From that moment forward I coveted a George Maurer Sweet Water fly rod.

The years rolled on and I met Wyatt Dietrich, a young Chambersburg angler who was making some beautiful bamboo rods. As I got to know Wyatt, and cast and eventually owned one of his Dream Catcher fly rods, I learned that he was taught bamboo rod making by none other than George Maurer. No wonder I liked Dream Catcher rods so much! George had the touch and was known for passing it on.

Twenty years further down the road I reach for bamboo first when it is time to go fishing. I have several Dream Catchers, and an affinity for older cane as well. As a working man, I found a touchstone with the rods made by the Goodwin Granger Company of Denver, Colorado. A few weeks ago, another Cumberland Valley friend contacted me. Tom Smithwick is a talented rod maker, and a man with a great store of knowledge regarding bamboo and all aspects of the craft. Tom was trying to help Bill Ferris determine the value of a Granger rod he had, and knew of my interest.

We messaged back and forth about the rod, and I was sad to learn that Bill was selling his tackle. Time is catching all of us and had not been kind to our old friend. While going over the details of the Granger, I asked Tom to tell Bill that, should he ever sell The Queen, I would be interested. Always active with the Catskill Fly Fishing Center and Museum, Tom arrived at Summerfest with both of Bill’s rods in tow. The Granger DeLuxe was beautiful, one of the highest grade models, and unfished, but the other tube Tom carried held my attention. I slid the Sweet Water from it’s tube and bag and my thoughts ran back a quarter century to that first bright morning on the lawn.

It was clear that Bill had fished the rod frequently, and fished it hard, as intended by it’s maker. A little care by expert hands was in order that it might be fished for another quarter century. I was pleased to be able to acquire Bill’s rod, and I hope that Bill finds some comfort in knowing that it will be cherished and fished by a friend now that he has chosen to pass it on.

I took the rod to another friend, master rod maker Dennis Menscer here in Hancock. Dennis works magic in his rod shop beside the West Branch every day. When I returned to the shop, the Queen of the Waters looked like new!

Yesterday I took a chance with dodging the various thunderstorms the forecasters foretold to introduce the Queen to the rivers of my heart. Obviously the grand dame holds some sway with the forces of Nature for the day turned warm and sunny by mid afternoon, with no more than a couple of two minute showers to suggest the ominous weather foretold.

I fished a favorite reach thoroughly but the trout proved uncooperative. I failed to move a single fish. I walked further, fished some faster water where an occasional Cahill was rising from the froth, managing only to prick a little brown trout that grabbed for the fly when it twitched at my pickup. Wading back upstream I spotted movement along the bank, and stalked and fished a couple of spots. Nothing. I waded back and walked out noting the time seemed right to visit a different pool.

It had been some time since I fished that reach at higher flows. Many of the lies were unreachable, so I quickly passed them by. I finally found a place to cross by hiking up my vest and wading carefully, putting myself in position to fish the last couple of hides. The Queen worked as she always has, willingly rolling out as much line as I needed with little effort. Finally, approaching the last lie, I spotted a dainty little ring beneath low branches. Raindrops from one of those two minute showers? I think not.

The cast was long and smooth, the fly alighting as gently as one of those raindrops, way back in there beneath the branches. Perfect. The drift seemed endless, caught in a moment between time, between the much younger man grinning there on the lawn as he appreciated the grace of his friend’s new rod, and the crouching older angler intently stalking a special wild trout. The take was clear, the big nose of the brown flipping a dollop of water as he plucked the offering from the surface, followed by the wide smooth arch of flamed bamboo as the great fish rushed for deeper water and freedom.

Sweet Water: I always found that to be a perfect name for a rod company that created wonderful trout rods. The Queen, that brown and I, we danced there amid the sweet waters, with the late summer sun blazing through like bright lances between the passing banks of clouds. Captured at last, the trout was thick and heavily muscled, five pounds at least, and as bright and golden as that sunlight in the waning hours of August. My salute to an old friend, and a salute to a rod maker who passed long before his time. All hail the Queen of the Waters!

My friend JA, meticulous craftsman and artist that he is, called me the other evening with an interesting offer. He would be planing the strips for the butt of the new fly rod he is building at the Catskill Rod Maker’s Class on Sunday and thought I might enjoy stopping by and planing a bit myself. Devious character that guy, for he knows full well that I couldn’t resist that!

JA knows I would love to be right there in the class beside him, building my very own bamboo fly rod, but for the fear that my forty year old arthritis would prevent me from completing the work. The class is interesting and well run, taught for several years by David VanBurgel and wife Kathy Scott, who journey from the wilds of Maine each summer to help initiates bring out the life in a few select stalks of grass. Planned and executed over the course of five days, the pace is intense, and I fear that two or more days of planing bamboo strips would set my neck and shoulders on fire, easily as much as the experience of making my own rod sets my thoughts aflame. Still the temptation is there; now even more tangible as I have enjoyed the chance to chase the curl.

The environs are inspiring in and of themselves, as the class convenes in the bamboo rod shop at the Catskill Fly Fishing Center and Museum, using, and surrounded by exhibits of the tools and machines of some of history’s most revered rod makers. JA will bind the strips after gluing on the late Everett Garrison’s hand made binder. There is plenty of inspiration in the room. In a display cabinet along the wall rests an actual Garrison 209 fly rod, made by the hands of the master himself!

Garrison rods are collector’s dreams, as the stately engineer was the man behind the book rod makers call “the bible”. Garrison befriended a young man taken with the magic of the bamboo flyrod and it’s makings, one Hoagy Carmichael. They discussed collaborating on a book to preserve “Garry’s” methods and insights. Sadly Everett Garrison passed during the project’s infancy, and Carmichael had to soldier on. He sought and received help from other rod makers so he could understand Garrison’s notes and taper designs, the late Dave Brandt even volunteered to do the illustrations and technical drawings. The book has since guided thousands into the alchemy of bamboo fly rods.

I own and fish a copy of Garrison’s Model 206, a two piece seven and one half foot rod that casts a three or four weight line smoothly and with remarkable accuracy. Pennsylvania rod maker Jim Downes made that rod, and I enjoy fishing it each summer when low, clear flows demand a lighter touch. I have seen actual Garrison 206 rods for sale a couple of times, at asking prices of $11,000.00! The master was not a volume rod maker, and historians debate totals in the vicinity of two or three hundred fly rods that Garrison made during his lifetime.

So thanks to JA, I can honestly say that I helped plane a strip for his “Garrison” rod. Yes, the fever to try building my own burns a bit brighter this morning, but I take comfort in the fact that there are more skilled hands like his to do that for me!

I was walking along a familiar path the other day, headed back from a quiet morning’s fishing, when a light breeze showered me with yellow leaves. Funny how something as simple as little dried, yellow leaves falling upon your shoulders can bring forth a burst of sweet melancholy for the change of seasons.

I have fished more than ninety days since my season began in March, from those first murmurings of springtime, the memories flash through five months of wandering the rivers of my heart. It is still high summer, but August is waning, and those last few precious weeks of the season are not far off. You cannot deny the message of the falling leaves.

Once again I marvel at how different each season can be. The weather, the hatches or the lack of them, and the flies that find favor with the trout. As a fly tier I strive to show them something different, something fresh each season, for our shy wild trout become acquainted with a lot of flies through the season. Nature always brings surprises, so my fly designing that begins in winter is a year long activity.

This season began by teasing, flirting with springtime quite early. The rivers buzzed with stoneflies and midges, the sun bright and warm, but no trout rose to the occasion. After my longest, coldest winter in the Catskills it was both agony and ecstasy to walk the rivers once again, to feel the warmth of the sun on my shoulders, and witness the stirrings of life amid the flowing currents.

All of these thoughts ran through my head as I walked that leaf strewn path on a bright summer morn.

This has been a hot summer, though we have been blessed with a tremendous amount of rainfall. Too much at once it seemed back in July, when the storms came day after sultry day, but the rivers have benefitted. Full reservoirs have resulted in better cold water releases across the region, improving conditions downstream as the chilled flows reach the wide vistas of the Delaware. I have hunted many foggy mornings, for the trout have been out hunting too.

September lies on the doorstep, and I wonder how the fishing will change as summer flees and autumn begins. Will the late summer hatches be light as those of the preceding months have been, or will we find flotillas of isonychia and hebes drawing the trout to the surface. Might cold water and hot breezes find me searching for hopper explosions along the Delaware? I have often thought of the possibilities given just the perfect set of circumstances… I have the fly!

Before I know it more signs of change will haunt me. In a wink it will be October, and the lure of grouse in these mountains will draw me from the rivers. I look forward to bright mornings with JA as we search the covers to see how this year’s crop of birds will challenge us; then long afternoons upon the rivers, casting dry flies with amber cane. October is bittersweet.

The most beautiful month of the year, it brings the last of the best weather, but with it comes the end of the dry fly season. That is a heavy toll for this angler, for the dry fly is the light in my soul, the doorway to bright water.

Time remains to savor the glow of a Catskill summer, to cast tiny flies with light rods, to feel the first chill on those special mornings; but time is fleeting.

I look forward to a celebration. As the last weeks of summer linger the Shenk Tribute Rod will arrive in the hands of its maker, and pass unto mine. His Hardy will be fit to the hand crafted seat of 800 year old maple and my departed mentor will walk with me along the rivers of my heart. I had no fitting way to honor you when news came of your passing my friend, but the time is nearly come.

Life on a river is constant change. Each drop of water that flows has a journey, and each drop is new as it swirls about my legs before passing on. Fresh currents linger only long enough to float a fly for a single cast. Honor the water and make that cast with care and appreciation for the gift of bright water, and of trout.

So my friend Matt has been feverishly working through his vacation, passing the high, muddy water Henri brought us writing and editing his fingers to the bone. Publishing a high end online magazine like Hallowed Waters Journal requires a great deal of effort, and hey, the guy is committed. He was working when I tied a fresh batch of my hoppers yesterday morning, and still working when I arrived at the legendary Neversink River to give them a float.

It was already stifling hot when I geared up, stringing my old Orvis Battenkill rod and lengthening its leader for the midday summertime fishing. I figured the six weight line would make easy work of casting hoppers if the wind, hopefully, came up. The river had just receded from the hurricane system’s rainfall, and was benefitting from an increased cold water release from it’s full reservoir, and I had high hopes for the afternoon.

I wanted to fish an old favorite reach of river while Matt was finishing up his magazine work, so I hiked up river and slipped into the sparkling cold flow. The Neversink with it’s dark bottom always conveys an air of mystery to me, for no matter how clear it’s water, you cannot see what’s going on down there in the deeper, fish holding lies.

I had adjusted to the rhythm of the Battenkill’s casting and sent the hopper up and across, probing each lane in the current. My cast’s worked their way in from mid-river, searching all the deeper holding water in the run, until they finally danced along the seam beside the undercut bank. I was systematically fishing my way up the run forty feet at a time this way, and was nearing the top when a terrific splash engulfed my hopper, one of those aerial bombardment explosions we have all seen in the Western hopper video’s. I reacted right on time, raised the rod to set the hook, when a sickening brittle snap signaled disaster.

I stood there stunned, watching the rod’s tip section drifting downstream amid swirls of loose fly line. After what seemed to be a very long moment, I glanced at the end of the line to see it swimming along against the current. My embattled brain struggled with the thought: fish has the fly. I grabbed for the loose fly line and started a mad little hand over hand retrieve, but by the time I had pulled tight to the fly the fish was gone. The bamboo had snapped before the rod even arched, so I had never been able to set the hook.

At this point I recovered enough of my senses to chase the drifting and sinking rod tip down the river until I could retrieve it, not knowing whether the fly was still attached. I got the broken tip, snapped clean near the ferrule, and my hopper, but my concentration was shattered. Just how big was that trout? I will never know.

Shaking a bit, I hiked back to the car and traded the shattered bamboo for my graphite backup rod, wiping the water from the shards of my Battenkill as I contemplated another visit to my friend and neighbor, master rodmaker Dennis Menscer.

Back at the run, I worked the entire reach of water with the hopper and a cricket pattern, hoping that big brown was still hungry. He hadn’t actually been hooked, right? If he had I may have hand landed him. I did that once before in a similar situation. My fractured logic may have been sound, but I found no takers for my fly, neither leviathan, nor any of his siblings.

While I was re-fishing the scene of the disaster, my phone started vibrating with text alerts, as Matt was finally ready to fish. It was a comical exchange if you weren’t the guy who just lost a monster trout and broke a rod in the process. We did eventually meet up at another access area, sweltering in the heat, as we decided where to fish next. We explored a couple of places Matt has fished over the years, the first one leaving my friend as the guy who missed a grab and lost a good fish, At least his tackle was still whole.

The last pool looked inviting, as there was a tree lined bank that filtered the incessant sun. I made a long walk down and around to get in position to work my way up the pool. I fished the shaded water as carefully as my still rattled consciousness would allow, but there was no sign of a trout. I had worked my way to the top of the pool, where the quick little riffle that fed it took on the characteristics of a run for perhaps fifty feet before the bottom dropped away into the equally brief gut of the pool. I was standing right on the edge of a forty-five degree sloped river bottom that slid quickly into deep, dark nothingness, when I saw one good rise across the pool, where a point in the rive bank formed a slack water seam.

I tried the Light Cahill Parachute I had tied on when the evening’s only mayfly had flown past me further down the pool. There was no response. I clipped the fly and replaced it with a small Grizzly Beetle, just as Matt started down the riffle from the opposite side of the flow. I made four or five casts with the Grizz, each drifting along that seam, flirting with the slack water hide. On my next cast the fly vanished in a little pluck at the surface and I had my trout.

The brownie fought doggedly in the deep, cold water between us, finally surrendering to the pressure of the three weight rod and accepting his place in the net. He was a nice trout, sixteen, perhaps seventeen inches of wild Neversink brown, and a fitting way to end the day.

We talked back and forth as we removed waders and packed up rods and reels, making plans to fish again on Friday. By then I may know if the Orvis can be saved. Water damage seems unlikely in an impregnated rod, but Dennis will do his detective work to determine of there are any visible faults in the cane that would hinder repair of the rod. If the bamboo is sound, the rod will be a little shorter than the eight foot length to which it was made. Perhaps I will take it back to the Neversink in search of a rematch. One day.

The forecast had me dressed a bit light, immediately evidenced by the large black cloud encircling the river valley. There would be no sun this day. I snugged the hood of my SST tight to my cap and neck and waded in. Damp, heavily fogged in, and eventually quite chilled to the bone, I whiled away several hours doing what I love: hunting trout.

My expected companion had demurred, waiting instead for the Fedex truck to furnish relief from leaky waders. Mine thankfully were water tight, but no reasonable amount of insulation can really turn away a day long chill. As the hours lengthened, I felt the penance in my bones.

I had spent a good amount of time working to the only feeding trout I encountered. Staring at the surface, seeing nothing save leaf matter and bubbles of foam, it was clear there was something away over there where he sporadically sipped. I went through all the “flies of the season” so to speak, various sizes and patterns of each, and moved him once. Passing interest, but no sale.

My drifts looked perfect; long quartering downstream casts with a reach and a kick laid the fly tight to the bank over and over again, but I expected some discreet foul play on the part of a rogue current. I am certain you know the type, insidious little threads of flow that appear smooth at casting distance, and yet… When he graciously sipped an unidentified insect two inches from my fly I became convinced; pattern wasn’t going to change the outcome.

A sudden downpour interrupted the game, the warm rain quickly dispelling the fog. There were a few brief moments when the rain ceased, a twinkling before the fog returned to shroud my vision, when I could see that offending current. Big trout have a wonderful way of finding them, those special little places where no fly tied to a leader will drift quite like an unbridled mayfly. I nodded in approval and turned to take my leave.

Moving improved the blood flow in my icy legs enough that I decided to make one more pass through some of the water I had angled upon my arrival. The 6X tippet was discarded, and my leader rebuilt for a dry fly of substance. If anything the fog seemed thicker after that brief warm downpour, as I eased cautiously upstream.

Part of the unalterable law of fishing states that one cast can make the day, and so it goes. The cane flexes, the line unrolls and the fly alights, drifting in and out of vision as the mist curls between us. A wink, the slightest little momentary spot of brightness out there in the gloom, and it is done. The rod strains, the reel’s shrill notes break the stillness of a day in shadow, and a long bronze prize comes hesitantly to the net. Twenty-one and a bit my measurement tells me, and this fellow marks a milestone for me, so he is a little extra special.

I slept soundly enough, retiring under the threat of immense thunderstorms and a region wide flash flood watch last night, but it was a restless morning that found me on my feet just after four. With fresh Starbuck’s brewed and offered as a balm to my still waking consciousness, I fired up the laptop and made my usual morning stop at USGS. The river gages in the Catskills are my friends, for the rivers are indeed my life blood. What I found left me quizzical, and unrequited.

The Upper Delaware River system gages showed the beginning of a rise, but they were stuck in time, one still showing yesterday’s date and a time close to midnight. This is not the first time I have witnessed this failure to update, for the vital data to be truly “real time”. I was not wakened by pounding rain or thunder overnight, but the pair of fans running on high can mask a lot. I am left in limbo.

The forecast when I retired last night threatened between two and five inches of rain from impending storms, as the system moved through New York’s Southern tier and across the Catskills. Two inches would blow out the fishing on any rivers in it’s path, and five, well five would be catastrophic! I guess this awakening dilemma is par for the course after yesterday’s misadventures.

My reunion with my old friend was hampered by everything from New York State electronic failures to a recalcitrant otter that enjoyed disrupting our fishing, and now the USGS seems to be conspiring to prevent our planning a better day. The life of an angler requires a sense of humor; at times a very full and active sense of humor.

I am still stewing over my final act of last evening, when I nearly saved the day in the final moment. I found a smattering of flies on the water, at least four different sizes and species, though all very few in number. This has been fairly typical for most of the season, something I attribute to both Delaware reservoirs being dropped to very low release flows as the teeth of last winter set in. Ice, low flows, and daily highs in the teens and twenties do not bode well for the health of aquatic insects.

The trout had taken to cruising about and gently picking off a bug here and one there. Cast to one that happened to show in range, and he was no longer where the rings painted that little target on the glassy surface. I have played that game for the past four months, though my batting average hasn’t improved. I took to hunting as my time drew short last evening, finding one sipping way back beneath a low slung tree.

I eased a step or two this way, and one step closer before tossing a quarter sidearm backcast and squeezing the grip of my forty-four year old Thomas & Thomas Hendrickson, sending my fly half way back under the canopy. No cigar. He obviously wasn’t feeling aggressive enough to come for it. I made another calculated step or two and repeated the cast, this time sending enough line to put the fly down half a foot from the bank; and waited.

It can seem like an eternity when you are waiting for a dry fly to glide slowly along a critical path in moving water. The tension builds as it gradually approaches the mark, slowing with each inch of travel as the water eddies slightly due to the undulations of topography. That tension is delicious, but it can also be devious.

The trout took with significant energy, not the gentle sips he had shown me when he betrayed his presence, and the rod arched heavily as I reacted to the splash. He shot downstream under the tree and parallel to the bank with an impressive burst of speed and power, a sunken tree in his sights, and I swung the throbbing arc of cane downstream and away, planning to draw him off course just enough to turn him short of disaster. Then that additional tension jumped up and bit me. That fish was running so fast and so strong that I squeezed the disappearing fly line just a bit too tightly and the tippet knot succumbed. The brown got my fly and four feet of tippet, and I got the rest of my leader. I doubt he was much happier with the exchange than I was.

Such is fishing. If it wasn’t for that electric excitement that can bring out our little human failings it would not be nearly so much fun. To another day my finny friend; and a stronger knot!

I was tying flies early this morning, trying to get my “work” in before it’s time to head to the river. I talked to my old friend Matt Supinski yesterday. He is taking his summer holiday away from the wilds of Michigan and we made plans to fish a bit this week. I wanted to tie a few of the patterns that have been productive recently to throw his way. I generally put together a pill bottle of dries for my friends when they visit, and I have known Matt for a long time.

We both have a long history in Pennsylvania’s Cumberland Valley, chasing difficult trout on those bright little spring creeks during the good old days. We’re both passionate about wild trout to the point of obsession, and that commonality of purpose has made it easy for us to get along over more than twenty-five years. I have enjoyed the hospitality of his Gray Drake Lodge, and we have fished a bit here in the Catskills.

Matt has been keeping busy as usual, channeling his creative energies into the publication of his wonderful online magazine, Hallowed Waters Journal. He and his lovely wife Laurie have worked tirelessly to produce an exceptional publication for fly anglers, and the most recent expansion of this venture is the Hallowed Waters Podcast. Matt tipped me to the second episode recently, as his guest was another old Central Pennsylvania stream prowler; former Catskill fly shop owner and guide Paul Weamer. Paul has authored a number of successful books during the past decade or so, and now lives, writes and guides in Montana. I first heard of Paul from the late Charlie Meck, a fine gentleman angler and one of our most prolific fly fishing authors, and talked with him during his years running Border Waters Outfitters when I visited Hancock, New York.

The subject of the podcast was near and dear to all of our hearts, dry fly fishing for trout. There’s some great information here for fly anglers, the kind of stuff anglers like Paul, Matt and myself have spent decades learning on the water. Here’s the link. I recommend that you check it out. https://anchor.fm/hallowedwaters

A rainy summer morning like this one just screams blue winged olives, and I am hoping to pick the right reach of river to find one of those nice, long midday hatches. A day like this is welcome after one of the hottest weeks of the summer.

I think I have a half dozen or so olive emergers left in my fingers, at least once I brew that second cup of coffee. It’s not that I don’t have boxes of them, but I have always found a little luck in flies tied the morning of a fishing trip. For me that’s just one of the little bits of magic I find in this game!

It has been a good week for trout hunting. There’s no secret that I enjoy the summer solitude and stalking trout in the quiet hours; such days are among the best a Catskill Summer has to offer. This week brought another heat wave, making sleep more fleeting. If sleep is restless, there is a simple solution: rise early and hunt, retreating once the blazing sun has melted the mists from the air!

The heat has passed this morning, after reaching a crescendo on Friday afternoon. I tossed a couple of hot dogs on the grill and squinted at the porch thermometer: 100 degrees. The direct sunlight of late afternoon and evening adds as much as eight degrees to the temperature on my porch. That boost in warmth is welcome on a still winter day, not so in August when the temperature is soaring into the nineties.

The morning had been good, Friday the thirteenth and all that. I stalked the heavy fog listening. Every once in awhile I could hear the little plop of a gentle rise, unseen, somewhere out there. The hidden sounds of the morning add to the anticipation; and then there are those explosions when a serious trout encounters a serious meal! Invisible, though close at hand, they’ll make you jump and put your heart right there in your throat.

I was armed with a special foil, a seven foot cane rod designed and built by my friend Tom Smithwick, the man I call The Taper Wizard. This rod was intended for this game, for stealthily placing a good size fly in the inaccessible places; the places where the big browns lurk, where they hunt unseen. Some would swear that a seven foot bamboo fly rod was not the tool for big flies and big fish, but they have never cast Tom’s rod. I had an old, vintage Hardy LRH snugged up in the reel seat, and a five double tapered line with suitable backing behind fourteen feet of leader as I stalked soundlessly through the mist. The Taper Wizard designed this rod to handle trout measured in pounds, to battle them in cover and win!

I first met Tom decades ago, and it was one of his remarkable rods that made the introduction. Guiding on the Falling Spring, I suggested clients bring a shorter rod, and one gentleman showed me Tom’s prototype one piece, five and a half foot masterpiece: the forerunner for what would evolve into a series of tapers, including the 705. I own three of these rods: that prototype, a six and one half foot one piece that seems happiest with a number four and a half line, and of course the 705. I begged Tom to add a ferrule when he made the last one. Though the lightness and response of one length of solid bamboo is amazing, housing and transporting a seven foot rod is a bit of a challenge. The six and a half footer barely misses the ceiling in my tying room. Tom masterfully made a Duronze ferrule to keep the rod as light as possible.

Tom loves rod making and fly fishing, and works tirelessly to help preserve both traditions. He is a long time supporter of the Catskill Fly Fishing Center and Museum as well as the Pennsylvania Fly Fishing Museum Association. He has been one of the architects of the Catskill Rod Makers Gathering for may years. When my friend JA was looking for just the right taper to build an eight foot four weight rod at the Catskill Rod Making School, I put him in touch with Tom, knowing that he enjoys freely sharing his store of knowledge. He provided JA with the taper specifications for “an old F.E. Thomas rod that I tweaked to make it a little better”. The results are astounding, a credit to both JA’s skill and Tom’s wizardry.

I was thinking of my friend as I stalked the quiet water; launching a cast to the bank and squinting to judge the distance in my fog shrouded world. The fly alighted perfectly, at least it seemed to, flitting in and out of my vision with each passing wisp of vapor… and then he was simply, there. I used the power of the throbbing bamboo, backing away from the cover, as I struggled with the wild thing at the end of my line. Finally he was out and running, the ratchetting pawl of the Hardy breaking the silence of the morning.

Most never realize that a shorter fly rod is the best choice for fighting fish, lessening the fish’s mechanical advantage (yes, a long rod gives the fish leverage, not the angler) and allowing faster response to the twists and turns of any finned adversary. The 705 handled this heavyweight perfectly, and the short, light wand really connected me to the energy of the brown, to enjoy every tense moment of the fight.

I wished I had carried the short cane rod earlier in the week. On another misty morning I had plenty of activity, though I landed only one of the three large trout I was able to entice. The longer, lighter rod I fished that morning was neither quick enough nor strong enough to get one out of submerged tree branches before he could wrap up and break my 5X tippet. The second managed to spit the hook while I worked feverishly to manage excess line when he ran toward me. The fast reaction time of the shorter rod might have made that encounter turn out differently.

During my days of trout hunting in the intimate Southcentral Pennsylvania limestoners, a seven foot rod was most often my tool of choice. On the wide open Catskill rivers, the eight to nine footers are typical, making distance casting easier. There is no question that a seven footer is a better fish fighting tool. A superb rod, like the Smithwick 705 will handle the distance casting demands of this environment, but it demands a bit more perfection in timing. The shorter lever means more casting strokes per fly delivery, something my well worn wrist and shoulder can do without. Guess I will have to bite the bullet more often as far as the muscle aches, for the Taper Wizard’s 705 is simply too effective and too much fun!

February 2014, and I sat huddled in front of the upstairs window tying flies for spring. In the corner sat a sleek black aluminum rod tube, housing a thing that dreams are made of. Earlier in the month I had purchased my first true vintage bamboo fly rod, the W&M Granger Victory rod pictured above. Eight and a half feet in the traditional three piece configuration, the rod was eminently fishable, though it was no collector’s piece. One ferrule had been replaced, and the original rod bag and tube had long ago vanished. I wasn’t too pleased with the ill-fitting old plastic tube the rod came in, so I ordered a new quality tube and rod bag to protect my little piece of angling history.

I was tying Hendricksons that morning, dreaming of that wonderful hatch that heralds the true beginning of spring, and I tied a hand full of CDC emergers to complement my selection. I admired one under the light as the weak winter sun shone through the frosty window; a tawny blend of fox fur and sparkle…

April began and then ran it’s course without the longed for trip north. It was May before the hatch was starting, but the Delaware’s were high with runoff. Only the Neversink, the legendary river of Theodore Gordon and the birth of dry fly fishing in America was wadable. From my base at West Branch Angler, I headed to the eastern side of the Catskills for my first day.

Walking along a remembered reach of the Neversink I found myself blissfully alone, with the warm May sunshine delighting my winter weary bones and my eyes as it lit the budding landscape. Coming to the tail of the little pool where my most exciting Neversink fishing had debuted, I found no sign of the big, tannish mayflies I sought. I waited, fidgeted, and finally moved on upstream, passing all the familiar parts of that reach, and lamenting the lack of hatching flies on so perfect a day.

I settled down on a bright green, grassy piece of river bank, overlooking a promising looking glide. There was good rocky relief in the river bed, but the overriding feature was a peaked boulder centered in the deepest flow, it’s tip breaking the surface. The clear, cold water sparkled into a million tiny stars as the flow parted at that peak and spilled along both sides.

I am not certain how long I sat there, nearly dosing in the warmth of the sun, when I sat up suddenly with the hairs on the back of my neck tingling: there were mayflies on the water! Blue quills were bubbling along in the streamers of current broken by the boulder and, after a few minutes, one disappeared in a tiny dimple. I stretched, and pulled myself toward the edge of the bank, letting my legs dangle in the water as I pulled line from the Perfect and let it trail.

Soon a big tawny Hendrickson wiggled to the surface and skidded across the boulder’s parted current. I eased upright and slipped into the river to begin my stalk. I opened my fly box once I had worked into the proper casting position and selected one of those CDC emergers, tied months ago while dreaming of this moment! Two Hendricksons, three, and at last the fourth vanished in a bulge on the far side of the rocky peak. Two steps were necessary to adjust my position, upstream and away from the boulder, and they were made stealthily at such close quarters.

Another Hendrickson was taken and I waited, visibly shaking with anticipation, until lofting my first cast after the trout’s next rise. The fly alighted and drifted, then bobbed down my side of the rock. I pulled four feet of line from the reel and made my second pitch, upstream a foot and over two, dropping the rod tip quickly to put additional slack in the tippet. The fly alighted, danced on the quivering current of the brink, and slid down beside the peak on the other side.

That trout took with that confident bulge and dimple, and the old rod sprang smoothly to life! It was a battle to match the dream sequence preceding it: the ratchety growl of the Hardy, the deep arch of sixty-five year old cane, the tense moments when all was stressed to its limit to keep the big fish away from his favorite boulder. What could be more perfect than to land a gorgeous twenty inch brown as the first fish of my Catskill season, my first big trout on my first vintage rod?

It would be a fine season, and the Victory would prove the equal to every challenge the rivers and I could offer. In the quiet times, I would ponder the unknown history of the rod: who first drew that Victory from it’s poplin bag, reaping the sweet aroma of spar varnish for the very first time? What rivers did he angle, what trout did they catch together?

That Victory was the beginning. By summer I had found another 8642, an older original Goodwin Granger Special, restored by Granger historian and author Michael Sinclair. I had devoured his book that winter, “Goodwin Granger: The Rod Man from Denver”, developing a special affinity for the historic Colorado rod maker and the small company he founded. The Granger Specials were working man’s fly rods, very high in quality, though priced so that the average angler could own and fish a fine bamboo rod. The distinctly American ideals that Goodwin Granger and his company embodied made me proud to own and fish vintage Granger rods.

There are many fond memories of fishing my Granger rods on the streams of Pennsylvania and the rivers of my heart here in the Catskills. Angling history brought me first to Pennsylvania’s Cumberland Valley and finally here to the birthplace, the Catskill Mountains. Each season I am fortunate to add to that store of memories.

Last summer I was daydreaming in the aftermath of a stormy night, the rivers high and off color for the day. I slipped my 8040 Granger from it’s tube and mounted a reel with a four weight line. Granger catalogs always recommended a number five double taper line for their eight footer, but I love to experiment with lines. That backyard casting session was a revelation, as I found a “new” favorite four weight wand for my summer fishing!

The 8040 was my companion on many epic days, often wearing a bright Hardy Bougle` to match the patent nickel silver Granger reel seat. On one remarkable morning I fished in solitude on a particularly lovely reach of water. The river was gentle at summer flow, and there were no flies, no rises at this early hour. I knotted a small caddis fly, a new experimental pattern to my 5X tippet, and began to search the water. A brief spurt disrupted the drift of my fly and it disappeared from view. I raised the rod instinctively and the water opened up upon a scene of instant fury!

A massive trout rocketed out of the water, completing five consecutive leaps before I could react to it’s first, I tightened my grip on the vintage cork as the great trout turned down river and brought the Bougle` to full chorus. Fly line vanished and then more than half my backing, as the fine old rod bore the strain admirably. The fight went on and on as I grudgingly recovered line only to cede it once again, but the Granger proved itself once again, eventually leading one of my largest Delaware rainbows to the waiting net. At twenty-two inches in length with an unusually wide girth, that formidable bow easily exceeded five pounds.

My favorite river guide used to tell me that the Delaware bows rarely reached the twenty inch mark, for the trials of life in the great river were contrary to the long life span required. I often teased him about guiding me to within casting range of a twenty-five inch rainbow, and he maintained they simply didn’t grow that big. This entry into my log of Granger memories was one very spectacular trout!

Though I fish a number of capable bamboo rods, there will always be a special feeling in my heart for my Grangers. I am no collector, the rods I own are fishing rods, and I feel that is as it should be. Crafting bamboo fly rods has always been as much about the magic of bright water and wild trout as it has about the skills of cane and metalwork. The taper is the heart of a good rod and the tapers are where rod makers display their true genius and inspiration!

Great rod makers past and present have created their rods for fishermen, not for museum walls or collectors cabinets. Revere their rods, care for them, and display them if you wish, but give the rods and their makers the honor they are due and fish them. Their spirits come alive on bright water!

These days I expect the worst when I venture to the West Branch, though fond memories of my West Branch Angler years still draw me thence. I visited twice this week, and was surprised to see the crowds thinner than expected, though the Farm Pool itself always draws the elbow to elbow crowd. I simply don’t understand that in a fishing sense: standing in one of the country’s most productive wild trout rivers, glued to the same two boot prints on the bottom, and making the same cast over and over. That simply is not fly fishing in my vernacular.

I need to move! A large part of the game involves the approach to each rising trout we encounter. A few steps can make all the difference. Suddenly the fly line is no longer stalling in that little pocket of slower water, my fly drifts true, and a good trout accepts my fraud like he has been waiting for it. To me the classic fly fishing experience involves working a pool, a run or riffle; watching and observing not only where trout might be holding, but how best to approach and fish that water.

I see guys standing in one spot along the edge of the river all the time, simply making the same cast right in front of them over and over, not even looking to see where there may be some rises or other signs of activity. They do have the proximity of a dozen like minded souls I guess, but one can find that in a supermarket. Follow not the crowd! Follow the call of Nature!

I feel fortunate, as on my visit to the West, the little hoard of fishers that assembled remained tightly grouped and paid me no mind. I walked and found my own small reach of water, then began to dissect it. Waiting is a big part of fly fishing. Too many are impatient when they come to a river to fish a hatch. They wade out in the middle of their dry fly water and drag nymphs through it or cast blindly with dries, oblivious that their presence and movements will prevent the best trout from ever rising once the hatch has begun. Some will tell you they never see many trout rise to a hatch. That can indeed be Nature’s plan for the day, or it can be the impatient angler’s own doing.

On my first outing I didn’t need to wait very long for the hatch to begin, though day two was a different story. Thursday brought a nice hatch of tiny sulfurs, a handy occurrence as I had a dozen freshly tied size 20 imitations, and not a lot of choices for larger versions. As the trout began to rise, they tended to hold close to their lies and feed, for there were enough mayflies on the surface for them to do so. In the grand West Branch tradition, the majority of them paid no attention to my lovely little dun imitation.

Though it was early in the hatch, I changed to a simple little fly I call a CDC soft hackle, tied differently with the same materials as my ineffective little duns. The trout liked it, and I had an enjoyable afternoon. I brought half a dozen hard fighting brownies to hand, pricked a few that struck short, and had one that seemed solidly hooked simply pop back off as soon as he was on. There were no big fish in the mix, just nice quality fish from fifteen to seventeen inches. I carried my 7 1/2 foot Jim Downes Garrison 206, a very full working, slow, smooth casting stick of bamboo that made the entire experience extremely enjoyable. This classic Catskill rod wore a CFO III and DT3 line that perfectly matched the small dry fly fishing for the day.

Friday found me back in the same area, this time sporting Dennis Menscer’s 7 1/2′ four weight, another classic Catskill trout rod, crafted on a Payne Model 100 taper. I’d had so much fun with a little rod Thursday, I simply had to stay with the program. Friday though would prove to be a very different day.

Weather wise it was a few degrees warmer, and the warmer air got the wind blowing harder as the afternoon progressed. There were fewer anglers bunched in the Farm Pool, and I don’t think the absent ones missed a whole lot. Fridays hatch was later, more brief, and featured just a small number of larger size 18 flies. I don’t think I saw any of the little twenties I expected, and for that matter I didn’t see any for an hour and a half. Waiting as I said, is a big part of fly fishing.

The sulfurs were so sparse that the trout simply didn’t feed. An individual trout was good for one to three rises, and that would be it. By the time I approached within casting range, all that was left would be waiting, as that fish never rose again. I caught the first trout that rose within casting range, and the last one. In between I maneuvered and cast fruitlessly after the original fish targeted had moved on to other things.

That first fish was a true rod bender, a plump, fired up brownie in the seventeen to eighteen inch range, and he spun the drag on my old Hardy St. George many times. They like the 48 degree water in this upper reach of the tailwater! I fished diligently for better than two hours after that, covering places where fish had risen, and would not again.

The sparse hatch of mayflies was nearly exhausted, even the small crowd had vanished from the Farm Pool, but I saw a couple of quick slashing rises as I waded through the faster, wind whipped water. With my line ready on the water, I cast immediately to each little wink, knowing that a rapidly moving trout had taken a crippled or drowned dun from the film. I watched his zigzag path: one slash, two, then three; placing my fly ahead of each little wink as fast as I could. I pulled more line from the old reel for cast number four; the charm.

When the wink came where my half drowned fly had been I raised the rod sharply, and a big brown catapulted himself out of the water! The light rod bucked feverishly and the St. George began it’s chorus as the trout raced for a downed tree limb and weed balls near the bank. Did I mention that I had changed to 5X tippet earlier, figuring the 6X wasn’t the best choice when I tried a few larger terrestrials along some bank side cover. I was glad I had it when that brown headed for freedom, as the extra strength and the full arch of the Menscer cane turned him short of disaster.

It was quite a fight! The smooth power of bamboo absorbed all his rushes and rolls, kept his nose out of all the weeds, and finally brought him to hand, a very bright golden bronze brown of twenty inches. Just two fish this day, but two good ones! Perfect.