As I adjust to the end of my dry fly season and my daily love affair with the Catskill rivers, I have yet to wipe the dust off my fly tying vise and give serious thought to the next long stage of angling, though that time is nearing. There have been a few passing thoughts bouncing around in my head, though they have clearly fallen short of inspiration. Fly tying, and more specifically pattern design, require inspiration; that moment when thoughts and ideas suddenly crystallize, and a new design is born!

Mood can be very important, and it can be difficult to find just the right frame of mind to take out the fly boxes that accompanied me during the past season and sort through their contents. That is certainly one of the best ways to begin, for certain flies are tied to memories, memories that drive inspiration.

My angling library is varied, though many of the volumes that merit annual revisiting lie in the realm of older classics. I pour through the thoughts and revelations of Gordon and Hewitt, Shenk, Marinaro and LaFontaine, for there are always fresh clues that kindle new thoughts. Though I read a bit throughout the year, winter reading is a concept that finds itself at home in a Catskill winter.

Inspiration for the designs I call the Translucence Series came simply, as often the best ideas do. I was fishing my old, reliable silk dubbed sulfur dun one bright summer day and, as I paused to fluff the CDC wing, I noted the glowing translucence of the blended yellow silk body. That moment evolved into a system of blended silk dubbed flies tied on Daiichi Crystal Finish hooks with pure white tying silk, and the results of those experiments have caused the bag of my landing net to sag deeply. Reserved for difficult trout on generally bright days, these patterns have solved problems I have often encountered.

I have a few goals this winter, expanding the Translucence Series among them. I need a new terrestrial, something special to turn to on the toughest summer days, and that one will take some thought, as well as a thorough consultation with my Cumberland Valley history. In truth, there are a few one-off patterns nestled in my fly boxes that might fill that need, for they were tried quite briefly. Those deserve a significant trial on the water, as does any sound design. For now though, I am still working up to beginning that beneficial task of sorting.

One of the benefits of winter reading comes when the tales of other anglers from the past ignite my own memories. There are thoughts that occur only on the water, often in a moment of consternation during a duel with one particular trout: the character of the light upon the water, the subtle impression of a crippled fly as it drifts into and out of my sight, a closer glimpse of some subtle clue that suddenly becomes a telling riseform!

Winter has just begun, and there is ample time before us to delve into the quiet, indoor world of the angling art.

Sitting on the mountainside half an hour before sunrise I can hear the music of the brook below. It’s tone seems even more crystalline than usual in the frozen air, and it brings a smile to my face in the darkness. Many months will pass before I return to watching bright water while listening to it.

As I sat, I thought about the winter before us, saying a little prayer that it is milder than the last two, and wetter, with a penchant for lighter snowfalls and rainfall perfect for recharging the aquifers that feed the mountain springs and filling reservoirs. In short, I asked for a floodless year, a year with ideal flows for wading trout rivers great and small.

It would seem only fair that spring arrives early and with those ideal flows, for the later months of the season remain in question. New York City revised their schedule for repairs to the Delaware Aqueduct, cancelling this past season’s planned drawdown and planning it for 2023. They still have not provided the public with a clear description of just how this will affect our Catskill rivers, and angler’s fear this could turn out to be the summer of our discontent.

Much will depend of course on Nature’s plans for the season. Though we cannot tell how much stored water will be surplus from NYC’s rather vague official press statements, certainly an excessively wet season will mean higher discharges for longer durations. Our best bet for a long and enjoyable dry fly season would seem to require a normal water year, whatever that is. With blissful long weeks of summer trout stalking in jeopardy, a particularly sweet, perfect spring season would be coveted desperately.

Though I walked the mountain this morning with snow crunching beneath my boots, it was a glorious day that warmed gently. Back home in midafternoon, I decided to take my first river walk of the season to enjoy the best of the fifty-three degree sunshine, though the chill returned as I reached the shadows of Point Mountain. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and we are promised another gorgeous day, with a bit of rainfall overnight and Friday. The rain is right on schedule to refresh the rivers, and Sunday offers more. Maybe my little prayer did some good!

Barely mid-November, and snow lies on the slopes of the Catskills. Days ago, seventy degrees and sunny, and now the majority of the days this week will huddle in the thirties; ah, changes! There is no plan for fishing right now. Perhaps a little warming trend will pass through come December, before the ice grips the rivers and makes the change complete.

I tented the drift boat just in time, feeling certain that the region’s first forecast snowfall would come to pass. That has become an annual ritual of surrender. I have tied no flies for the past ten days, there being no urge to wet them. Well, that’s not wholly correct. The urge remains, though the time has come when judgement of the conditions and the inevitability of season’s end conquers all.

I have an old friend who long ago moved to Florida, planning to fish year-round. The Saltwater game is exciting when in play, but my dabbling found it to be very much a feast or famine affair. In all the wild and endless arena of the ocean, it can be rare to find the fish you seek in the fishing location you choose. In trout rivers, there is some comfort in knowing they are there. The hunt remains electric, for the experienced angler knows his quarry is always close. The game requires adapting to the moods of the fish, the temperature, clarity and flow of the river, for we know there will be trout just a cast away. That makes it very much a mental game, until winter.

I miss the urgency of that mental game in winter, though it continues without rod nor reel nor bright water at hand. Thoughts turn back to specific moments, those where the correct decisions were made, and those where they were not. Pondering the merits of the choices not made, assessing the flies offered, casting positions, time of day; all of this keeps the mind connected through the months of ice and snow.

One of the joys I find in reading classic works from angling history involves recognizing and comparing the mental processes. More than a century ago, Theodore Gordon was considering the words of Englishmen like Halford and assessing their approaches to the same problems, as I might assess Gordon’s approach to a situation encountered last week, last season, or a decade ago. We have much more in the way of science today, yet the same puzzles are revealed on the water, challenges to be met by a solitary angler with his tackle and his wits. Observation of the moment still means more than all of the data collected!

The odyssey of our warm November is departing on the tails of the tropical storm they called Nicole. The rain is welcome, though it seems there will be less of it than once surmised. Days ago, the call was for two to three inches, down to an inch and a half yesterday and now halved again. Frosty mornings have returned, though we may see sixty degrees yet today; and once more tomorrow to start the weekend. Fair warning though, for there are snow showers in Wednesday’s forecast; and yes, the angling season has finally come to it’s conclusion.

I wandered the rivers last week, enjoying the seventy-degree weather and sunshine, knowing there would not be a third last hurrah, and now it is time to bid the magic times a fond and grateful goodbye and accept that winter is coming. It is time to store my tackle and organize my tying desk, for there are days to spend with Hewitt and Gill and Connett, hours to retreat once more into the soft glow of the Golden Age, and wait…

The dry fly season of 2022: April 15th through November 7th – may it rest now fondly in memory! I credited even that last day to the ledger, for there was a single splashy refusal to a cricket tossed out on a whim amidst the gale, and thus an opportunity. Nearly seven months of magic this year, and that after the sizeable flood that all but erased it’s beginning and the drought that devastated our beautiful Catskill summer. It was a season that proved difficult in various ways, for those natural events are not kind to the insects that provide the spark for the magic we seek. The rewards were fewer and farther between, but Nature revealed her largesse in other ways!

The rain comes hard on my metal roof just now, giving me hope for something more than the diluted forecast has offered. I know the trout will fare better with good flows as we enter the long, cold halls of winter. Here’s to more rain, less ice, and a few brief but functional warming trends to relieve the monotony of the off season!

As the rain fell in earnest, the last soft rings vanished with the parade of miniature wings that preceded them. Imagine, a touch of dry fly fishing in November!

The opportunity was brief, and perhaps as preordained, I had left the one fly box containing the sub sized olives in the car. There were my trusty autumn twenties and twenty-twos handy right there in my vest, but they proved as useless as an anvil for tempting those sipping rainbows. Still, it was a wholly unexpected chance to play the game once more.

Brilliant sunshine and otherworldly temperatures have prevailed since then, laughing in the face of a typical November in the Catskills. Yesterday I had to succumb to the lure, standing in the middle of the mighty Delaware in my shirtsleeves. Just your typical November day…

Another like it is on tap today, the sun already blinding me through the curtain covering the window above my tying desk, and though I know I shan’t find any of those tiny olives nor soft dimples in the film, I cannot resist.

I carried the dry fly rod yesterday, my Dennis Menscer Hollowbuilt, strung up for one last chance to loft the dry fly over bright water. I ended up disgracing that sword, swinging weighted soft hackled things beneath the ripples where the run deepened, for such a weapon is destined for grander things. I simply had to enjoy the pleasure of casting in the sunshine under those brilliant skies!

Hope tells me there ought to be some remnant band of mayflies, some rouge group still clinging to the stones and ready to hatch now as Nature has raised the water temperatures once more, though my mind tells me otherwise. The winter rod would be the better foil, for it has proved its capabilities when called to deliver tiny dry flies to take advantage of miracles.