Ah the glories of summer in the Catskills! Memory makes it easy to slip into dreams on an icy morning such as this one. My dreamscape varies each summer, as I find that the variety of hatches, weather and conditions around this lovely region seek a constant state of flux.
I found a hard pattern for success in my third full Catskill summer, and I was panting for a return to those days as the penultimate hatches of June began to wane. I so coveted the idea of another record season that I tried to force it for a while, tossing experience and better judgement aside, as if I would make the rivers and their trout conform to my plan. Twenty-one was a very wet year, while ’22 began that way until drought came knocking, but it took me a little time, and some humbling days, to admit to myself that I could not carry through with the same angling approach amid such different conditions.
In my own defense, summer started extremely well, with my planned tactics almost immediately rewarded with a spectacular twenty-five inch brown. That day convinced me that I could forge on through the season with last year’s tactics and it took a long run of very thin fishing to awaken me to the obvious.
Eventually, I adapted to the conditions at hand, changed flies and approach and made patience and stealth my daily mantra. The rivers forgave me my boastful attitude and offered the solace I sought. The trout of summer always demand hard work from an angler, better technique and careful thought. The magic of trout and fly must be pondered and appreciated each moment we venture astream.
I played a long game with one great fish. Often, I would stalk his favored lies, but usually without rousing his interest. When we did cross paths, it was I who was found lacking. My foe would wait out every drift, certain the easy meal at the tip of his substantial nose was a thing suspect, then startle me with a late, splashy refusal. When I entered his realm at my best, he would still manage to triumph. Tippets were broken, flies pulled out, and always the great fish swam away. After several of these encounters over long weeks of my favorite season, my nerves became a bit frazzled whenever I ventured near this uncatchable trout.
Summer was blissful elsewhere, as I adapted to Nature’s twists and turns and found salvation in new haunts. As the season approached it’s final weeks, I realized that I had again enjoyed a remarkable summer, returned to my roots a bit regarding tackle and flies, and learned even greater appreciation for the magic Nature shares with the patient angler. Perhaps that realization brought me at last to the proper state of mind to face off with that demon trout once more!
We met in the chill of an early autumn afternoon, with cold rain blowing from the north, and I teased him to my fly when I spotted the wake of his approach. He fought me with everything he had, but this day I would finally see him come to the net. He was a grand old brownie, the autumn kype just beginning to form, and he was long and heavy and beautiful. I had imagined him even larger, his proportions growing each time he managed to elude me and escape the pull of my rod.
Bright Waters Catskill 