After weeks of staring at ice and snow, the Catskills bid farewell to the year amidst warmer air and some occasional sunshine. I nearly took the plunge Thursday, drawn by the abundant sunshine, but I was swayed. Rather than having freezing return overnight, Thursday promised a low in the upper thirties and Friday, well Friday was headed for the mid-fifties, and we were to see the sun again!
The cloud cover ruled Friday, though it let most of the warmth through, and I walked toward the river with a crispness in my steps. Water temperatures had risen a bit, and I knew that this day had a chance to be one of those special winter days.
I strung the eight-foot bamboo rod with the clear intermediate line I have been using for swung fly presentations of late, knotted a fresh 4X fluorocarbon tippet in place, and then one of my new Dazed Dace patterns. My fingers felt warm and alive as they worked on my tackle, as much from anticipation as from the warmth of the air. I waded slowly to keep my own pressure waves from alerting any old river wolf that might already be out hunting unaware he was in peril. At last, the first cast arched out toward the far bank and the little streamer fly slipped quietly into the flow. It was grand to be fishing on the next to last day of 2022 and I was smiling.
Swinging flies is not the choice for those possessed of a need to count fish, but it provides a thorough exploration of the angler’s chosen reach of water, and a time to pay homage to the bright waters that have caressed us throughout the season. In winter, I seek a connection with the rivers of my heart too long trapped beneath the ice and snow. I know the chance of a strike is low, but that it is the fishing itself I have come for, my own little rebellion against the power of a Catskill winter. I also know that, should I feel that pulse of life suddenly at the end of my swinging line, that living thing is likely to be something great and wonderful.
Cast, mend gently, and swing. The fly hangs loosely at the end of the arc, and two downstream steps are taken. Cast, mend gently, and swing…
I listen to hawks and eagles, watch the little flares of sunshine as its rays find a momentary hole in the clouds and play upon the mountainsides, and continue ever slowly downstream.
As the afternoon begins to cool, I know that this will not be one of those rare, magical days when leviathan takes hold and thrusts my consciousness straight into springtime and a battle for mastery of the river, yet I continue downstream, taking everything the river has consented to share with me with a smile.
Bright Waters Catskill 