The peak of spring fishing was more than evident, depending upon your point of view. A mega hatch of Hendricksons, seemingly driven by a dark, moody storm front came on relentlessly, and then it was done. The aftermath offered some weak sunshine, a handful of flies on the water, and little to no response from the sated trout.

Coming just days after an EF-2 tornado ripped through Sullivan County on it’s way to Roscoe, this front thankfully lacked such destructive force, though it ushered in nearly a fortnight of wet, cold weather throughout the remaining days of April and on into May. An unsettled spring, typical for these mountains, keeps us all guessing.

I hold out hope for some Hendrickson fishing for the West Branch, for the river’s store of cold water limited that emergence while the flies took wing on surrounding rivers, but it will not be the warm, welcome, pleasant fishing that lingers in my memories of springtime in the Catskills.

As I write, the rain beats harder on the roof above my head, and my visions of fishing involve cold aching shoulders bent over the oars. There are snow showers in the forecast for mid-week, perhaps a perfect day to float in winter coat and gloves. The glow of soft evenings wading the flats below wide riffles, as soft rises sip spinners from the film, shall remain trapped in memory.

The forecast indicated afternoon showers, but the sunny morning skies seemed to speak louder of a lovely spring day. That sun was bright when I walked the riverbanks, the water glistening and quiet beneath it. I hoped the light might warm the cold river a bit and encourage more fish to surface feed, at the same time wondering whether the bright sky might continue to suppress that activity.

That had been the formula this week: bugs and rises under cloud cover, and still waters when the sun shined. I became more convinced during the first hour or two, until a handful of flies appeared on the surface and a single trout sampled one. A small olive Century Dun had been waiting on my leader, and that trout took my third cast. He was on, and then he wasn’t; one of those scenarios that makes you guess and wonder.

Ten, twenty minutes later there was another ring on the surface, and the few flies in the drift were definitely Hendricksons. The old faithful A.I. brought him up, a good fish, who refused to give in to the pull of my rod. He found his way beneath the downstream edge of a sizeable rock, keeping me in that stalemate until he leveraged the hook bend open enough to escape.

The sun remained, though a few clouds had gathered, they were thin enough to pass the general brightness, but the number of flies on the water gradually increased to a medium trickle. I had waited patiently for another rise, and it finally came beside an upshot rock two thirds of the way across the river. He showed his nose and I pulled line quickly from the reel, aerializing it as he teased with a brief roll at the surface.

I put that first cast three feet above the tip of the rock and just to my side of it where he had made his display. Nothing. The follow up cast dropped a touch further upstream and was also ignored. Perhaps he’s shy after that showy rise under this bright sun, I thought, lofting the next cast further to my left so that it danced down right over the center of that sheltering rock. I met the take with a solid hookset, and the big brownie turned his side into the current!

We had a good game there in the middle of the run, he and I, coaxing a tune from the Hardy each time he ran down with the flow. In the net he was bright and golden, twenty-one inches from nose to tail!

The hatch gradually increased, but as had been the case all week, only a few trout took advantage of the steady surface feeding opportunities. As I moved and reached for the few that did fall to temptation, the sky darkened with a new bank of clouds.

The winds had been crazy since I parked the car, changing from hard upstream to calm, then hard downstream, trying to make up their minds in these pre-frontal conditions. Their intensity grew with the arrival of those darker skies and the hatch became heavier. I moved upstream to chase one good fish that splashed heavily in the deepest party of the run, finally hooking him as a powerful downstream gust accelerated the current and bowed my fly line in a deep downstream arc. I lost control for only a moment, long enough for that fish to take advantage of the situation and open up the hook gap.

As the edge of the front overtook the surrounding mountains, another trout licked one of the hundreds of skittering duns from a foot wide band of slick water across the maelstrom. My casts in that swirling wind came up short, so I took two steps upstream and over and waited on a moment when the wind paused to reverse itself. On cue I delivered the cast, old A.I. alighting amidship in that narrow slick.

Seconds can seem like days sometimes, the drift of the fly almost detached from time; and then, finally, the gentle bulge and the battle joined. Experienced anglers relish the vigor displayed by a good trout feeding on a hatch in fast water. The excitement of the protein buffet and the high oxygen levels can make an average trout feel like a trophy, and a true trophy feel insurmountable.

Wind and water rushing, the pawls in the little Hardy screaming for mercy as the big fish took charge, formed the soundscape for ecstasy. The blackness of the sky continued to expand as I fought him, adding it’s own drama to the power and crescendo of sound. The battle seemed it would never end, with my heart rate elevated each time he roared away. Once his runs were completed, I brought him round again and again, yet his strength was still with him, refusing to come to the net. I had him at the last, pinned near the bank, twisted the hook and he was away. Wide flanked, and better than two feet long, he still had the energy to shoot back across the river like a bullet upon release! I believe I was more spent than he was.

As the full measure of the front descended upon the little river valley, the temperature dropped ten degrees and the cold rain blew sideways in the swirling winds. The river was blanketed now with Hendrickson duns, thousands upon thousands of them in phalanxes that blew en masse across the wind tossed currents. All feeding ceased it seemed, but the flies continued as I rested, then began the long hike out.

Nothing in fishing can be wholly considered to be preordained. As anglers we may head out with a goal in mind, but there are always far too many variables to predict the outcome of the day.

Tuesday, another cold day along the river, this time lacking the early hatch that had me casting from arrival on Monday. The flies would come, in fact there may have been more of them, but it would tend to be one of those occasions where the trout decide to ignore the feast. The saving grace? Not all of the trout in this reach of water would ignore Nature’s larder.

I had an eye upon the Unobtainable’s abode early, and in fact, it was in that protected zone that I saw a few early rises. Ordinarily, I would place that information in storage for a while and concentrate my efforts on finding more cooperative trout, but not today.

The river had dropped one tenth of a foot since our previous encounter, not the kind of change that would radically alter the wading challenge required to attain a proper casting position. There was a new disadvantage too, inadvertently leaving my polarized sunglasses in the car, I was fighting glare as I tried to negotiate the deep, uneven, rocky bottom. I hiked up my vest and started in.

I made a couple of different approaches, finally settled in a position that seemed tractable if not comfortable, and began to play the age-old game once more. There was no question as to the fly pattern to be employed. The same 100-Year Dun that he had sampled yesterday was secured to four feet of 5X fluorocarbon tippet; the imitation so good that my eye conceived it as an actual mayfly.

The body of this fly was an experiment from last winter, a Hendrickson blend inspired by the writings and patterns of the late John Atherton. I had labeled the compartment in the dubbing dispenser “A.I. Hendrickson” for Atherton inspired. Red fox was the base fur of course, in line with the Catskill tradition, mixed with golden tan Antron and a bit of fox squirrel for the bugginess of it’s barred guard hairs. The hackle was from my prized Charlie Collins No. 1 grade cape, colored Barred Rusty Dun.

I am not clear on how long, nor how many casts were made once the soft broad rings began to appear out there. Like the day before, he was not regular, preferring to dine at his own variable pace; a very confident, comfortable trout in his chosen impenetrable lie.

The breeze would pick up and casting would cease. I shifted position a time or two as the rings moved about in that protected abode of his, and casting stopped when the rises stopped, less one errant attempt spoil the game forever.

The cast that brought the magic felt good, and I tracked the fly most carefully with yesterday’s error vividly in mind. The bulging ring replaced the canted wing upon the mirror of the surface, I took a breath, and struck…

Feeling the steel, a mammoth trout catapulted into the air, there in his abode of many hazards. Once down, I turned him and stripped line with a frenzy, my only chance would be to get him as far away from the snags as possible for, given his girth and power, there would be no stopping him on my light tippet. In the river proper I had only dozens of sharp-edged boulders to defeat me.

This fish was angry, plucked from his lair by one confounded bug, and now he was going to punish it. The Hardy protested each time he charged toward freedom, but each time I managed to turn him from the rocks. Once I found a moment of control, I grabbed my staff and backed toward shallower water and solid footing. Two steps, three, and then the hand rushed back to the reel. We kept that up for a long while, until I finally found level stones beneath my boots. I swung the rod, took a turn, gave several back, and eventually eased him toward the net’s rim. When I scooped and lifted, the weight shocked me, for now, in hand I could see this bruiser was not a leviathan more than two feet long.

The heavy body aligned with the scale: twenty-two inches, but the girth and depth of his flanks convinced me this brown trout would easily exceed five pounds. The Unobtainable posed quickly and shot away with vigor as soon as his fins touched the water!

I was content with my one fish day, marveling at the expanse and duration of the hatch and the lack of feeding trout as I lingered, eyes searching for the next challenge. Touching the magic is always a blessing!

We always think we have enough layers, and I was certain of it this time. UA Cold gear top and bottom, poly fleece hoodies and fleece lined chinos, insulated jacket and waders – certainly enough to stay comfortable on a 52 degree day. On the drive home my vehicle thermometer recorded 54 degrees, so the day was warmer than expected to boot, but I was as cold as the grave.

I will admit there was an inner glow.

Trout hunting is my favorite activity, so a cold spring day that featured olives, Blue Quills and Hendricksons in regular doses fits right in with my plans.

I arrived at my destination early to find flies on the water. A trout or two rose in front of me as I selected a dry fly and checked my leader. The chill of the river took care of the warmth gained from my hike almost immediately, but my concentration was focused on finding just the right rise forms as the afternoon played out.

The flies came in fits and starts, first some Quills, followed closely by early Hendricksons. So closely in fact that I had to cut off my Blue Quill after half a dozen casts and affix a Hendrickson. Let the hunt begin.

I started working to those riseforms I liked the looks of that appeared closest to my position, and it wasn’t long before I had an energetic taker. That trout ran, pulled and twisted with everything he had! There is a subtle difference between strength on the end of your line, and power. When he finally gave up enough for me to get him in the net, that fifteen-inch brownie still had some vigor remaining. Clean, cold, well aerated water and plenty of bugs to eat brings out the best in our Catskill wild trout and makes them fight like they are much larger than they are. Later on, I would meet his twin.

After working the nearby rises, reduced by all of the cavorting that first fish had done in their midst, I began to reach out to the most promising, solitary bulges in the current. I got fooled by one of those subtle riseforms though, and brought a feisty ten incher to hand as a result. Time to get more serious…

I eased out into the run as I watched a soft rise downstream, convinced this was no ten-incher playing masquerade. Studying riseforms may not be an exact science, but it works far more often than it doesn’t when hunting good fish.

That one turned out to be exactly what I believed it to be, with that electric feeling of power as the little Hardy began to wail!

As the afternoon flowed by, the mayflies continued in variable little spurts of activity. During what passed for a brief shower, the surface was suddenly filled with tiny olives, allowing just enough time to change flies and make a few casts before the sun peeked out and calmed all activity for a while. When the clouds covered the brightness, the Hendricksons returned to the drift.

The largest brown of the day took one of them: speed, power, electricity – everything you could want. It took a serious effort to get him into the net, flanks heaving and quivering with the life of the river. Beautiful!

And then there was, the unobtainable. I had seen the rise from a distance, judged the river’s flow and the depth for an approach, and worked as close as possible. It was a long cast, out near the limits of my capabilities with the tackle in hand, and it had to deliver a soft, seamless presentation in that protected flatwater. I got my fly boxes wet again, trying to get those last few inches. Though mostly rising with a big, soft ring, he rolled a bit once or twice, just to make it absolutely clear that he was the king, and he wasn’t leaving the palace.

There was one pitch: my fly alighted way out there, right next to a drifting dun. My eyes picked them both up simultaneously, and they drifted side by side. I felt confident that I was tracking my fly, so much so that I stayed my hand when he rolled and the other vanished, watched it drift on past the disturbance. When I began to retrieve my line for another cast, the fly I had been watching didn’t move.

With the post-hatch calm settling around me, I began my hike out. In the tailout of a pool I saw the rings, Hendrickson duns were still on the water there. Perhaps my 100-Year Dun will have a chance at some redemption I thought.

It is mentally difficult to stalk a wide, shallow flat tailout in the waning moments of a hatch. Haste pushes water and ends the game, too much time, and the duns may be exhausted and the rises stop. There looked to be multiple trout at work, moving though, so impossible to tell how many. Two at least I figured, though irrelevant, as the chance would be for only one.

I made it into casting position, checked the tippet and the knot, then waited for a trout to settle down, to rise in the same position for a second time. One cast, then two. A pause to see where that cruiser wants to rise next. Cast three, and quiet again. Swing the fly well out from their taking area and wait. I fished them carefully for a few minutes, checking my own urgency. It will happen if you let it, if it is meant to…

The fly landed gently and drifted four feet before it disappeared in that wide, soft ring. As the rod bowed deeply he exploded into the air, the reel shrieking. Boring hard for the nearest tipping sheering cover, I laid the rod down and turned him just short of disaster. It was a long, hard fight, though eventually the magic turned it my way. He was bronze and golden, iridescent even in the muted light, as I slipped the fly from his jaw and cradled him back into the peace and beauty of the river.

Walking out got the blood flowing in parts of my legs at least, and the smile warmed me along with that inner glow. A good day, yes, a very good day. Cold? Well, yes, I guess it was.

Another beautiful spring day: cobalt blue skies, brilliant sunshine, and a gentle breeze! Well, maybe not so gentle. Wind is always a factor in these mountains, and how much, their direction and maximum velocity combine to add challenge to our fishing. As if the avoidance behavior of heavily fished wild trout failed to provide sufficient challenges.

I more or less lucked out yesterday. I was delayed in the morning while a technician replaced the modem on our internet service, hoping to finally put to rest the glitches and outages that make me hate electronics. When the work was done, I jumped into the shower, gathered my gear and beat feet for the river. I never stopped to check my watch, and actually ended up reaching the river’s edge earlier than planned.

Perhaps the Red Gods weren’t looking my way, I can’t be certain, but I waded out into the river to find a few early Hendricksons drifting by. The wind was intermittent at that point, gusting upstream from time to time, while leaving reasonably long periods when a guy could actually make an accurate fly presentation. I went instantly into trout hunting mode.

Wading along carefully, I was distracted by a rise just below and flipped my fly in it’s direction. There was no response to the drift, but as soon as I tightened for the pickup a little brownie grabbed my fly. He fought with all the ten inches of vigor he could muster before I hand lined him in to twist the hook free.

There was enough wind at times that I kept hearing the little wavelets plop, plopping against the rocky sections of the riverbank. Every once in a while I heard the distinct plop of a rise behind me, but every time I turned to look, the wind had dissipated all evidence of the riseform. This persisted until I turned back downstream and studied that water. There had been this big Canada Goose in the water diving and feeding on vegetation, and I was thinking that he was making all of that racket, but I wasn’t sure. Some of those plops sounded closer to me than the goose, so I kept watching. It’s not like there was anything eating those Hendricksons upstream anyway.

Staring hard into the glare, I finally heard a rise while looking right at the riseform before the wind ate it up, and I knew I had him. I had a faithful old CDC sparkle dun tied on, one of my best producers on that river, and I pulled some more line from my old Hardy Perfect and let the 8-foot Thomas & Thomas Paradigm bamboo rod do the rest. The wind blew my first cast a bit of course, but the second one was right down the pipe. Plop…zoom! That trout charged straight towards me, and I stripped line as fast as possible, barely keeping tight. The head shakes telegraphed size and strength, then he turned and brought that old Hardy into full song! She’s as old as I am that reel, but a much better singer.

The cane was bucking as I was reeling, then giving line again, and the big trout gave me everything he had. I had a heck of a time seeing him when I tried to bring him close to the net. I was standing about thigh deep and the glare on the wind rippled water kept me guessing and watching the leader. He tried to wrap me in the leader once, but somehow I blindly kept him from breaking off. I even lost sight for a critical moment when I scooped with my net, but he was there when I completed the lift, still with the greenish coloration and steely flanks of winter.

Not long after releasing that brownie, the early duns began to fade. I wandered further upriver, stood around scanning the water for activity, and managed to pass the time until the main event started trickling off. The winds increased as the afternoon warmed of course and, though there was a decent hatch for close to an hour, I didn’t find another feeder until the flies had nearly disappeared.

There was a fish noodling around in a shallow scum line, fully exposed to that upstream wind. I worked close, but the gusts were just too strong and too constant by that point to allow a suitable presentation. Whatever finny predator was milking the cripples from that scum line was too savvy to take a compromised, dragging fly.

Though the forecast promised a calm, lovely 67-degree day, sunshine wasn’t expected. That gave me concerns about water temperatures, one of the frustrating things we fly fishers cannot control, and which have so great a bearing on the outcome of our precious spring fishing days.

As soon as I arrived at riverside, the blue sky and brilliant sunshine already had the upper hand, the remaining clouds retreating rapidly into a gorgeous spring day. I was smiling as I found a seat on the riverbank and pulled the line through the guides of my eight foot Dennis Menscer Hollowbuilt bamboo rod. I checked the leader thoroughly and decided the tippet needed replacement, so I knotted a long, fresh piece of 5X fluorocarbon in place. I started with a Blue Quill pattern, then sat back to watch for signs of life.

I wasn’t there very long when a nice trout glided up from the river bottom, showing his head and half his body as he found an early winged morsel to his liking. By the time I stood up from my seat, he was up again.

That brownie was what I think of as a teaser, a fish that rises once or twice like that, then vanishes. After easing over into a casting position, I waited for him to rise again. Failing that, I began to cast over the general area where that teaser had showed himself. There really weren’t any flies visible yet, so I figured he could still be down there and just might take a liking to my little fly. That approach works about once in a thousand tries I guess, and it did allow me to limber up my casting muscles. Nine hundred ninety-nine tries to go…

I had resigned myself to simply standing in the river and searching for some quiver of movement within the classic taking areas this reach of river presents, and I spent a considerable amount of time doing that. There are days when you don’t see a lot of rises, even when the mayflies or caddis are abundant, and such days are very suitable to my style of hunting trout.

Eventually I saw him, one soft ring between a rock and the bank, just the one, and I began to work my way in that direction. You move with purpose in these situations, glancing at the bottom in front of your feet, then back to the target area, all the while assessing the current between you and that trout. Roll a rock with an idle step and you may end the game before it really begins or slip and stumble into a very cold and unexpected bath.

By the time I reached my initial casting position, the trout had moved to my side of the rock where the current could bring him enough nourishment. There were small and smaller mayflies that I took to be Blue Quills and Olives, and a very occasional early Hendrickson. Just about the time I started to cast, the breeze picked up out of nowhere. “Winds light and variable” something else the forecasters got wrong it seems. They would tell you that the “unexpected sunshine warmed the air more rapidly than expected thus increasing surface winds” or something like that, and they would be technically correct. Anglers simply smile at the impeccably bad timing and know that it is the work of the Red Gods, doing what they do.

Dealing with the upstream wind, the multitude of mayflies present in the drift, and that old trout’s sliding up and down and in and out to different taking spots provided me with something like three quarters of an hour of gamesmanship; changing flies and casting positions, ever aware of just how easily it is to spook a feeding fish in these situations.

I finally had a little bit of a revelation and dug around in my vest for one of the first little Olive 100-Year Duns I had tied last fall. One of those size 18 dry flies had landed the last beautiful big brownie of my 2022 dry fly season in late October. I made three or four presentations with that fly before it was replaced by a soft, wide ring in the surface.

Oh, that flamed bamboo felt good with the heavy arch as I battled that trout in the broiling currents! As soon as I felt him, I got concerned about the small, light wire hook and 5X tippet. He was boring down into very rocky bottom, and there were severe limits to my tackle’s ability to change his mind and keep my fragile tippet away from the rocks. The Hollowbuilt did a wonderful job as always and kept enough pressure on the trout to keep him a little off balance. I just did my best to respond to his tactics and listen to the Hardy music!

Netting that fish in the deeper, faster water took a few passes. Every time I tried to bring him around, he found new energy to dive away and back toward that snaggy river bottom. I backed out just a little shallower for my last try, swung the rod in a big upstream arc, got his nose over the bag and lifted! The weight felt wonderful as he writhed in the mesh and showered me with icy cold water.

I kept the net bag in the water as I eased back toward the riverbank, where I slipped the little fly from the point of his upper lip. I got the camera out of it’s case with one hand while I laid the Menscer very gently on the rocks, then positioned the brown in the shallow water and snapped two quick photos.

I carried the trout into the current and slid him back and forth a couple of times, enough to satisfy him he had water under his belly and shoot back toward midriver.

No sooner had I released that trout than I heard two guys clattering down the trail to the river. One of them spoke to me while I rinsed my hands in the river, and I recognized the voice. It was Galen and a friend of his that looked somewhat familiar, both ready for the day with classic bamboo fly rods of their own. They headed upriver after our greeting and I picked up my rod and turned back toward the water, going back to the searching part of fishing as the flies began to change.

There would be more Hendricksons, and more anglers as the afternoon progressed toward evening. I found one more good fish feeding, there weren’t many despite a pretty nice hatch of flies. That guy sucked the fly down without a ring and dove down around one of those rocks before I could even set the hook. I got back my fly with the hook bend opened up wide.

Before long, another angler wandered into the pool below me. The sun’s reflections showed me he was fishing bamboo as well. I was looking for a third riser when I heard a loud voice shouting my name. I turned and waved to Kevan as he waded in with his favorite Granger. His friend Forrest joined him shortly. I had fished to and landed a magnificent brownie in total solitude, and then found myself in the middle of a bamboo party, realizing I knew all of these guys.

There would be a sporadic rise here and there, and I waded into position a few times, but there would be no more feeding fish to play the game with. I waded out when Galen and Vinny came walking down the bank, Galen with his 8-1/2′ Dennis Menscer rod, and Vinny with a golden hued Don Schroeder 3-piece he had just used to land a big brownie upstream. We walked down to say hello to Kevan and congratulate him on the big fish we had seen him land.

The four of us talked for that last half an hour, catching up on the offseason and the early events of this very young one, while Kevan’s buddies Forrest and Brooks stayed far out in the river, hoping to clash swords with a rising trout. The chill got to me quickly as the sun retired behind the mountainside and left us in shadow. I bade them well as the first spinners circled overhead and headed up the path.

Well, our prototypical yo-yo spring weather patterns are still at work keeping Catskill anglers on edge. That week long warming trend last week was enough to spoil us for a typical April. I mean the last two days of April’s second week were unreal: 88 degrees and 90 degrees. The water temperature was 60 degrees and my anticipation level was sky high for a great hatch. The funny thing is, there were no mayflies, none, until the heat wave broke a few days later. The first good hatches came on a damp, misty, cool afternoon with the river at a seasonable 55 degrees. That is typical April weather.

The past two days have been downright cold, with river temperatures locked into the low to mid-forties. I sat huddled on a windy riverbank and stood shivering in the water for three hours on Tuesday and saw two mayflies. Yesterday it was even colder. I wandered around the house checking water temperatures every hour and hoping the afternoon sunshine promised by the forecaster would appear. I think what I was feeling was kind of withdrawal from fishing stimuli: I was nervous, twitchy, worrying about missing out on something I felt pretty surely wasn’t going to happen. Nine days straight on the rivers and then bam, cold turkey!

I’m still a little twitchy this morning. The water is still cold and, though the air temperature should hit the upper sixties, it isn’t too likely we will have any sun; and sunshine carries most of the load when it comes to raising water temperatures.

I’ve got my Menscer Hollowbuilt standing by the door, along with the old CFO that sort of got married to that rod seven years ago. There is an old Airflo weight forward still spooled on that reel, cause that rod seems to sing her sweetest tunes with that line’s accompaniment. That Airflo has been repaired and cleaned and shepherded through all seven seasons since, like too many of the best things I have found in this world, they don’t make that line anymore. I have a new Airflo, they call it the Tactical Taper. It is a great line, but it just doesn’t have the same vibe with my Menscer.

Every bamboo rod I have ever cast has a favorite fly line, a special combination of taper and suppleness that brings out the best casting performance that rod is capable of in my hands. The my hands part of that equation may be the largest part. Every caster is different, and what feels best to one may just not work well for another. The bond between an angler and that living thing, that scepter we call the bamboo fly rod, is sacred.

Just thinking about that calms me down a little bit, centers me, as I prepare to visit another reach of bright water to search for the magic of trout and fly!

Half a week ago the afternoon temperature soared to near ninety degrees, this day would be a damp, chilly fifty-five at it’s best. With last week’s heat wave, bare trees showed red buds for a day and then the first mouse ears of spring green. As the cold seeps into my bones, I gaze at those misty slopes and spring’s first blush of color.

Chilly, rainy spring days are classic mayfly days in the annals of Catskill fly fishing, though I have found the fishing doesn’t always live up to the legend. That is, I have spent many such days with rain, sleet and wind cutting me to the bone with no hatch and no rising trout observed. This day would be one of those in the classic vein. The breeze was intermittent and generally moderate and the hatch, rather hatches, were good.

The first rising trout proved difficult, taking something unseen upon the surface, at least to my aging eyes. Eventually, a change in the light helped me spot tiny olives, and I changed as quickly as possible. The breeze boogered a cast, and of course a trout picked that opportunity to notice and refuse my fly. There were a couple of fish in the vicinity, and they both shut down soon after when the hatch changed to Blue Quills. What I got was an occasional cast to a sporadic sip at that point, and the Blue Quill that had worked the day before failed miserably before all rises ceased.

I waded back to shallower water and started searching. The first Hendricksons showed with the last of the Blue Quills, but it would be some time before I found a fish taking them.

With the river rising from last night’s rain, I waded into deeper current again upon spotting a tiny sip tight to the riverbank. Depth and an unstable bottom left me with a fine long cast, 85 feet or thereabouts based upon most of the fly line and 15 feet of leader I was casting, a tough nut with a downstream wind rising into my casting shoulder. It was one of those situations where the breeze disturbed the delivery just enough to leave the fly inches short, and that trout wasn’t leaving the shadow of the bank.

Suddenly, after a slight repositioning, a fish rose several feet out from the bank and upstream from the shy one. I dropped an easy cast on him twice and had him on the second. He fought hard in the heavy current, bringing a big smile to my face, sure that I had tied into a twenty inch fish. He was all of that, that chub, and I removed my slimed fly with disgust. Never trust an easy opportunity!

I eased a few steps upstream and managed a step and a half closer to the bank, with more of an angle to help deal with the wind, but a bit longer cast. I was missing by two or three inches as I struggled with the wind, until finally I eased up on the power and let my timing rule the cast. The fly dropped perfectly, I flipped a slight mend upstream, and tensed to watch the drift. I had switched to a fly I call the Century Dun, it’s canted wing tied with Trigger Point fibers to enhance visibility, and I could clearly see it disappearing in a teacup sized ring…

A firm hook set brought a terrible bend in the rod, and the fish shot out from the bank and vaulted into the air! No chub this time. We danced through the sharp-edged rocks with my rod leading him around and away from death for my 5X tippet as he brought my little Hardy to song.

When he appeared ready, I steadied myself in my precarious stand, slid him toward me, and backed him into the net; my lift quicker than his thrust to escape. Nestled on the measuring scale laid twenty-one inches of beautiful, wide flanked brown trout, a proper prize to begin my dry fly season amid my favorite hatch.

Larger Hendricksons had begun to appear as the afternoon drew on, and I found another riser tucked underneath a grassy bank, playing the two inches is too far game again. One cast might have caught a lull in the breeze and tucked in close enough, for there was a heavy rise before I had even spotted my fly. A missed take? A splashy refusal? I will never know.

At five this morning I was back at my bench, crafting some jumbo Hendricksons. It will be colder today, forty-eight they say, though I expect that is wishful thinking. The water has cooled, and that can limit feeding, even if a good hatch comes off. Perhaps a big mouthful will tempt a good brownie if he shows himself today. Day nine of my little marathon awaits…

I confess, I am tired! Straight out of winter, I embarked upon a fishing marathon with the expectation that last week’s soaring temperatures would usher me into mayfly Valhalla. I enjoyed the sunshine, even got a bit too much of it when I shortcut the sunscreen one afternoon, but those mayflies, well, seems they just ain’t ready.

During the course of my week, water temperature exploded from forty-seven degrees to just over sixty, and I expected hatching Quill Gordons every waking minute! That was the first fly I tied on last Sunday, and again on Monday, and it was the first fly I used to land my first dry fly trout of the season and the largest of the three taken that day. Did I actually see any Quill Gordon mayflies, well no. I guess it was late Thursday afternoon when I turned over a couple of rocks and found an Epeorus nymph that showed no visual signs of being close to emergence.

Late Friday, after two days of battling miserable winds, I saw a brief handful of mayflies, some small, some medium size, and none of them numerous enough to interest a trout. Of course, I decided I would have to break one of my rules and fish again on Saturday. I tried a different stretch of river and invited a friend from the Catskill Fly Tyers Guild to meet me on the river after our morning meeting concluded. Just before my friend Chuck arrived, I saw a couple of slight, sipping rises out in the river. I rose from my riverbank seat and waded out.

I guess I saw one little mayfly, and it looked like a Hendrickson. Luckily I had seen two or three the day before and tied half a dozen sixteens to add to my tremendous supply of Hendrickson patterns. I knotted one to my 5X tippet and cast to the location of the first sipper. No dice. I had the distinct impression that there was a cruising fish at work here, and I didn’t see more than one or two flies on the water. Finally there was a complete rise further out in the center of a flat glide – a ring with the tip of a nose in it!

Two or three casts later, that nose came up and took my little Hendrickson, and a hell of a fight ensued. That trout made a short, quick burst and jumped clear of the water! There was no doubt I had tied into a nice brownie. I had heard a car door, but Chuck had not materialized as I traded line with my fish, nor had he emerged from the roadside when I finally scooped a thick flanked brownie into the net.

I was fishing my vintage eight-foot Thomas & Thomas Hendrickson, a very light 3-3/8 ounce rod, that arches deeply and bucks wildly with a nice trout on the fly. Despite the light weight for a five line rod, it truly plays heavy fish very effectively. The rod is simply so alive in the hand! It’s action and response really adds to the excitement. Spring dry fly fishing with bamboo makes it worth struggling through the five months of winter!

I backed out into shallower water and waited for Chuck to join me. When he arrived at my side, I offered one of the little dries that had taken the brown. It took half an hour for the flat to calm down from the commotion, and I anticipated that the hatch was going to start every minute of that span. It wasn’t to be.

I saw fewer flies than the day before actually, though the few we did see came over a longer period of time. Eventually, another good fish began sipping something we couldn’t see from the tail of that glide, and Chuck went to work on him. Like his spotted brethren, a good cast brought him up for that little Hendrickson and Chuck got a good hookset and a strong pull before the trout sheared his tippet on a rock. We didn’t know it then, still expecting nirvana was a moment away, but we were done. Yes, another trout would sip something unseen a handful of times over our last hour, giving each of us a few casts and the chance to change flies, and talk of all we hoped the season would bring, but there would be no hatch on day seven.

We ended our day with good spirits, both of us with leaky waders, mine for the second day after less than two months of use. Does anyone make a decent, reliable wader anymore?

I told Chuck I would let him know if the hatch finally comes on, and I will; at least if I can survive enough continuous days of fishing to see it happen. Ah to be thirty years old again, but then again, I wouldn’t have the option of fishing straight through a week or two!

Day one of the 2023 Catskill Dry Fly Season has arrived at last! Yes, I pushed the envelope a bit on Sunday, though since I failed to remove my fly from the hook keeper, failed to make a cast, perhaps it wasn’t really a fishing day.

Monday April 10th has been my target date since I began my countdown back there in the bowels of winter. I think of Mondays as the beginning of my fishing week, as I rarely venture out on weekends, enjoying what little solitude I can find on our popular rivers. This second Monday in April turned out to be quite perfect.

By half past noon I was settled in on the same stretch of riverbank I had occupied on Sunday; waiting with that same Gordon’s Quill resting in the Leonard’s hook keeper. The river flowed past a little slower, and the sunshine warmed my shoulders even better. As I watched the afternoon drift past, I noted the black caddis and early stoneflies on the water and in the air. There were fewer of them than there were the day before, and I hoped Nature was making room for the first mayflies.

It was nearing two o’clock when I saw that first soft rise in the distance, rose, and began a slow, careful stalk. Of course, it wouldn’t be quite the same if the breeze hadn’t come up at just the moment I readied to make the first cast. I knew then this was truly a day of fishing.

That breeze complicated my casting, and required a move or two before I reached the right position to allow the presentation I needed. The Quill Gordon sailed out on a smooth loop of line, the leader unfurled, and that fly dropped right in the bankside line of drift with lovely curls of slack in the tippet. That first surface feeding brown trout of the season simply couldn’t help himself.

There is a different feel to fighting a good trout on a dry fly rod than with the heavier tackle I had carried during those long months of winter, a light, joyous feeling. I thanked him in the net as I retrieved my Quill and sent him back to ponder whether taking Quill Gordons before the hatch appears is a sound decision.

Before long I spied a second rise and repositioned myself for the engagement. This fish was sipping something small from the slow glide formed by the obstructions along the riverbank. He wasn’t even slightly inclined to take that big Quill Gordon. I clipped it and the 4X tippet, added three and a half feet of 5X, and offered him a little black caddis. He answered with a definitive No.

I studied that line of drift, then watched the nearby current flowing past me for an answer. Whatever that fish was sipping, there was no sign of it in the flow near at hand. From my distant vantage, I thought I saw tiny upright wings, but only tight along that edge. Digging out an ubiquitous size 20 olive T.P. Dun, I went back to work on making the ideal presentation.

That second nice brownie really put a flourish on my day. I had heard some good news just as I was assembling my tackle, the kind that lifts worries from my thoughts and brightens my spirit such that I can take in all of the beauty of the rivers and the mountains that feed them. That pair of trout seemed to be the only ones moved to some surface feeding, so I decided to finish this gloriously bright afternoon at another favorite pool.

I tend to choose less traveled reaches of rivers, sidestepping the crowds that each new season brings to the Catskills. I was surprised to find a lone angler there before me, so I waded slowly along the edge and perched on a comfortable piece of bank to wait and watch. The fisherman before me seemed to be wandering the river, and it took only a few minutes until he had passed my bankside seat and moved well down the river. We spoke our greetings briefly as he passed.

Patience can be a learned skill, something I know from experience. I certainly wasn’t born with it. I have told many that fly fishing taught me patience. I recall that first lesson clearly, wading briskly into the Patapsco River with my rubber bottomed hip boots, too eager to begin casting to a likely looking run. The rush of frigid water made a significant impression as those boots betrayed me to the slick, rocky stream bed!

I waited quietly, looking downstream curiously to watch the other continue his wanderings. It took half an hour before I saw what I was looking for, that quiet evidence of life out there in the current. I waded slowly against the pull of that current, even as a second rise came stronger to a flutter of movement on the surface.

When I reached a casting position, I took that friendly old Quill Gordon from the hook keeper and pulled the line first from the reel and then out through the rod tip. Glancing away, I saw that wandering angler climbing the bank 150 yards down river.

There was another flutter on the surface, one that looked like a mayfly, and that trout slapped hungrily once more. The old eight-foot Leonard, casts with a smoothness that belies its power, a classic Catskill rod to begin a beautiful Catskill season. For this trout, I needed only a single cast.

A solid take, a firm hookset after the perfect pause, and a heavy trout battling in fast water; sheer perfection! That trout took some time to bring to hand, enough that I heard the car door up along the road, then the sound of the wanderer starting his engine and pulling away. That brown was still pulling line.