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…
Bright Waters Catskill 