The time for wandering riverbanks has arrived, though not it seems the time for casting dry flies to rising trout. I spent half a day watching bright water yesterday, my Leonard rod and St. George reel at my side as planned, enjoying the sunshine and the anticipation of a new season.

It has been a hard couple of weeks since the little false start of March 22nd. Weather swept away the conditions that brought three rises to my attention on that day. So close, and yet still so far away from that sweet release from the clutches of winter!

My Quill spent the afternoon fixed in the hook keeper; there was nothing to cast to, not even one of those odd undulations of current that trick the mind, preying upon the fierce anticipation of a house bound angler finally released.

Waters are warming but have not yet reached that point where those first mayflies are stimulated, and ready to ascend to the penultimate task of their lives. One last great challenge remains for the patient angler.

It is cold this morning in Crooked Eddy, and our rivers remain high and chilly, two days before my own little zero hour. Will this be an early season or a late one?

I took a drive yesterday, the car loaded with waders, boots and fishing vest, and a little bamboo rod. I had thought for a number of years about exploring Callicoon Creek, the mythical origin of the Delaware rainbows (it wasn’t despite that lovely tale about Dan Cahill and crew carrying buckets from the train), since the stream gage showed wadable flows and improving water temperatures. I had hope to encounter a nice bow or two, wild fish lingering in the seemingly comfortable conditions before returning to the Mainstem, intent upon a chance to cast to them with a dry fly.

Unfamiliarity with a reach of water causes one to rely upon those available stream gages and our own judgement, and the best plans are not necessarily made on such limited information. I had driven along the creek a few years ago, recalling a wide bed, deeply cut into the landscape. My fishing trip would make that point with emphasis.

Spring floods must be sensational in the tight little valley traversed by Callicoon Creek, or more properly the North Branch thereof, where most of the public fishing access is found, for it flows through a cut pathway that is indeed both terribly deep and wide. I was reminded of northwestern Pennsylvania’s Lake Erie tributaries, with low flows trickling along one side of a hundred-yard-wide gash in the landscape.

The gage had showed a flow of 178 cfs, somewhat below the recorded median, but I found that to be noticeably less than required to provide much in the way of holding water. I fished one reach with a rapid flow crowded to one side of the chasm, but found nothing to convince me that fish were present. I got some exercise, reacquainting my old bones with wading fast water, but my dry fly drifted along undisturbed.

Further upstream, there were a couple of reaches that looked more like a typical small stream, though the area was well populated with houses, and I chose not to wander there. One parking area listed on the state PFR map had been obliterated in this area, a sure sign that fishing isn’t welcomed, whether “legally permitted” or not. I wouldn’t relish strangers fishing through my backyard if I lived there and feel the residents wishes deserve some respect.

You hear the phrase “it was good to be out” used often by fly anglers, and that is the truth, whether trout and Mother Nature choose to cooperate or not. It did me good to wander along that stream with a bamboo fly rod, warm in my shirtsleeves, and live once again in the moment. Winter is long, and though broken by a handful of days when the madness simply wills us to the water, it can be a difficult season for the passionate angler. We tie flies, tinker with gear, socialize with those similarly afflicted when we have the chance, but the fact is the only real fishing we can enjoy is housed in memory.

April has come, and a week remains until my hoped for introduction to the 2023 dry fly season. Our rivers are too high to wade, with spilling reservoirs from one side of the Catskills to the other, and water temperatures in the thirties this morning, far short of that magic fifty-degree mark which heralds spring hatches.

The mild winter had given multiple hints that an early spring would follow, one with wadable rivers and comfortable weather, but these mountains rarely welcome balmy weather early in the season. High, cold water is the traditional expectation after all.

I begin this (hopefully) final week of waiting in poor form, with a couple of days of feeling absolutely miserable, and dealing with necessities, things I would much rather avoid. Days of high, cold water are for chores and anticipation anyway, so I won’t be missing out on any fishing.

There are warmer temperatures ahead, as well as several days with showers. I pray the balance will tilt much further toward warm than it does toward wet. As always, Nature will have her way, but I hope for the chance to wander some riverbanks before the clock strikes zero.

Flies have been tied, rods and reels are waiting. Spring holds too much promise to rush things.