Monday brought some significant storms, pounding some watersheds in our region and skirting around others. It looked like no river was going to be fishable when this week began, for major storms were promised throughout. I lost one fishing day to that big lie and decided I wasn’t going to sacrifice another. If I got blown off the water by torrents of rain, so be it!
Look, I can only imagine the stress and handwringing the meteorologists go through, and they do a good job here in our Catskill region, though the truth is their batting average slumps in summer. Our weather gets more volatile every season, and in summer, we never know what we’re going to get.
Wednesday was a strange kind of day: threatening cloud masses, bouts of downright chilly breezes, even a couple of very brief peaks of sunlight. Today the forecast is smoke.
I visited a reach of river yesterday morning that I cannot usually fish in June. Water temperatures have responded favorably to the rainfall and cooler temperatures, but I still wondered if the trout had migrated out of this water during the extended hot dry spell earlier in the month. I had a plan, and I more or less executed it, tossing a couple of carefully chosen flies over some interesting water. I ended up with a couple of dramatic refusals and then a broken tippet, when something very large and silvery pounced on my innocent isonychia and kept it. Trout? I think so, but I missed out on the best parts of the engagement.
I drove on past several spots, expecting to see a few anglers at all of them and seeing none. When I did stop and wade into the river, I fished a particular bank pretty thoroughly without moving anything resembling a fish. Okay, so one good rain event and a cool down wasn’t enough to get those trout off the bottom of the deep holes I guess, but the water felt nice and cool. I can attest to that, for I ended up sitting in it as I tried to climb out!
I changed from two wet shirts to a dry one and checked some other river gages on my phone, deciding that a change of locale was in order.
I found another deserted access when I rolled up, smiling at my good fortune. The middle of the week has not been the balm for the solitary angler that it once was this season, and I appreciated the chance of a little solitude. Once more, I set about executing my plan.
I fished all of the prime water the elevated flow would allow, hooking one little fellow that shook off the hook when I tried to ski him in on the surface. I saw a few little rises over the course of a couple of hours, noting a stray olive or sulfur drifting past once or twice, but nothing else showed any interest in my flies. As the afternoon drew on though, I began to see a couple of larger mayflies at a distance. They weren’t yellow, so I reached for the box with my Isonychia patterns and knotted on a fresh 100-Year Dun. Soon, good things began to happen.
Scanning the surface, I watched an absolute goliath leap out of the water, just because he could it seems! Of course, I peppered the entire area with casts to no avail, but then I saw a trout swipe at a bug further out. I shot a long cast out to cover him and he ate my Iso like he was waiting for it to float by. This was a nice brownie, and he fought hard in the heavier flow of the rain swollen river. Not long after I released him, another drew my attention and a pair of casts and showed his mettle all the way to the net.
The active fish were spread out over a wide expanse of water, and none of them seemed to rise more than once to a bug, and then once to my fly. Number three gave me his worst for a good while, after I waited out a few minutes when the cold wind kicked up and had the water trying to reverse it’s direction of flow that is. He settled into the net at the nineteen-inch marks and brought a smile. Not bad for a crazy weather day…
The wind blew some more, but then it settled and the surface calmed. It was after five o’clock, and I had to wait for another rise. I wasn’t seeing any more big mayflies out there. There hadn’t been many of them, but the trout had certainly reacted to their appearance. I was wondering if that little flurry of activity was finished when I spotted a wide soft ring along the far bank. I saw one or two small, yellow flies, sulfurs I presumed, but the Iso had been so hot I started working that bank feeder with it. I gave him a lot of opportunities, but he showed no interest in the larger meal.
That fish may have risen two or three times I guess, but he appeared to stop after I had fished over him with the larger fly. Too late I thought, but I dug out a well-used little 100-Year Dun sulfur and replaced my faithful Isonychia.
I was getting cold from the water and that come and go chilly wind, and was about to head for the car when I saw another soft rise further up the bank. Did my fish move? I didn’t know, but as I worked into position to cast to that rise, I noted it was further out, closer to the main current line. I shot my cast above it and dropped plenty of slack to extend the drift. It was about my third or fourth drift when the soft ring enveloped my little fly.
After tossing his head back and forth while digging toward the bank, that fish shot out into the current and started my reel to spinning. He felt solid and strong, and kept using the current by making good runs downriver then turning his side into the force of the flow. There was no quit in this fellow, and he made run after run each time I worked him back and retrieved some line. Even at the end, thrashing in the shallow water close to my bank, he refused to let me turn his head around to bring him to the net. I think that fresh current felt good to him after weeks of skulking in low, nearly still water.
A heavy bodied twenty-two inch brown trout can put up a hell of a fight when he is feeling his oats, but the four weight Thomas & Thomas and I won out at last. Released quickly, he settled down to the bottom nearby, and I decided to see if I could get an underwater shot. The water was still a bit cloudy from runoff, and the light wasn’t good, but I could see him clearly there sulking. Damn those 100-year Duns, I think I heard him say, or perhaps it was just the sound of that cold breeze beckoning me home.
Bright Waters Catskill 