The storms seemed to have passed, leaving our river flows only slightly improved, though that has been a good sign for the fishing amid this young summer season. Waiting to determine what the weather might have in store put me on the water later than I would have preferred, but conditions looked good for a productive hunt.
I set to work, ignoring the odd rise here and there as a handful of mayflies drifted through. I was looking for bigger game.
Prospecting turned up nothing, and those occasional scattered rises seemed to have become more frequent, so I stalked an area where two or three had shown more than once. They seemed to be cruisers, a mode of operation that has become common for our wild trout during meager hatches. I found no response until one rise came nearly underfoot, and a quick flip of the fly brought a take. The fish was small and energetic, exactly the trout I expected to be cruising about and picking off a wiggling bug here and there, so it was time for me to get back to the hunt.
I exhausted the morning and half of the afternoon in my relentless pursuit and found nothing. Well, conditions looked good this morning… The wind had risen, and some dark clouds had gathered, and then the sun began to peak through the rushing cloud banks. It felt like rain was imminent, so I chose that opportunity to take a break and head elsewhere.
At my new hunting grounds I encountered a solitary angler packing up his gear. He said he had not fished very long, made no claims for either success of failure, and I didn’t ask. As I headed in, I hoped he had not disturbed the water I intended to work.
Sun and shade had replaced the mist and clouds, but the results remained the same. I found no evidence of life as I stalked a good reach of river. By three o’clock, I had nearly resigned to quit early as I approached the last lie with a bit of history.
The cast was long, the drift longer, the old Thomas & Thomas mending slack to extend it down, down to it’s limits. I could no longer see the fly and hesitated when the soft ring was revealed, then tightened just in time. When I felt that rush of life, I set the hook firmly and got my fingers away from the flying reel handle just in time!
There are trout that like to slug it out in close quarters, head shakers, trying to rub the fly from their jaw on the rocky riverbed, and then there are those who must like to hear the reel scream as much as I do. He had me to the brink of my backing quickly enough, leaving me to reel as fast as my hand could fly when he turned. It would go like that for a long time.
He took a tour of the pool you might say, and there were critical minutes passing while he inspected each corner. Light tippets get abraded, hooks widen their holes and pull out, reasons why I work hard to beat fish quickly, but some will not yield.
After a time, I had him closer, though still running in short bursts; back and forth. Even once I got him into roping range he simply refused to come to the net. I had turned the rod over to equalize the strain, and even then, I began to worry about the continuous strain.
He did come to the net at last, a scoop and a quick lift, and I was marveling at the weight, and the vigor he showed thrashing against the mesh. I dipped him back into the water as my forceps closed on the hook. Nose and tail aligned on the scale: just better than twenty-three!
I returned him nose first into the gentle current, and he darted right down to the bottom and sulked. With the water at sixty degrees, he had given me a hell of a battle. I watched him for a while, finally stepping closer to see him swim away.
I held the rod aloft and noted the reverse curvature lingering throughout the length of the tip section; a memory of a battle hard won. A short cast and the supple bamboo returned to its prescribed state of straightness, bringing a sigh.
Game taken, and game returned; a successful hunt in the eleventh hour. Ah summer!
Bright Waters Catskill 