Rain has drenched our landscape once again, with spotty explosions of severe storms, including reports of a tornado in Deposit; a wild and woolly season to be certain. Rivers are high and rising, so once again my only fishing will be in thought this day.
Summerfest showed us a nice day, though the breeze rose toward afternoon adding challenges to the Hardy Cup competition. I browsed the vendor’s tables for choice bits of classic tackle – talismans for the magic pursuit. I talked to a few friends encountered during my visit, missed the chance to connect with some others. There seemed a somewhat larger turnout this year, both in vendors and visitors, and that is a welcome sign for the Catskill Museum.
I have been planning a trip to the American Museum of Fly Fishing’s Fly-Fishing Festival this summer, and that has flooded my mind with thoughts of New England. Two decades have passed since I have visited the mountains, valleys and towns where my family tree sprouted, and my thoughts run back to people and places found dear in those travels.
It was Labor Day in 1998 when I first cast my late grandfather’s bamboo fly rod on his home river, the mighty Deerfield. As I fished through a week on the waters where the magic of fly fishing first touched the Sturtevant gene pool I met a wonderful couple of Massachusetts anglers, Fred and Marilyn Moran. They joined me for dinner at the Charlemont Inn and we traded tales of bright waters, family and the mysteries of Berkshire trout. When I mentioned my difficulties tying flies in the inn’s historically lighted rooms, they kindly offered the tying desk in their fly shop, Points North Outfitters. When wind chased me from the Deerfield the following day, I headed over the mountains to Adams, to visit their shop. After tying a few of the tiny caddis I had seen on the big river, Fred and Marilyn directed me to a beautifully tumbling little brook not too far off. My Fox Squirrel Specials and Letort Crickets proved just the thing to entice the wild browns and brookies to put a bend in my rod!
I was thinking about those days and the Morans this morning as I had found that surname while browsing the list of vendors for the Vermont museum’s festival. A little searching led me to a Berkshire Eagle newspaper column about fishing with Fred, written by Gene Chague. The small world of fly fishing continues to amaze, as I met Gene this spring. He accompanied his fishing buddy Paul Knauth on their first trip to fish our Catskills. Paul and I had connected by virtue of our interest in classic tackle and discovered various ties between our families while messaging back and forth. We gathered for a meal at Roscoe Beer Company before I showed them a few spots along the historic Beaver Kill. Conditions were tough then, in early June, but these two seasoned Berkshire anglers persevered and had a great trip.
There are many places I wish to revisit, the Deerfield, the Railroad Ranch waters of the inimitable Henry’s Fork, but the pull of the Catskills remains strongest in my heart. Still now, I linger in memory: look, its first light at the pool above the Cold!
Bright Waters Catskill 