The cool nights give hints that the season is waning. The best of summer in the Catskills is upon us, with glorious days of golden sunshine, and that cool kiss of mountain air as that sun drops behind the mountains. It is my favorite time to stalk the rivers!
Fifty-five yesterday morning, and the rivers are full of water. Cleared from the storm runoff, they sparkle once more in the sunlight.
Between storm fronts and family responsibilities, I have fished significantly less than I do in an average summer. For the most part, hatches have been light, even the fabled West Branch sulfurs have underperformed. I wonder if the low flows in May, which allowed didymo and the dreaded green slime to proliferate in the upper river, lie at the heart of the vastly reduced numbers of those favorite little yellow mays?
It is the fate of anglers to ponder the things we cannot change.
I stalked a favorite reach of water, watching the cloudy day open up with the glow of summer sunshine. The high flows have changed the game once more.
Hunting trout move more and linger less I believe. In low water the signs allow a careful approach and positioning for the perfect cast. Those signs are more subtle with the rivers full complement of water. A slight ripple might be current upthrust by a sunken branch deposited in a new location, or it could be the only sign that a hunter has passed. Even a rise dissipates rapidly, particularly the soft, subtle, hidden rises of a good trout hunting what food the river brings. Casts must come quickly, or be held while the eyes search for another clue.
One of those clues had me fire a long cast yesterday, and sigh when it found no response. Rather than wait, I fired another tighter to the cover, kicked extra slack into the line and studied the drift. The take was sure, though subtle, and I felt the excitement of that throbbing life as the rod bowed. It has been a while since I tangled with a heavy trout, and I savored the moment.
First things first of course, swing the rod back to my left and strip line hard to get his head away from the cover. Short of his haven, he turned with the current and ran…
The hunt continued, but no further quarry made themselves available for the contest, so I turned my attention upriver. There had been a light fall of flying ants when I arrived, but the scattered rises were all from tiny trout. Eat well and grow, for you bode well for the future!
The afternoon breeze rose and put an end to the dimples in the mirror, though I found one rising gently in a location frequented by sizeable trout. I knotted a size 20 flyer and offered it, only to find that he too was just a little fellow. I dropped the rod tip and let him shake free; no need for handling the youngsters.
Working onward, I did find a few to splash my Isonychia, better fish, though not big ones. They seemed intent upon attacking without taking, and I concluded it was past time to remove the size tens from my fly box and carry only the twelves.
It was a glorious day, and taking one of the river’s veteran brown trout is always enough to highlight the experience!
Bright Waters Catskill 