Friday morning, and I have just finished tying the last dry flies of the day for this season. There has always been some luck infused with these, for many times the best trout of the day has fallen to a fly I had tied that morning, an act of faith and inspiration before heading out to the river.
We have come to the last days of October, one last triumph of warmth and sunshine before the onset of winter, and I will go forth and try my best to make it memorable.
I made that same attempt yesterday, and found a little hope attached to the flies tied that morning. I was walking slowly up the river’s edge when I noticed the faintest little ring in a slick along the far bank. As today’s, yesterday’s morning flies were tan caddis, an old favorite of mine dubbed the CDX. I checked the tippet and knotted one securely, then eased out into the sparklingly clear October flow.
There was a wide span of fast, broken water between me and that faint little ring, water I was not going to blindly wade through without fishing. Such places are far too likely to dismiss when lying between the angler and the rise.
I prospected above and across from my position, gradually extending my line, and then began some casts downstream. On one of these, the fly passed over the center of a large, flat boulder and the fly vanished softly. I paused and raised the old Orvis bamboo and met the kind of heavy resistance I had been searching for throughout this last month. The trout was big indeed, and he had me at a disadvantage down there in the hole below that boulder. I kept tension, hoping that the give in the tip of the old rod would keep my prize, though this wasn’t an encounter I was going to win. The fish refused to run; I mean, would you give away your advantage with flight? There was a pop, and he was gone. I hope he enjoyed my caddis.
It turns out there were three trout over in that slick when I began to fish it, but they were skittish and my drifts were, compromised. Too much velocity in the current between us, and a river bottom unfriendly for wading helped me fall victim to impatience, and I missed two fish with a load of slack between us. I claimed a small victory with the last one after a twenty-minute wait.
And so, this morning found me tying three more of those little tan caddisflies, preparing to walk that reach of river for what I expect will be the last time until a new spring warms my heart come April. There were snowflake icons falling upon Wednesday’s forecast on the Weather Channel. It will be the first of November after all.
One last day of seventy-five-degree sunshine, one last day to cast a dry fly with a lithe and beautiful wisp of split bamboo, and one last act of hope that a certain large and smug old trout might come for breakfast once again…
Bright Waters Catskill 