Warm and sunny, warm and sunny, snow and wind! Don’t like our Catskill weather? Well, you know what to do…

Unsteadied February is almost behind us, and thirty-nine days remain until dry fly nirvana will flirt with my emotions. This final week has shown us a little bit of everything. It seems fitting that February’s farewell should be icy and blustery, for the balance of the week has been quite fair. Two days of fishing, a little warm rain to replenish the rivers, and now the big freeze; but it looks like sixty degrees for Sunday!

I tied a few of my Translucence Series flies last Saturday at Flyfest, and found a few interested guests curious about the silk dubbed creations. As with most of my dry flies, color is important, and the path to hatch matching color is blending.

I was pleased when I discovered that the Kreinik Company was still manufacturing their pure silk dubbing that I carried in my fly shop so many years ago. It takes a bit of patience to acquire (you order from their website but must wait a couple of weeks for one of their dealers to fill your order), but the wait is worth it. Silk dubs so perfectly, as it is finer than the various synthetics, and it has that lovely glow in the water. the color selection available will cover a good deal of the major hatches, particularly when you blend them together to mimic Nature’s impressionistic hues. When you truly need a different color, stranded silk can be separated and cut into short strands, then blended with the dubbing to produce the desired tones. The orangish yellow characteristic of the sulfur mayflies comes to mind.

I have used the same technique for blending fine materials which I used for Antron dubbing thirty years ago. Pull out some of the silk dubbing and separate it into thin veils of material, then take a sharp pair of scissors and cut across the veil at intervals of about one quarter of an inch. You can blend using your fingers, pulling wisps of material apart and recombining them over and over until their colors are thoroughly mixed. The basic electric coffee bean grinder is much faster and better if you blend dubbing on a regular basis, and they are still inexpensive.

If you embark on the path of blending your own hatch matching dubbing, I strongly suggest that you keep notes of the relative amounts of the ingredients used in each blend. That makes it much easier to make a new batch when you need it.

Hopefully, we don’t have too many frigid, windy days remaining before fair weather brings the beginnings of spring fishing, so take advantage of this time to tie the flies you need for the new season.

There are days that are quite clearly about the fishing and not the fish. Oh, what a deliverance sunshine and bright water can provide after three months of forced imprisonment!

I trod rock and gravel once again under brilliant sunshine that pushed the temperature to a glorious fifty-eight degrees. Not bad for a February afternoon in the Catskills! The water temperature responded to that same inducement, cresting above forty degrees, and I thought that something might be afoot.

I was swinging a movement fly, searching for that one take from old leviathan. So storied a trout did not come calling, and my fly swung slowly without salutation, yet what I found surprised me in more ways than one. There were flies about, little black stoneflies in February! Had I somehow traveled back to the spring creeks of the Cumberland Valley? Best of all, I witnessed a few little swirls and dimples at the surface when the breeze calmed – the occasional trout taking a handful of those twittering stones.

Now I was unprepared to say the least, but that truly didn’t matter. The sight of active flies and gentle rises was pure magic to my winter mood. I actually found one little CDC stonefly tucked into the foam of my smallest chest pack, though a sparse size 18 dry fly is not well fished on an intermediate line and heavy leader. Can you tie an 18 fly onto a 2 or 3X tippet? It seems that you can.

I cannot say the equipment available allowed a telling presentation, not even with the grace of bamboo, though that honestly wasn’t the point. I cast a dry fly to a rise on the twenty-sixth of February, and that was enough!

I don’t honestly expect to use it, but my little box of early stoneflies and a spool of 5X tippet will be tucked into my chest pack this afternoon. I mean, one shouldn’t ignore little flashes of magic when one encounters them.

It was cold on Saturday morning, and I had the collar of my warmest down jacket zipped up high as I crossed the Rockland House parking lot. A group of fellow celebrants had just arrived, and we were about to begin setting up for Flyfest 2024. The event marked a goodbye to winter, at least in spirit, and the fine group of anglers and fly tyers who gathered again this year quickly warmed the interior of the dining room with their smiles.

There are twenty-three days remaining in the astrological winter, with the spring equinox arriving early, on March 19th. The ten-day weather forecast for the greater Hancock area reveals the typical ups and downs in temperatures, but seven of those ten days are expected to warm into the fifties. Of course, dry fly anglers like myself aren’t expecting to find rising trout as the equinox arrives, but our expectations and enthusiasm are rising with those temperatures, a fact that was very evident on Saturday.

I have even begun the task of sorting through the flies tied these past few months, guiding them into the fly boxes that will fill my vest quite soon. The new Atherton Inspired patterns have their own box this morning, and the Wheatley’s that house the Quill Gordons, Hendricksons and Blue Quills that begin the wonder of the dry fly season are next on my list. It can be nervous work, for simply handling those boxes, the repositories of the essence of my hopes and dreams for deliverance from winter’s grasp, heightens my anticipation.

I can see my own mileposts in the distance now, lined up along the curve of the river: forty days, thirty, twenty…zero. There’s a new pair of fishing sunglasses on order, a new old St. George reel lined and ready to greet the soft curl of bright water as I stalk the first rise of a new season, and of course some new fly patterns ready to tempt the untemptable trout.

We have had good flows this winter, milder weather overall, and that bodes well for the nymphs wriggling in the silt and gravel, as well as the trout fry that herald our future. Reservoirs have a good head of water, though we don’t have the snowpack in the high country to complete the scene. Someone told me last year of a conversation with someone within the NYC Bureau of Water Supply. He was told their models expected a few years with warm, dry springs and wet summers. That came to pass in 2023. An early strong week of sunshine warmed the rivers quickly, though I remember wandering, puzzled in search of hatches that did not burst from the waters under those eighty-degree April skies. Predictions, calculations, suppositions – they make for good conversations, though they fail to reveal the timetable for Nature’s magical transformation of spring.

I was forced to hide from the brightness yesterday, my eyes dilated from my annual eye exam, but today has dawned gloriously bright and clear once more. I am drawn to the appearance of warmth, though I am fully aware of our sunrise temperature, once more in the teens.

I have been watching the river gages more closely of late, noting that the high releases on the Delaware reservoirs have ceased, returning those tailwater rivers to wadable flows. We are forty-seven days from my own awakening, and a reasonable chance of finding wild trout looking toward the surface.

There was floating ice on the mainstem yesterday morning as I drove along PA 191, south toward Honesdale. It was twelve degrees when I left the house near nine, but that sunshine made swift inroads toward dispelling the worst of the chill. The ice floes were absent on the return trip, though the water was still only a couple of degrees above freezing. The river runs at a nice wadable flow, but I know better than to think of fishing there.

This sunshine tries hard to tempt me to the river, though the daytime highs will not reach forty in some of my favorite haunts. Breathing cold air is not in my best interest yet.

I should get my travel kit in order for the weekend, ensure that I have the hooks and materials packed to tie whatever strikes my fancy during the Flyfest celebration. There are times when a visitor asks about a pattern I have discussed here or in the Guild’s Gazette, so I try to have a selection that will allow me to at least come close, if not faithfully reproduce the requested fly. That is always a challenge with a small travel kit.

Of course, I did get a reminder yesterday that it is time to write something for the forthcoming March Gazette, and it seems the right kind of day to take care of that. March is a perfect time to look ahead toward spring and the flowering of a new dry fly season, and that will lift my mood as the memories flow as quick as the ice-free rivers!

There’s a white landscape this morning in Crooked Eddy, a rarity for this rather confused rendition of winter. The sight brings a smile, for a part of me still believes that winter should look the part.

I have played a bit more with flies this week, though I still have not been infused with the usual passion. I guess the fact that I must buy more fly boxes each year to house them has an effect, along with the realization that I have so many ideas committed to hooks and hackles and fur that I often cannot find one of them when I see the opportunity to try it on the water. Though it passes the time in winter, I have to force myself to sort and rearrange the contents of fly boxes.

There is some work to be done on the summer boxes. It would help to have a count of certain favorite patterns, to have replacements produced and ready to refill the boxes that man the vest and chest pack. Of course, too much preparation and organization might rob me of some of the joy of my early morning fly tying throughout the season. There is always luck to be found in a fly tied the morning before a wandering afternoon along the river!

My A.I. patterns drew my attentions early, and there are flies for the entire series tied and waiting in a storage box. God knows I have more than enough Hendricksons, though I still find myself tying a few on any given day throughout the long months of winter. Sulfurs could probably take up a day or two, not that there aren’t plenty of CDC’s and 100-Year Duns lurking in at least two or three different fly boxes.

I just acquired a copy of T.E. Pritt’s North Country Flies, for a friend has interested me in the history of those old English patterns. I have tied a few, usually found in a seasonal box, surrounded by dries of various descriptions. It would make sense to gather them together I guess, though lying next to a couple of hatch matching dry flies helps them find their way onto my leader when the dries fail to solve some picky sipper.

Ah, the sun just emerged to brighten the curtain above my bench. Perhaps it’s time to brew another cup of coffee and sit back with the book I began the morning with…

…like the glint of sunlight on polished cane.

I wrote those words decades ago, for a story in my weekly newspaper column about a special encounter on the fabled Letort. I was fishing a lie, one where I had glimpsed the tiniest dimple where the placid flow wrinkled gently against a log lying full length along the outside bend of that limestone spring. The fishing itself had been intense, for the magic of the water had told me that a great trout resided there, in that impenetrable lie. I had wanted that trout, and thus I had taken the only route available; I had waded in the treacherous marl bottoms of that Letort meadow. I was up to my chest, the footing precarious, and I was left not simply with a very long cast, but the knowledge there would be only one chance!

I had no classic cane rod in those days, just my grandfather’s old H-I that I had fished a time or two for it’s connection to my own past. I wielded a feather light graphite wand casting a three-weight line, and I put my Letort Cricket perfectly in that one spot to drift to and along the current beside that log eighty feet away. All that line, my triumph and my defeat, as it proved too much to manage when the fly vanished. Missed!

In that moment of anguish, I felt the brief sensation that I was not alone. The magic of the place, the storied S-Bend, brought to mind the ghosts of the Regulars as a warm breeze brushed my neck. I wrote the story from that inspiration, a commentary from two watchers, long departed, their spirits tied eternally to those water meadows. When I walk bright water with a rapier of rent and glued bamboo these days, I think a lot about old ghosts.

The ghosts who haunt classic trout waters are a benevolent lot, and I feel their goodwill as I cast to the ancestors of the trout they pursued. Whenever my hand grasps a vintage shaft of Tonkin cane, my thoughts cannot help but wander back in time. Is this old Leonard familiar with this pool? Has it cast a dry fly for another whose spirit remains? Fly fishing, when practiced properly is a spiritual experience, particularly so when awash in historic waters, whether those that flow through my new Catskill home or the gentle limestone valleys of my past.

So much of the energy and the magic of this angler’s life begins with a simple blade of grass! The shoots prosper in the mountain soil, and the culms grow tall and strong in the winds that torture the little river valley – Arundinaria amabilis, the lovely reed, the rodmaker’s cane. Grown, cut, carted down the mountain and cleaned in China, floated on to market and eventually to American shores, there is a special life in this bamboo. Touched by so many hands, particularly here in little conclaves where the craft has survived for a century and a half, the bamboo the Chinese call tea stick becomes a magic wand!

Though I cherish days angling with historic artifacts, rods and reels with mysterious histories of their own, I draw great pleasure from tackle crafted by a small group of friends. Dennis Menscer, Wyatt Dietrich, Tom Whittle and Tom Smithwick all came to bamboo rodmaking by different paths, yet they are united by their common love for the history and the art of the bamboo fly rod. These men make magic!

I felt that magic the first time I cast a Smithwick rod, Wyatt’s DreamCatcher, Dennis’s boldly flamed hollowbuilt and Whittle’s Shenk Tribute, and I feel it again each time I cast a fly with one of their miraculous products of, devotion.

I seek serenity throughout my time along rivers, the caress of current upon my legs, the smooth arch of the bamboo as the line rolls from back cast to presentation. The light twinkles through the trees and reveals some hint of the secrets of flowing waters, and I smile to myself as the fresh breeze touches my face. Angling draws it’s great pleasure from simple moments.

There was a glimpse of sunshine this afternoon, enough to get me up and out for a riverwalk. Once the forecasters admitted to their bogus winter storm warning, some still clung to the ghost of some lake effect snow that could find us later in the day. For the record, I have seen not a single flake, though they are still calling for snow tonight: seventy percent chance of zero inches.

The cold wind did have a bite in it, and I pulled the hood of my down jacket snug over the top of the wool ballcap as soon as I stepped out onto the porch. It was late enough that the sun illuminated only the east bank of the river, with all of the windswept flow in shadow. I am determined to get enough fresh air to fight off whatever the hell it is I’ve got, as I have given up on medicines.

I tied about a dozen and a half assorted dry flies today, the dozen for another Catskill Museum donation, the others to more or less even out my year-to-date total at seven dozen flies. I guess that’s enough to say that I have passed my seasonal lull, though I cannot say I am feeling the usual excitement either.

My winter long wrestling match with feeling sick, tired and out of sorts hasn’t let me get into the usual spirit. My goal now is to rid myself of this malaise and get ready to enjoy Flyfest!

The winter and early spring gatherings help us all keep the fires hot during these last months of endless waiting for the angling days we treasure. Flyfest comes along the last weekend in February and gives us a boost that lasts until the end of March and the Angler’s Reunion Dinner before Opening Day. Yes, we all know that we can fish throughout the year now, but the first of April is still the opener, the herald that a new dry fly season lies on the doorstep.

The ten-day forecast clearly shows that winter remains. The warmest day in that stretch is promised to hit a high of forty-one, and the nights are all cold. I can’t complain too loudly for we had a terrific February warmup, though I only got out on the river on one of those precious afternoons.

Well, the forecasters had us all wound up for another winter storm but didn’t count on the strong winds from a nor’easter that’s blowing hard enough to push the line of the storm to the south of the Catskills. NYC has been snow poor this winter but they seem to be getting their fill this morning.

Things are shaping up for Flyfest 2024, the current incarnation of the winter fly tying festival began by the late Dennis Skarka a good many years ago. I hope Dennis looks down on this February’s last Saturday and has a smile on his face when he watches this year’s gathering of Catskill fly tyers young an old.

The Catskill Fly Fishing Center and Museum is presenting Flyfest on Saturday, February 24th from 9:00 AM until 3:00 PM, hosted by the Catskill Fly Tyers Guild and Trout Unlimited. Once again, we are fortunate to hold the event at The Rockland House, 159 Rockland Road in Roscoe, New York. I cannot say enough about the incredible support the Rockland House provides for the fly-fishing community here. The kitchen will be open for lunch so we can all enjoy one of their wonderful meals!

There will be a good showing of Catskill fly tyers from the Guild and elsewhere, and everyone who attends is welcome to join us in tying trout flies; experts, beginners, and everyone in between. Come, share your ideas, your questions, or your inspiration for the next great trout fly to tempt the wily Catskill trout!

Our Guild has been bolstered by a number of new members this year, and there are a number of new fly tyers among them. Learning about and acquiring good quality materials can be difficult for new tyers and, thanks to our friend Charlie Collins, we are able to provide some help. At the Guild’s request, Charlie has graciously provided a very nice selection of his beautiful dry fly rooster capes that we will have available for sale at Flyfest. If you have never tied with Collins hackle you are in for a treat! His natural colors are gorgeous, and his feathers wrap beautifully and float your flies high. There will be capes available at very affordable prices, another thing that tends to be important for new fly tyers.

Fly tyers are asked to register prior to the event, as a good count of tables to set up will help us host another great event. You may register and purchase tickets from the Catskill Fly Fishing Center and Museum’s website: http://www.cffcm.com. Click on Events, then click the Flyfest banner and Buy Tickets. Adult admission is $10 to support the Museum, and kids twelve and under get in free. If you want to bring your kit and tie, you will register there. Tyers may also email the Museum’s Program and Events Coordinator, Todd Spire at tspire@cffcm.com to register.

It has been nearly two weeks now since I learned of the passing of Mary Dette Clark, the last true legendary Catskill fly tyer. The Dette family tied the finest Catskill trout flies for the anglers of the Golden Age, as well as for their descendants and our own generations of anglers who they inspired. Mary was more than an incomparable fly tyer, she was the warmest, most genuinely friendly ambassador for the Catskills I have ever been privileged to meet.

On my very first trip to the Catskills in April 1993, the Dette shop on Cottage Street was the most required destination. I met all three of the greats: Walt, Winne and Mary, and found myself in awe of these kind, very down to earth people. Mary seemed to tie most of the flies in those years, and I watched closely, making the most of my opportunity to turn a page and experience fly fishing history.

I returned to the shop on my second day, after a long, fruitless day and evening searching for rising trout. There were flies about, and Mary told me they were the caddis known as shad flies locally. The flies I observed were neither hatching nor egg-laying, thus offering no feeding opportunities to the trout. Mary sent me around the corner to park and walk a short path down to the banks of the Willowemoc. “I think you will find some fish there”, she had said with a smile, and of course she was right.

After some work to figure out just what those rising brown trout would accept, I discovered that my ugly blue-winged olives, my first try at tying CDC dry flies, fit the bill. There were seven or eight trout rising in that little pool, and I hooked them all, though one shook the hook before I brought him to hand. Thank you, Mary.

I took advantage of a few free days in early June to return and visit the shop again. I sheepishly showed Mary my first attempts at tying her signature Dette Coffin Fly. My flies were far from perfect, but she kindly complimented my work, and assured me they would fool a wary Catskill brown. Once more, her pronouncement proved to be correct.

That evening, I fished the Beaver Kill at the old Twin Islands Campground where I was staying. Coffin flies appeared over the riffles at dusk, and trout began rising and slashing all around me. I took a couple of average sized browns, then targeted a heavy, slashing boil as the light faded. My Coffin Fly bobbed down and found itself in the middle of another boil. When I tightened, a great trout erupted from the frothy surface like a missile launch! My somewhat shabby flies worked indeed.

I battled that brownie to the net and measured him on the wet gravel at riverside. He was nineteen inches long! Mary Dette’s kind support had given me the confidence to take my first big Catskill trout.

I had hoped to buy some of her flies that day, but the bins were empty of all the Green Drakes and Coffins. It was near the end of the hatch. I did order half a dozen of those exquisite flies which she promised to mail to me the following spring. They remain among the most cherished possessions of my angling life.

For many years, a visit to Cottage Street to say hello, and purchase a few dry flies after watching Mary tie for a while was a highlight of my Catskill trips. Her kindness improved my fly tying and helped foster my love for the Catskills. My last visit came after her grandson, Joe Fox, had joined her there on Cottage Street. Joe was gradually taking over the role of primary fly tyer and running the family business under the proud gaze of his legendary grandmother.

With her artistry and wonderful personality, Mary touched the lives of countless anglers who came to worship at the angler’s shrine of the Catskills. She will live on in our hearts and memories.

Sixty Days; the number seems to signify a familiar sentence does it not? We begin the second week of this February with another day of calm sunshine and hope to exceed fifty degrees. That is not the water temperature though, oh no, that hovered just above freezing at the nine o’clock hour.

The gamble is plain. Will the river respond to the sunlight as it has these past few cooler, sunny days and flirt with a temperature that proves sufficient to awaken a trout from winter’s slumber? They must eat from time to time, and this looks to be the best opportunity. A heavy snowfall could replace our unseasonably warm sunshine on Tuesday, with rain to follow. Doubtless winter will return; the sentence will be served.

The sun was welcome, shining on bright water, and I rejoiced as I waded into the clear flow of the Beaver Kill. The Kiley lofted my Copper Fox and sent it on to begin it’s search for that one trout. I worked on down the run and the pool, hopeful for that tug, but it was not to be, despite the full sunlight bathing the water.

I moved to another pool once I had worked through that first one. There I continued, taking in the fresh air and enjoying the warmth of the afternoon and the rhythm of the cast and swing.

My senses awakened at the jolt, and the slack line slipped through my fingers, just as planned. I raised the rod and tightened gradually, awash now in the grace of a good fish fighting the pull of the cane. I was fooled completely, certain that leviathan had come calling, but I would soon know the Red Gods’ deceit.

This was a good brown I scooped in the net, but my fly had found purchase amidships. I removed it carefully, and he shot away from the shallows with plenty of vigor. How that fly found the trout’s flank on a dead drift swing I will never know.

The stream gage at Cooks Falls topped thirty-eight degrees this afternoon, the pinnacle for the past couple of months. This should have been the kind of day to get me through that sixty-day sentence. Indeed, I treasured my time on the river, though I would have liked the excitement of that single tug to have lasted all the way to the net.