The wind’s thrashing of my little house awakened me continually throughout the night, and I arose to see the snow blowing like specters in the darkness. It is the eleventh of March, a week and a day until the spring equinox arrives, and it is 29 degrees in Crooked Eddy.
The reservoirs of the Delaware system are spilling, and our rivers remain in spate, some with flows still rising this morning. The Beaver Kill has receded markedly from it’s crest at 6,100 cubic feet per second, down to a gentle flow of some 2,530 cfs, just five times the ideal wading level! Once this storm blows through, three quite pleasant sunny days are to follow, before another half an inch of rain falls on our Catskills to presage the weekend. Though the warm sunshine will be most welcome, there is no chance that I’ll be fishing my home waters this week.
I awakened once dreaming about my roots, somewhere in the middle of a conversation with the late, great Ed Shenk. The words vanished upon full consciousness, as dreams are wont to do, but the image of my old friend remained in memory as I rolled over and stretched the sleep from my bones.
I would be fishing there most likely, gliding along some trail through the water meadows with thoughts of big brown trout in my head. Spring often came early there in the Cumberland Valley.
I wrote the other day of the last truly early angler’s spring, when mayflies began popping this month more than a decade ago. We had a run of seventy-degree days in Chambersburg that March, and I took a fateful walk along Falling Spring after my travel plans had fallen into the trap of auto repair. I brought twenty-five inches of wild brown trout to hand that morning, my largest from the silken little spring creek I called home for twenty years. I keep the small black Shenk Sculpin that delivered that beast as a talisman of my good fortune.
The fishing in the Valley had declined by then, and that trout was a surprise to say the least, seen finning there beside his twin upon a glance as I was striding by. An early spring can astonish you with a quick flash of magic like that!
Thinking of those days while our river temperatures rose had me more than planning to get out and begin my search a month early. Ah, but weather does what she wishes of course, and the contemplation of waiting continues…
I’ve spent far too much time housebound, fighting with colds and bronchitis and feeling depleted of all energy. I need that sunshine badly, and I may just head out this week to do some exploring, though I don’t expect to find the clear flowing streams I’m dreaming of.
My friend Mike Saylor called on Saturday to cajole me into a quest for steelhead, but that lack of energy caused me to decline his offer. I hope the weather and the fish reward his gesture and he has a great trip. Many seasons have passed since I fished for that tug, and the flash of chrome.
I did dust off my vise and tie a dozen dry flies to accompany a little regional exploration that has been dancing through my mind. Catskill Adams’s, my 100-Year version of the Quack, and some little black stoneflies with mojo dubbing courtesy of Raven the Cat; just a few that could tempt a small stream, early season trout should I find one of those mythical clear running creeks after all.
I’ll most likely carry my camera rather than a rod and reel, though the little Orvis and my waders will be stored right there in the car should some unexpected glint of magic catch my eye.
Bright Waters Catskill 