Such a beautiful day yesterday, a winter’s day in accordance with the calendar, belied by the bright sunshine and sixty-seven-degree temperatures here in the Catskill Mountains. Spring lies just five days hence, though a return to colder weather is expected. Yesterday and today though; paradise!
With all of our rivers still writhing with the high runoff from Saturday’s rains, I could not resist the call of small waters. Driving east toward Livingston Manor, I turned off old Route 17 and travelled away from the village. There were others abroad with similar ideas, and I drove on beyond the wider waters of the Willowemoc to DeBruce where legend says celebrated angler George M. L. LaBranche cast the first dry fly in America.
I found a quiet reach, small water, where the stones were visible even in the deeper runs, and set up my little Orvis Madison bamboo. For a change I spooled the suggested number six line, for I expected to be casting short in such environs, and yes, despite all reason I succumbed to the warmth of the mountain air and the glory of the sunlight and knotted a dry fly to my shortened leader.
My Catskill Adams danced merrily upon the bright water, though it found no trout to greet it.
I was once a fisher of small waters. The spring creeks of the Cumberland Valley are intimate environs to be sure, and I visited many others during my twenty-five years there. As hatches dwindled and I spent more of my precious angling days here in the Catskills, the region’s historic and larger trout rivers captured my heart.
A good friend mentioned as we spoke last weekend that he was surprised that I did not explore the myriad small streams of my new home. In reply, I said that I was set in my ways perhaps.
I have a friend on the east side of the Catskills that spends a majority of his angling time on high country brooks, and from reading through his field notes, he finds wild trout on most occasions despite the season.
I must admit that I have been seduced by the cunning and the stealth required to hunt the trophy sized browns and rainbows of the wide Delaware, the Beaver Kill and Neversink, where I easily settle into the simple joy of casting a long line with a favorite cane rod.
I didn’t fare too badly in yesterday’s tighter quarters, hanging that dry fly on a bush behind me just once. Those skills, the tight precision of aiming both back and forward casts, have laid dormant for many years.
There may be similar opportunities ahead, for more rain is expected just about the time the Beaver Kill reaches a wadable flow. I still have a bit of exploring outside the expanse of the Catskills lingering in my mind, and I have twenty-five days until it’s time to walk the Delaware or the Beaver Kill with a Quill Gordon and a smile.
The allure of small waters always includes sweet solitude. There are times when that is worth more than the thrill of trout measured in pounds.
Bright Waters Catskill 