Dodging much of the rain forecast this week, I managed four afternoons on the water. Yesterday seemed as if it would be the one to open Nature’s coffers and provide sustenance to the soul of this long-suffering dry fly angler. It was not meant to be.
My freshly re-treated rain jacket stayed dry yesterday, but the faithful bamboo fly rod was used for nothing more than a few practice casts. No flies hatched, no trout rose, and during the night all of that rain found the watershed of the Beaver Kill. She has risen nearly two feet since four o’clock yesterday, and the graphs of discharge and gage height are vertical lines. I expect all those dozens of Quill Gordons tied over the winter will be put to rest until next year. There’s even a bit of snow in tomorrow’s forecast. Such is life on the river.
And still, I have fared much better than one of my friends. Mike Canonico called me yesterday to relate his fishing on a mountain stream. It was not a tale of solitude and bliss, of bright trout rising to his dry flies. Instead, his was a tale about the dark side of solitude.
Mike related a sudden and serious injury, alone on a reach of water. His cell phone was useless, he was in pain and unable to walk out. Crawling back to the nearest road is not what this angler had in mind when he set out for a day of fishing, but grim determination saved him. He’s okay now, though facing surgery and a long rehab which will cost him the majority of his fishing season, and his tale will make us all stop and think before venturing off in the mountains alone. Heal up my friend, and I’ll save you a seat in the boat when you’re up to it.
Bright Waters Catskill 