Ah, at last a chance to remember what spring actually feels like. Wading in shirtsleeves, enjoying the sparkle of clear, moving water under the sun, and watching mayflies depart the river, winging skyward!
It was a welcome old feeling, sitting there on the riverbank, baking in the sunshine, and there were Hendricksons about with all the promise that entails to a dry fly angler with time on his hands, full fly boxes and a favorite rod. I am home at last!
How the angler’s mind wanders… will the trout rise under such bright skies? Of course they will, but why aren’t they rising now? There are enough bugs to bring an eager fish or two to the surface. Oh, how we seek to capture perfection when it lies within our grasp!
In truth the trout chose not to rise, but it was early, and I waited patiently. Heard a car door shut behind me. The idyl vanished for a moment, until I saw a figure upstream on the bank, keeping his distance, seeking his own water and leaving me to mine just as it should be. He waits for a while, still early for the hatch after all, then runs out of patience and I hear the car door again.
I waited. Twice I rose and waded out into the caress of the current. The wind drove me back, howling suddenly, swirling, the Red Gods reminding me they were in attendance. The second time I rose as more flies appeared, stood my ground in mid river and searched every well-known lie of this place. I noticed two odd little blips in the current, nothing certain, but enough to draw me further from repose on the sundrenched riverbank. Yes, yes, no mistaking that, an exuberant rise; a trout as happy to be a trout as I was ecstatically an angler!
He was well, tight to the bank, there where the current rushes and bulges and the steep, rocky terrain rebuffs the wind and makes it’s own eddies in the air. I waded hip deep, taking my time, uncoiling line from the Hardy, holding onto the fly as the current took the line downstream, released it and started to cast. Puffs of wind delight in blowing the fly away from the bank as the leader seeks to lay it nearly touching the gravel. Another foot of line, and patience, until the gusts subside.
He had risen enthusiastically four or five times, when my sleek winged 100-Year Dun touched down so perfectly, bounced two, three times with the current, and then it was his fly. He ran immediately, the rod heavily bowed and the Hardy coming to full chorus, sharing that magical energy he derived from cold, clear water and abundant oxygen!
I fought him at first from my hip deep stance in the force of the current, but he refused to let me bring him near, running again and again as the Hardy soloed over the swell of Nature’s orchestra. I started toward the shallower edge and my sunlit bank, reeling a few yards of line and then surrendering it once more. In the quieter flow we played the final dance. He was heavy, and wild and strong as I twisted the fly from it’s hold and sent him back with gratitude.
I was full of the magic then, drying the fly, fluffing it’s hackles, eyes searching eagerly for the next foe. There were plenty of flies on the water now, but no rises, no more valiant warriors to sample the bounty. There are times when Nature bestows a single gift, and ours is simply to bow our heads in thanks.
I waded out, took a last, reverent look and traveled to another haunt. I found a line of soldiers knee deep in a usually forgotten run, all watching, unrequited.
Hendricksons danced upon the surface, but the trout demurred, less than eager to run the gauntlet of man. I walked upriver, pausing and studying the runs and boils, until one splash of white water brought a smile to my face. The picket line below retreated to land, found reinforcements, and departed for other missions while I hunted those white splashes amid the tumbling rush of water.
The Red Gods weren’t inclined to allow another moment of triumph, raising the winds again and swirling them between the ridges of the mountains. Those splashes demanded all the reach I could muster, giving the Red winds time to toy with aerialized line, leader and fly. I cast and cast despite the blow, and three times my dragging fly detonated a whitewater explosion as the Red Gods howled with laughter.
I was alone on the river now, and in the solitude, I hunted the last scattered rises. I waded carefully, deeper into the quickness and power of the flow. Shorten the casting distance and even the odds.
Between gusts I fired a cast to my target, kicked the rod tip back and dropped it with the fly close to the surface, and managed a suitable drift. He came to it with a splash and exploded into the air as the rod arched, and then it was all white water and the screaming of the reel above the roar of the wind.
The runs and leaps continued as I backed slowly toward shallow water, Mr. Delaware rainbow was not giving any quarter.
I brought him at last to the net, buried the mesh in the writhing current as I pulled the fly from it’s hold. Swim free aerialist! My thanks for your energy and your spirit!
Bright Waters Catskill 