It seems the wonder and the magic of the Hendricksons has passed for another year. They visited very little with me. Yes, there may be encounters, brief appearances on the Upper West Branch, but the true glory of it all is done.
In an odd spring such as this one, I am often left wondering what became of them. Certainly, they did not issue from the waters I called home, not in the staggering numbers sweet memory cherishes. I suspect the overall mild nature of winter coupled with the warmth of March chided them from their sleep to trickle off during the high water, leaving only a remnant guard to greet faithful wading anglers such as I. I pray only that they found success in seeding their next generation.
And so on to May, and the flies whose colors mimic the emerging vegetation: the bright green of the Shadfly, the varied yellows of the sulfur clan and the pale ghosts we still call March Browns!
It is raining now in Crooked Eddy, on a cold May morning in these Catskill Mountains. The rivers will be grateful for the rain, both freestone and tailwater alike. New York City you see has begun their game anew, hording water until the first of June until they can flush it down the Delaware en masse if they choose to finally make their aqueduct repairs this season. If not, well, they’re only fish and fishermen.
Tailwater flows have been dropped suddenly to summer low flows, so our difficult trout will become more difficult, scurrying from the assault of anglers the prime days of May inevitably bring. There are those who shall insist upon boating the scant depths of these rivers, adding to the fray, shouting “walk and wade trips, no way!” He who finds an unmolested trout first may catch it, while he who wanders second, or one hundredth, shall not. Pray for rain I say!
Last evening I settled in and enjoyed a wee dram in homage to the new season. It has begun with challenges galore, though the first entry in the log was a serious contender. Wild trout more than two feet long are not to be taken lightly! Today I will see to the fly boxes once more: Shadflies, sulfurs, March Browns and the big bright olives. There is always one Hendrickson box that remains in my vest far beyond it’s expiration date. Call it sentimentality or homage, the manifestation of my annual reluctance to accept the passing of a friend.
Bright Waters Catskill 