After an extended run of excessive heat, we have finally found our way to a few beautiful days of Catskill Summer. It is five AM and forty-six degrees here in Crooked Eddy.
I wish I could say that our streams and rivers are running swiftly with a healthy flow, bolstered by the wealth of rainfall predicted of late, but the truth is we received little to none of this forecast bounty. Just the other night, we anticipated nearly in inch of life-giving rain, but by the time the ballgame ended around nine the forecast had changed to 0.03 of an inch. When I checked it before bed, it was down to 0.02 inch, and I doubt we got that.
Fishing has been, well, interesting of late, as the weather has gone from hot to pleasantly cool. A few days ago, I enjoyed the cool down and stalked the water early. I found some fun with the old slow take.
My light hoodie felt very comfortable in the chill of the early morning mist, and I thrilled to see mist wraiths again wandering the mountain ridgelines.
Summertime trout can be dainty feeders. When the largesse of the spring hatches has passed to memory, wild fish hunt for the odds and ends of Nature’s bounty – leftover spinners, stray caddisflies or yesterday’s drowned duns and terrestrials. They approach such fare with care and suspicion at times, for gone are the days of attacking fluttering mayflies during a heavy hatch. Such fish must be hunted, and anglers should beware the old, slow take.
My first that morning betrayed his presence just barely, and my beetle slipped gently into his consciousness. He kissed it softly, and my pause was correct before the arch of the rod brough immediate action. A twenty-inch brown lets you know what he is about just as soon as he feels the steel, and this fellow wasn’t pleased to be pricked by his carefully chosen breakfast. The side pressure from the rod led him from harm’s way, where our struggle went my way.
Another opportunity found the old slow take getting the best of me. It was just the softest little rise, no sound at all, even in close quarters. My long rod was a smooth gentle four weight, and my sidearm cast slipped the beetle in beneath the branch like a feather. I waited, waited a long time as summer’s reduced current slowly carried my offering to the goal. Too long for my old nerves it seems, as I snatched the fly away as the tip of his neb poked through the glassy surface and took my fly!
Ah, summer!
Bright Waters Catskill 