I went hunting this morning, not too long past dawn, and slipped into the river to vanish in the mist. I kept things simple: a 7-1/2-foot Orvis bamboo rod and a classic Hardy LRH. Thunderstorms were predicted and I like the impervious nature of an impregnated cane rod when bad weather is afoot.

I was hoping my early morning stalking would turn up a hunting brownie, change my luck for the better. Sometimes I guess its all in the numbers.

When I was a youngster, God how long ago that was, my favorite number was twenty-five. In one glorious week to begin my spring dry fly season, I landed two exceptional wild brown trout whose measurements aligned with that old favorite number. This morning, I did it again.

I was working a favorite summer morning location when the water exploded upstream and out of range for the little rod I had chosen. That booming attack made me think I needed to clip the size 10 spinner from my tippet and replace it with, well, a meal. Experience said it was too early for terrestrials, they’re never on them this early in June, but I knew the trout that made that explosion was hunting for breakfast.

When I had chosen the right fly and checked my knots two or three times, I began casting. It had been a few minutes since leviathan had awakened us both, so I spread my casts out, knowing from long experience that many of these big hunters are on the move. They will hang in an area to suit their own mood and urgency to feed, but they are often not holding to a particular lie.

The cast I placed out away from the cover in the primary line of drift was the right one. He took with a subtle gulp, I hit him, and that little Orvis rod began bucking while the Hardy screamed! There is a special magic when you are alone on a river with that music in your ears and the cry of battle in your heart.

It took some time to get that fish to come near the net, and I wasn’t able to get him in it until about the fifth try. My heart was pumping as fast as the old boy’s gill covers when I twisted that fly free and rolled him into alignment with the measuring line. Twenty-five inches and a smidge, got to be something about that number.

I recognized that trout. I caught him last summer, hoping that the missing mandible wouldn’t handicap him too much. He must have been hooked by one of those sportsmen who fish saltwater size streamers on 8 weight rods and suffered that disfigurement. He had grown nearly an inch since last year, put on some more weight too, and I am pleased that he is still strong and proud.

I fished my way through the rest of the morning with intent, surgically exploring each nuance of current and each piece of cover. I found success again a couple of hours later.

My next foe came from behind a boulder in fast water, enticed by the movement of my CDC winged March Brown emerger. He reacted to my hookset with violent staccato head shakes as he bulled his way downstream and away, the reel protesting each run.

Eventually I worked him toward the shallows near shore and led him thrashing into the net. The morning sun was strong and lit him up beautifully as I snapped a quick photo in the meshes.

It has been nearly a month since I last brought a twenty-inch trout to hand, a month spanning the prime spring season. I logged many days and hours astream during that month, finding meek hatches and little surface activity. Taking two in excess of that mark on one beautiful Catskill morning was truly a gift from the gods of summer!

I awakened early as customary during dry fly season and decided to get ready and head to the river. With an eye toward current flows and the weather forecast, I figured this could be my last chance to fish our most historically heralded river until autumn cools it’s water once again. Checking the water temperature at Cooks Falls just now I found it pushing 68 degrees, too warm for trout fishing, so it seems I guessed right this morning.

The Beaver Kill hasn’t the cold dam releases of her related Delaware River tributaries, and we are thankful for that, though it would be nice to have fishing there throughout the summer. America’s first trout river should run wild and dam-free forever!

I was on the river by 6:15, taking advantage of the cool morning air and the cloud cover that would let me fish on into the afternoon. I knotted a sizeable rusty spinner to the tippet and worked some line out with the Leonard 50DF. Spying a nearby rise in the run, I drifted the fly through a few times. A trout rose to it, appeared to take it, but wasn’t home when I raised the cane to say hello. A short while later another quick rise drew my attention and my casts, one of which was rewarded with the wild runs of a big Delaware rainbow. A fitting trout to christen my new, old Leonard, the bow measured eighteen inches, a trout right in the top of the wild ride category. The wild rainbows of the Delaware River face months of warm water, thousands of anglers, and long migrations to summer over in suitable temperatures, and they are not long lived. A big brown trout has to stretch the tape to twenty inches to earn that moniker, but a foot and a half of bow deserves it as well. It is the 15″ to 18″ rainbows that will spool you if they have the notion.

I prospected a hundred yards or more of fast water, scanning the dark bottom areas for fish holding pockets, but none of the many I cast to provided a rise. Walking out, I talked with another angler who had arrived a few minutes earlier. Ron is a retired dairy farmer from upstate New York, and finally has time to enjoy his fishing. During our conversation, I mentioned the Catskill Fly Tyers Guild, and Ron asked me if I knew Tom Mason. He occupied the campsite right next to Tom and Martha during previous seasons. I told him that Tom was a friend and I had in fact seen him and Martha just yesterday at the Celebration of Life in honor of Mike Canazon. Fly fishing never ceases to remind us what a small world we live in.

On the way to what would be a crowded Mountain Pool, I stopped at another pool when I spied a lone angler. I walked down to the river sans rod and reel and found my friend Chuck Coronato and his wife. We talked for a good while as Chuck fished. Finding a small March Brown dun floating nearby, Chuck figured it was time to change his fly, and I suggested a 100-Year Dun. He produced one from his fly box and knotted it fast, then offered me his latest bamboo acquisition, a sweet eight-foot Heddon.

Well, a trout rose just then, I cast to him once or twice, and he ate that 100-Year Dun and dove for the bottom of the fast run. The stout fifteen-inch brownie put up a good scrap, and Chuck graciously netted him for me. After some more talk and fishing, I finally headed out toward my goal of Mountain Pool. I guess June 3rd is some sort of new national holiday, for I think I found every fly fisherman in the country crammed into each parking lot along the next few miles of the Beaver Kill. I backtracked and found Chuck taking down his rod with thoughts of finding a nice luncheon. While I was counting fishermen upriver, Chuck tied into a nice bow that showed him his backing twice! Wishing each other well, I headed into the pool while the crowd grew around me.

The sun had made an appearance, and as the late morning warmed past Noon there were fewer flies dancing on the water. I managed another pair of trout, foot-long brownies, between stalking a couple of rises that I guessed might be signs of bigger fish. As the sunshine strengthened, they quickly ceased their surface activity, and I decided to give them a wave and withdraw.

A pleasant day, a nice, unexpected visit with a friend, and a few good fish to make it interesting; just fishing!