Clarity of Focus

Mid-July, and still no rain. Even the thunderstorms seem to be bypassing the region. Those that pass by have ranged from threatening to destructive – there were tornado warnings all over the map two nights ago. If only all of that moisture, energy and turmoil could spread itself across these parched mountains as a day or two of sustained gentle rainfall.

I have not fished since Monday, and that was a day the Red Gods won. Penance for the miraculous day I enjoyed last week. I found myself victim to the yips, overcome by anticipation born of that perfect day, and pulling the fly away from most every taker. I took a pair of feisty trout, but oh those that might have, should have been…

Hunting trout requires a clarity of focus. Each step, each decision, and of course each cast must be executed with delicacy and precision. The smallest imperfection robs the angler of an opportunity that will not be repeated. Thus, the supreme challenge and delight of the game befalls us. We humans are not, and most certainly I am not perfect. In this type of angling, we seek a few moments of perfection to share in and pay homage to the astounding perfection of Nature.

Allow one foot to slip momentarily on a cobble, and a soft pressure wave telegraphs the trout you are stalking, and likely others, that something intrudes. Place a cast a foot further upstream then ideal, and the unseen hunter is alerted instead of tempted.

My old hunting grounds were my classroom, and they offered no quarter. The trophy rainbow is just to the right of the center of the photo. Line him, drop your cast too far above or too close and he is gone. The fly, the approach and the cast must be perfect the first time, for there is no second! Clarity of focus and execution are as simple as that. The trials of these wide, lovely Catskill rivers are far less obvious, but they are there and just as difficult, perhaps more so because they are hidden from the casual perspective.

The responsibilities of the homeowner have intruded, and still are, as I try to deal with issues stemming from my attempt to rescue us from this incessant heat wave. A perfect stalk, a perfect cast are not made of divided attentions.

Yesterday would have been a good day to stalk the rivers. The hot winds rose to herald the onslaught of more of those phantom severe storms, winds that can drive thousands of Nature’s insects into the water, and I was dealing with electrical problems. The severe storms failed to materialize, and though I am thankful for that, I would have loved to have the rain. One of those passing clouds must have nicked a corner of the Beaver Kill’s watershed, as that river got a tiny bump in flow yesterday morning, though insufficient to bar it’s temperature from exceeding 82 degrees. The flow dropped rapidly and is back to pitiful as I write.

Of course, this afternoon’s forecast has storms in it, though I expect nothing per this season’s experience. I have dreams of sneaking out to the river for an hour or two, at least if the winds come sans lightning and chaos again. There’s a special new fly just waiting.

I have yet to find a mountain stream to enjoy the wonderful little six-foot rod my friend Tom Smithwick gifted me, for they suffer too from the heat and drought. Give me the seventy-degree days and the gentle rains that make what I know as a Catskill Summer!