At last, the legacy of this summer’s flood has passed. Signs remain, but the rivers have cleared, and life seems ready to get back to normal.
It has been a difficult month. Deprived of the solace of my trout hunting ways, the days seemed endless and without purpose at times. Like any angler, I have endured dry spells before. Nature weaves her magic, and the results are not always to the angler’s liking. It is part of the game, the extreme challenge of the sporting life. This time, there was a growing sense of loss…
I had a plan yesterday morning. My old friend Matt Supinski was to join me for a day’s fishing. An unexpected visit from family changed his plans for him, so I headed out earlier after receiving his call. The plan had been to continue the search for the hunters I spar with during my Catskill summers, to find where the changes wrought by Debby had sent them. I stuck with that plan and embarked upon a long day in the bright Catskill sunshine.
I was carrying my Sweetgrass Pent, eight lithe feet of golden bamboo designed for me by friend Jerry Kustich, and I had decided to try a different fly line with the rod. I mounted a 3″ Hardy St. George bearing one of Wulff’s Bamboo Special number four fly lines. Jerry had designed this taper for a traditional double taper fly line, and the long belly Wulff fishes much like a classic DT, though it has the advantage of a fine running line which adds easy distance capability to the cast.
It was a beautiful summer mid-morning, the mist already burned away when I entered the river. I was hopeful that the clear, low flow wasn’t the only thing that had returned to normal. I was late for prime hunting I knew, but I welcomed the challenge with a bright outlook.
I had been diligently searching for an hour and a half, when I saw what I was looking for. A subtle quiver in the surface, the kind of thing the average fly fisher dismisses as nothing, if he notices it at all. Subtleties tell the tale for the hunter.
The Sweetgrass and Wulff combination let me reach each subtle drift line with grace from more than fifty feet away, as I worked through my target area. When he came for the fly at last, there was no discernable riseform, just the barest ripple as he turned toward the fly. I paused, struck, then struck again as he tore away from me!
My adversary put everything he had into his escape, and I countered very run, every move, as he sought to break me as he dashed through the cover. I brough him close twice, but he turned and burned to put distance between us and target another snag to rid himself of my fly.
At the end he was tired, as the smooth arch of cane eased him within range of my net. The exhilaration I felt made it clear I had emerged from the long darkness of flood waters and barren riverscapes. Twenty-five inches of vibrant color and life thrashed in the net as I carefully removed the fly and snapped a quick photo before returning him to the cold, clear embrace of the current, at least six pounds, I thought.
As evening flirted with the mountain sunlight, I walked slowly toward the last riverbank. The day had been long, rewarding, and shall remain in memory amid the perfection of a Catskill Summer.
Bright Waters Catskill 