High summer lies ahead, and my thoughts consider what surprises it may bring. The ten-day forecast calls for rain each day, something this season’s experiences will not allow me to believe, and yet threatening skies are not far away. In the absence of intense downpours, such a run of weather would do our streams and rivers a great deal of good.

A little Orvis rod has been added to the fold, eight feet and perfectly suited to a number five line in these hands. It’s provenance tells me it was made in 1958, thus we share most of the same years of experience, and it is only fitting that we share a river or two. I wiped it down with a light coating of bowling alley wax, polished it with a soft cotton cloth, and watched the luster of flamed bamboo and it’s impregnated finish shine through. Shall we dance?

The classic Orvis cane rods are unique, designed with full flexing actions and rated to handle what most trout anglers consider rather heavy lines, they lend themselves to sweet dry fly work when lined a size or two lighter than their ratings. They still flex smoothly and cast a long line and tend to be a bargain in today’s collector influenced market. Most of these rods were designed by the late, great Wes Jordan, truly the man who turned the Orvis arsenal of fly rods into classics.

If the rains come, I have some hope for the sight of a mayfly this week. There are still sulfurs hatching on the West Branch, and days of rain might mitigate the incessant crowds. Of course, a good shower tends to wash an assortment of terrestrial insects into the flow, good news for trout and observant anglers.

My old SST jacket has a lot of years and river miles on it, as do I. It never fails to keep me dry and fishing. I have always liked the fact that they eventually figured out how to make a jacket light enough to be comfortable in warm weather, yet truly durable and waterproof. I’m glad mine has lasted, I mean, have you seen the price of a new fishing rain jacket these days?

My suspicion is I can get away with a simple nylon fishing shirt for at least several days this week, but then again there is a tropical storm system down south. The remnants of those things are unpredictable, though we probably won’t see them until the weekend.

The two summer fly boxes in my old chest pack have sulfurs and olives and terrestrials to get me through, the smallest ones stacked on wire threaders to help me overcome the trouble with my depth perception. I have dealt with that hampering my casting so far, simply taking care to start short of my target to avoid plunking a fly on a trout’s nose.

There are those special fish though, the ones who move and hunt something good to eat. They always present the ultimate challenge, as one can never be absolutely sure where they are and where they are heading when about to drop a fly on the water. To take them, your cast has to be right on, the first time.

I had a duel with one of those last week, seeing single rises in three different places. Three different fish, or one working slowly upriver? My casts failed to elicit any response, but then I saw a brief little wake as that old warrior turned and sidled back downstream to start over. Sure enough, within five minutes there was a sipping rise just where I had seen the first one. Perhaps next time I’ll be able to figure the route and timing of his little milk run just right!

Perhaps unlike any number of anglers, I have fond memories of August, visions of countless golden hours of Catskill summers along the rivers of my heart.

Most speak of the “dog days” and conjure visions of dry pebble beds where mountain streams once bubbled downhill, and it is true that is one part of the mosaic, but there is more. August often brings a welcome change to the heat waves we see in June and July. There is a fresh breath in the air, and cool evenings return to these mountains providing a freshening with high summer.

My memories include sulfurs on the West Branch, with her wild brown trout feeding at the height of selectivity, drizzly days with tiny olive mayflies peppering the surface, where the tiniest rings from falling raindrops share a place with the soft but widening rings of good trout rising.

Summerfest arrives this very weekend, a time for anglers to gather, celebrate the history of our Catskill rivers and their lore, browse tackle treasures from the past, and share tales with old friends.

I remember finding a sweet five strip rod one Summerfest, making a trade and sweeping it off to the West Branch that afternoon. A pair of lovely big brownies christened that rod, testing it’s casting and resilience. Though that rod was traded for another seasons later, it is cast in my memory from the triumph of that very first day!

July has passed with joy and anguish. I fished but five days during her last three weeks, but oh what days they were! Now I look forward to the blessing of high summer: stalking trout at the peak of their wariness, weekend music festivals, fairs and gatherings, the pleasure of cool evenings and a chill at daybreak.