September Passing

There was no question where I was headed as I closed out September. I had found a good fish after all, and decided it was about time to go catch him.

Of course, trout, mayflies and Mother Nature don’t simply line up to bring these things about on our command. I have not been finding multitudes of either, feeling blessed to encounter a riser or two to engage for a few hours of one golden September afternoon. I had found this fish because I had been in the right place at the right time, the result of a somewhat systematic elimination of water and finned candidates.

When a river’s pickings are slim, it’s trout will take advantage of the best moments. The angler’s task is to determine when and where these moments might occur. If we are lucky, we get it right once in a while. If we are observant and persistent, we build experience and let that better our odds.

According to my recent observations, the most likely opportunities for a trout to get a snack have come in the form of a few brief flurries of cream-colored mayflies during the length of the afternoons. The timing and the intensity have varied, and there has not been enough of this activity to call it a hatch by any means, but a good surface feeding brown trout has to make do with what he has. This same immutable law applies equally to the angler.

I found this fish enjoying a very brief snack period, one of those that tantalizes the angler and then vanishes as quickly as it appears. I planned my return accordingly.

My little assortment of flies includes my 100-Year Duns and CDC duns and cripples, and they range in size from a standard 16 through 12. There are A.I. Light Cahills, Translucence Light Cahills, and those tied with my standard blend of red fox fur with a touch of Antron. After all, when your fishing comes down to hunting one good trout, it pays to be prepared to show them subtleties of imitation.

The little flurries of mayflies I was counting on have included two or three different sizes, and assumably species, of flies, so I felt somewhat confident that I could offer my quarry an appropriate morsel should he deign to appear again.

My wait was tempered by a rise upriver from my target’s table, and I went to work on him immediately. Sliding around another of those devilish little creases in the current, he finally came when his position and my guessed at drift line intertwined; and he refused me! This too looked to be a very respectable fish, and I tried valiantly to bring him up to a different fly until Nature’s little snack period ended rather abruptly.

I am not sure how long I waited for another to begin, for I was alone on the river and most happy with the warmth of the afternoon.

Eventually, I spotted the first soldier in a second flurry of Cahills. I’ll call them that, since that is what I call the dry flies I tie to match them, though I imply no actual knowledge of their species. I mean, since DNA testing entered the arena of aquatic insect classification, it seems nearly useless to even try to identify the bug on the water, and of course there are thousands of unidentified minor species and subspecies that will never be written about in a fly-fishing text. My trout seemed to recognize the bug well enough, and I fell hopelessly into the game as soon as he began to rise.

He was moving a bit, though generally holding a lie in the confident way that lets us know this is his pool. I had offered one of the long shank sixteens, tied with my Catskill Light Cahill blend, and continued with that pattern. The game offered seeming to be more a matter of getting his timing and the vagaries of his position in line with my repeated presentations. I didn’t need to change the fly.

The electricity made its way through leader line and fly rod straight away! This boy was big and mad and liked the music of the Hardy’s chorus as much as it did! We danced in a deep and rocky and unfamiliar reach of water, so I had to keep the line high whenever he pulled toward the bottom, applying side pressure only when he was in sight and obviously clear of obstructions. I relished every moment of that fight until he was mine!

It had been a long month, and I enjoyed the moment profusely. My vanquished foe didn’t like being lined up on the measuring centerline of the net to get his full length accurately, so I logged him at twenty-two inches plus.

The pounding in my heart finally subsided, and I stood there for a time, taking in the beauty and the solitude, fully appreciating how captivating these Catskill rivers can be. Then I started hunting for another rise…