It is Friday the twenty-fifth of October and thirty-one degrees at Crooked Eddy. There’s a solid frost on the SUV which the sun will dissipate, once it burns off the morning haze. The river too has cooled overnight; thus, I will not hurry despite my need to feel the chill and contentment as the current caresses my legs.
The forecast is for calm winds and that sunshine, though the temperature will be somewhere near sixty degrees at it’s peak, and the Paradigm will accompany me on yet another try to extend the dry fly season. I have cleaned and lubricated the fly line on the old Perfect, tied better than half a dozen dry flies and am enjoying the last sip of my second cup of coffee. Life is good.
I found the pale, tannish variation of the Isonychia duns on the water last September. Serendipitously, one landed upon my hand allowing close observation. Of course I blended dubbing to tie this unusual body, ribbed it with claret thread to mimic the venation observed on that natural, and fished the new fly. It produced well during that season, and it was one of those same patterns which brought me so close to success two days past.
This morning, I tied a selection of duns and emergers, hoping that the frost and drop in water temperature might be mitigated by sunshine and lower water. Soon I must complete my preparations and begin my search for the opportunity to drift these upon the current.
One hundred seven days, and drawing swiftly toward the close of a season that began on April 10th, before an onslaught of high, cold water robbed me of nearly a fortnight. Low water followed closely as spring blended into summer, until the rivers were ravaged by the remains of Hurricane Debby. It seemed the rivers would never clear, and then drought returned. It continues still.
Each season has interruptions, but this year’s crop was more insidious. There were long periods characterized by fruitless days upon the water, days simply devoid of opportunities or challenges, as if Nature deemed it time to balance the scales. I have been fortunate throughout these half dozen seasons upon the rivers of my heart.
All days spent fishing are good days. Each true angler knows that, for there is indeed much more involved with this passion for angling than netted trout. None of us object to success, and none to challenge.
Bright Waters Catskill 