Seasonality

The iridescence of autumn is waning as is the ephemeral magic of another Catskill dry fly season. It will be November before the week is out, and I will be forced finally to transition to the long months of winter.

I cling to these last moments, these final hopes and dreams each season. The days when I truly expect a good trout to rise to my fly are long past, yet I will continue the search I begin each March, for when that search has ended, I shall be separated from the rivers of my heart.

It is my custom to tear myself away from these bright waters once these last days of my true fly-fishing season have come and gone. Yes, after a time, I will likely return to the river. Winter forays are few though, and do not carry the promise of beauty and energy that draw me there from March through October. I like to rest the trout as they pursue their procreation and turn my attentions to the mountains.

December is often a month when I will seek a few moments of solace upon bright water. I carry an old rod, swing a fly for a couple of hours during the warmest portion of the day, gaze at the cold, wintry light upon the mountainsides and the water. You could call it fishing, though it is more about my soul seeking some brief reconnection to the rivers of my heart, sustenance to hold on through the remainder of the winter.

Once those early days of winter have passed, there are often long stretches of time away. Through the middle of a Catskill winter storms pass through and the deepest cold settles into these mountains. Some years there are little breaks, calm mornings where the sun actually lends some warmth to stimulate the rivers. As anglers, we too are stimulated, though falsely. Still, it is comforting to steal a bright winter’s morn and fell my feet upon gravel, my hand curl about the cork of an old cane rod.

The first early warning notes I have heard predict a wet winter for the Catskills. We need that to refill the reservoirs depleted for construction, but we need snow in the high country as well. Gradually melting mountain snowpack replenishes the springs from which our rivers are born. It is the key to Nature’s water cycle.

I cherish these morning hours as I prepare for the day’s fishing. Checking gages and forecasts, often tying a few flies my instincts tell me might be needed. In a moment I will choose the rod I will fish today, slip it from it’s tube and wipe down the ferrules, then decide which reel to set aside with my cup of fresh dry flies. I am thinking Dennis Menscer’s hollowbuilt five weight will feel just right with the Hoagy Carmichael Perfect…