It is the twenty-eighth of December and lingering near the freezing mark here in Crooked Eddy. There is warmer air on the way, and rain that will melt the snow from the mountains and valleys alike. I can hear the first of that rainfall on the roof above my head even now.
This has been the way of things this winter, freeze and thaw, then freeze again, though the moisture has eased the drought of 2024 considerably. We hope it continues.
One hundred days is not a sprint, not a dash to the bounty of springtime we who angle these Catskill rivers so eagerly await, but more of a beginning to that part of the long off-season when the goal seems nearly touchable. I have been blessed to have six full seasons upon these rivers of my heart after twenty-five years of road trips, and that experience makes it indelibly clear my chosen timetable is no guarantee. Nature does not offer guarantees when it comes to the timing of her seasons.
These next one hundred days are about hope. They form a pathway to bliss, to challenge and hopefully triumph when at last the first new life begins to flutter upon the surface of bright water. Last season has entered the realm of memory, and next season lies out ahead, nearly in reach, though still beyond the range of my casts.
Very soon now I will begin splitting the bamboo that I hope to carry upon bright water come springtime. If the Red Gods choose to grant me passage, this will be my first rod, shaped with my own hands and imbued with something of my own spirit. Learning the craft in a tactile sense will be the first great challenge of my new season.
Bright Waters Catskill 