Mid-season is a joyful time, when July brings long summer days of hunting trout, midday sulfurs, and the blessing of solitude on many reaches of Catskill bright water. There is of course a counterpoint, the middle of the angler’s winter.
I count that off-season from my last day of fishing these Catskill rivers to that hoped for new beginning in early April. This year it is a span of one hundred thirty-eight days. Midnight shall mark the middle of my angler’s winter, and tomorrow the days of that second half shall begin to tick away.
I can feel it each year, as my concentration lapses, and I find it ever more difficult to fill the lingering hours of each day. Reading or tying a handful of flies sometimes soothes my frazzled nerves, but the rod work I hoped to usher me through the long months has stalled. I have busied myself with the business of the Fly Tyers Guild as best I could, looking forward to our little gatherings as beacons of hope. Spring will come; I have only to survive the days between the seasons of light.
Bright Waters Catskill 