Seventy-two degrees is a mighty fine temperature for March. That kind of warmth makes for a good day along the river, and sometimes the trout get into the spirit as much as the angler.
When I go out to swing a fly beneath the surface of this early season’s forty odd degree water, I never actually expect to catch a trout. Such days are about a renewal of the soul, training my legs to deal with rocky river bottoms and currents after months away from bright water. Sure, an angler always has a little hope tucked into his fishing vest, but there is a very low level of expectation.
I waded upriver around Noon today, enjoying the sunshine. There was a little color in the water, the remnants from last week’s rainfall, and I thought about the fact that suspended particulate matter tends to cause the water to warm a little more on such a sunny day. Would it warm enough?
The snow seems to have finished it’s melting at last, leaving that bountiful sunshine to actually warm our rivers, and that is a welcome development for the third week of March. This was the coldest winter we have spent here in Crooked Eddy, deep cold, sustained cold, and I am beginning to believe it’s over.
The old Orvis bamboo cast the small streamer with some authority, yet still gently enough that is slipped into the water with barely a blip in the surface. The fly sunk slowly and made it’s swing. When the line began to straighten out in the middle of the river, my hand gave it the slightest little twitch, and I felt the grab clearly. I raised the rod and stripped hard to set the hook, amazed at the feeling of life on that other end of the line!
The last thing I expected to be watching today was a good brown trout jumping. Sure enough though, my first trout of 2025 displayed plenty of energy. He left the water three times before I brought him close to the net. A nice brownie, sixteen or seventeen inches long, and colored up like I would expect to see in late May.
The fly was one of my friend JA’s creations, a small, flashy, rabbit strip streamer he calls the Lil’ Brown Trout. The fly shops he ties them for sell out of them faster than he can tie them. I had noticed it when I checked one of the streamer boxes in my tackle bag, and plucked it out to store in my chest pack. Sadly, a submerged rock finally laid claim to that lucky fly and I had to replace it with a smaller Full Dress Copper Fox.
I wasn’t the only angler lured by the warmth of this day, as a fellow and his wife floated past on their raft. We exchanged greetings, and I appreciated the wide berth he gave me, leaving a good hundred yards of river unmolested for me to fish. That was once something expected of boaters on these Catskill rivers, a courtesy that has unfortunately become all too rare.
Working slowly down river I maintained the traditional pace: a cast, a swing, then three steps down before repeating the cadence. The afternoon winds had risen, keeping to the manageable schedule of blowing hard for ten minutes or so, then calming for perhaps twice that span. Another surprise awaited it seems.
That old cane dropped the fly tight to the bank and I gave one full mend to toss the slack line upstream before settling into the swing with the rod tip low over the water. I felt the fly tick a rock jutting up from the bottom, let it swing a few inches more, and then gave it that slight little twitch that had worked magic earlier. The hoped for grab followed the twitch and I socked the hook home!
The second trout of 2025 stayed beneath the surface, leaving no doubt he was larger than the first. The reel drag was set fairly tight, but he pulled more line on a quick run down river. I snapped a photo in the net when he finally surrendered, a fine brownie in the nineteen-inch class.
Driving home, I smiled about my plans to uncover the grill and enjoy a juicy burger and a chilled Catskill brew, and I was happy to put those plans into action. There’s nothing like porch sitting with a cold one while the fire’s doing it’s duty!
Bright Waters Catskill 