I came to the call Monday, ignoring my best judgement of the challenges the weather presented and welcoming the new season. In truth, I did see a couple of rises, the type anglers refer to as one timers, for they seem never to be repeated. I certainly didn’t expect better, for the surface of the cold river proved quite lifeless. Even a swinging fly was ignored.
One again, spring has begun with low water, a blessing during those warm, sunny days in mid-March, and a curse now that the calendar has increased my anticipation for the coming of the dry fly. Low flows warm quicker, but they also cool very rapidly, as witnessed by this morning’s river temperatures in the low thirties. Rain is forecast, but it has been forecast multiple times in recent weeks without falling in any meaningful amounts.
My thoughts are haunted by the memory of the long months of ice bound rivers just past. Judgment and experience tells me the hatches will be late, that my longing for the best of angling will endure. Science believes the nymphs crawling about the gravel require a certain number of days at a specific minimum temperature to mature. They speak of degree days, and it seems reasonable, but then again there is something of supposition about the idea. Anglers wise to the ways of Nature have learned to expect most anything!
Though I fished most of my life near home, in waters where sulfurs and terrestrials provided the bulk of the precious gift of dry fly fishing, I do believe that I have tied more flies to match the Hendricksons than any other insect. I have boxes filled with them, some I have not seen for several seasons, and when I think of springtime I reach for the wood duck flank and fox fur and a classic medium dun hackle cape. Such is their magic!
Bright Waters Catskill 