Stepping Back to The Fourth

For many years, back before the Flexible Flow Management Plan altered Cannonsville’s cold water releases, the Fourth of July marked my final Catskill trip of the season. Those were the days of pulsing, and other questionable management practices, when late summer trips might mean fishing a warming river one day and a frigid one too high to wade the next. Early July seemed to be the last more or less stable period on the West Branch Delaware, and it was prime time for the ubiquitous sulfur hatches on the upper river. Those trips on and around the Fourth became known as the Summer Jam, and hold many fond memories.

Once the FFMP became effective, I ventured north throughout the summer, finding great, challenging dry fly fishing through July and August. There are memories there too, but the days of the Summer Jam remain special.

I rolled over yesterday morning, badly needing some rest after a week of four AM mornings and chasing trout before the sun burned away the early morning fog. It was the Fourth of July, and my thoughts ran back to seasons past once my morning coffee took effect. I decided to relax for a few hours and visit my old haunts along the West Branch.

I didn’t know if I would find a place to fish on a crowded holiday weekend, a fear that was reinforced when I pulled in early and had to wait for a parking spot. Plenty of anglers, armadas of kayaks and questionable watercraft on the river, yes, a holiday weekend to be sure. When I walked over to the river though, I didn’t see anyone fishing, and my smile brightened. I rigged my Leonard and knotted a little trailing shuck sulfur to the 6X tippet and waded in.

A young man had also entered the water and decided to shadow me as I crossed to search an old favorite reach of riverbank. He seemed not to know what he was supposed to do with that new fly rod with the bobber on the leader and, though he shadowed me all the way across the river, he quickly wandered back to midstream. I expected more fishermen to crowd in upon my little 60-yard stretch of water and was surprised when no one did.

Another old West Branch acquaintance joined me as I waited for more than an hour for some sign of a sulfur hatch though, a strong, gusty downstream wind. It had been calm and pleasant in Hancock, but something about Deposit seems to generate some serious summer winds. I figured the worst of those gusts were hitting 25 miles per hour, but I waited, hoping for some bugs and an occasional calmer spell to try to match mine with Mother Nature’s.

Eventually, a handful of sulfurs began to show, mostly the little guys matched with a size 20. I felt pretty good about my little shucked fly, tied on a 2XS size 18 hook, but when I finally spied a rise here and there, the trout showed no interest whatsoever. Now these weren’t feeding fish, just the kind that make one or two casual rises during a twenty-minute stare down, so that fly stayed knotted and I continued to play the patience game.

My patience was rewarded when a good fish began to rise downstream. It didn’t take more than ten steps to position myself to make the right cast in that wind, and I went to work on him between the strongest gusts. The drifts looked good, very good as a matter of fact, but he never gave me a look. Tying on small dry flies in high winds isn’t something I enjoy, particularly in the heat of the moment. My vision isn’t what it once was, and trying to slide the end of a wind-vibrated tippet through that tiny hook eye has become frustrating. Luckily, the Red Gods smiled upon me, perhaps granting special dispensation in deference to my calm demeanor and patience. Size 20 100-Year Dun ready to go!

My fish seemed to have gone quiet though. He failed to rise to the new fly despite repeating those lovely drifts. After several casts, I saw a heavy rise downstream, at the bottom of the small pocket of sunshine he had been rising in. I pulled a little more line from the LRH Lightweight and made a perfect pitch. One drift with that 100-Year Dun was magic!

We hooked up and there was the immediate sense of weight and power. The old Hardy wailed its music as he streaked back into the shade where the snags live, and I used the full arch of the bamboo and the pull of the wind-driven current to urge him back into the light. He ran down then, taking most of my fly line. With 6X tippet and that little dry fly hook, it was clear this wasn’t going to be easy.

Big trout often don’t like the vibrations going down the line when we reel them in. After a couple of turns followed by downstream runs, I stripped the line smoothly when I got him headed my way. That tactic got a lot of line back, and every time he stopped to shake his head, I reeled some slack back onto the Hardy. We played this game two or three times, and I realized that the wind-driven ripples on this normally quiet pool were oxygenating the water and giving him his second wind, maybe even his third.

You can do everything right playing a big trout on light tackle and still lose the game. Sometimes it comes down to exactly where that little fly hook digs in. If it doesn’t have a good bite, it pops out at the moment of truth. If it was down inside the mouth, the trout’s teeth will abrade the fragile tippet and break it. This time though, I found that tiny Sprite hook tucked tightly into the outside of his mouth, right where you want it to be.

Fourth of July, and an unmolested little reach of riverbank with a lot of memories despite a very crowded river. A fine vintage rod and reel that performed better in the wind and in handling the fish than all of the overhyped modern stuff does, and yea, my best fly. Nice new memory: a two-and-a-half-hour Summer Jam!

When the hatch finished and I waded back to the crowded parking lot, one of three guys parked next to me stopped eating his sandwich to say “that was a really nice fish you landed” with a smile. I told him thanks, that yes it was a good brown, twenty-one inches, and a hard fighter…really hard.