September slips past me, and at last summer comes to it’s inevitable end. The days are shorter now, the morning chill lasts on into early afternoon, and the rivers keep no secrets beneath the thinning curtain of their depleted flows. A rise is an event on days like these.
Season’s end perennially comes too quickly, and autumn, sweet autumn, is brief in these Catskill Mountains.
I struggle to keep thoughts of winter from intruding, from taking my thoughts away from the simple beauty of these last weeks of the dry fly season.
I drove along the Beaver Kill Saturday morning, my somber visage reflecting my deep concern for the health of the great river. Flows have dropped even lower than last summers’ base flow conditions, and I fear for the onset of winter without Nature fully bolstering our meager rainfall throughout the last kiss of autumn. The torrents of May gave hope for the replenishment of the highland’s springs that give birth to all rivers, but September tells the tale… false hope!
My routine beckons: check the river gages, choose a battle plan and select my tackle for the day. Drive the melancholy thoughts from my head and look to savor the last hours of Catskill Summer!
Bright Waters Catskill 