It is half an hour past sunrise on the second day of October, and it is 37 degrees here in Crooked Eddy. It is most certainly autumn, though yesterday’s high temperature well exceeded it’s forecast.
I fished yesterday, carefully and thoroughly along a long reach of river, though my flies found no interested occupants despite the prevalent cover. It has been such a year upon the rivers of my heart.
I carried my Friendship Rod, and it cast a long, beautiful line as I prospected the cover from mid-river, despite the breeze which switched compass directions halfway through the afternoon. Far off delicate presentations completely ignored told me a story: the trout were simply not there to be tempted.
I continue to read the same reports: olives; olives and Isonychia! Funny that my eyes see only leaves upon the surface of the river. On my last visit to the big river, the mighty Delaware, I had the reach selected mostly to myself, though my gaze was uninterrupted by the rise of any trout. Another day, another hour? Well, Nature is capricious we all know.
Usually come October I am haunting different waters, visiting after midday to catch a brief rise to sparse little olives or to toss a late terrestrial to a bankside swirl, but there is no crystalline flow through some of my favorite reaches, just sun-bleached cobble. The mind tells the legs to walk farther, but the body feels only the ache of age in those limbs without the spirit’s refreshment.
It is the kind of season where patience may not be rewarded, at least not in the way we seek. The reward may be as subtle as the glint of afternoon light on the river. I know better than to take October for granted. Regardless of the gifts bestowed, or withheld, it is the last heartbeat of the dry fly season.
Bright Waters Catskill 