Sunday Morning

Sunday morning, and the third week of April begins. A chill has returned to the Catskills, snow showers lurk amid the weather forecast, and a too light rain is dripping on my roof.

We traveled to the Catskill Museum yesterday to tie a few flies for the Fly Tyers Rendezvous, the annual gathering held each spring by the Catskill Fly Tyers Guild. I saw some friends, proving I am still around, but I noted a much smaller group this year than memory recalls. It was a beautiful day, and I expected to see the Beaver Kill dotted with anglers as we drove along the Quickway, but their numbers proved also much reduced from the norm. Spring comes gradually, even after a good string of days that were downright summerlike.

I am still lingering, still wont to venture out to bright water. My hands may not feel the old strength, but for the grasp of a cork handled wand of split bamboo, yes! Time is my healer, and time is ever patient, so mine must match its duration of patience which my own.

I am just a bit closer each day. I still find signs though I remain short of my goal. I felt the tiredness yesterday afternoon, sitting there in the Wulff Gallery with eight dry flies tied before me.

If Nature graces with good hatches this season, the first comers I expect to debut this week. April’s third week I have known as a rare creature, a normal spring in these Catskill Mountains, no more often or no less than an early or late one. In truth, the difference amounts to a week, a brief time, yet to a winter bound angler who breathes not unless standing amid the dappled sunlight upon the river’s flow it seems an eternity.