Tipped In White

Winter whispered a little reminder after dawn, just in case we have forgotten is still in charge.

I find the thermometer dropping down below freezing is a gift. River flows had been far too warm for the middle of April after several eighty-degree days, so Nature’s little adjustment is welcome. I won’t be convinced that a more normal season of rainfall is due for the Catskills until I actually see it, feel it, and wade in cold, seasonal flows in it.

I would like to see perfect temperatures and good levels as May closes out and welcomes mid-June on the Beaver Kill, and I want to watch the capacities keep flirting with the 95% mark as the reservoirs reflect the early summer sun on a still morning. I want to thrill us a long, glorious season, the kind I know a Catskill Summer, with highs in the mid-seventies and cool mornings where the mist raises the hairs on my arms at daylight.

It seems like a long, dim tunnel is coming to it’s end, and there is just a glimmer ahead, with something bright and cool and wonderful.

The chill of the river penetrates despite the layers of fleece beneath my waders. I have a sense of tingling, every nerve, as I watch the soft kiss of his neb touches the surface, while the rings emanate outward. One foot glides above the cobble then nestles gently back down. The fifteen minutes I take to close the distance to fifty feet seems more than an hour. That neb and it’s rings continue, but at long intervals rather than the regular beats of a confident feeding trout on a steady hatch.

I cannot say that I have clearly seen a winged dun meet that neb, so I have knotted a flush lying pattern with a low CDC crown. The first back casts feel stiff, but the smooth power of the vintage bamboo and the line begins to flow, feeling familiar, and then the cast is away…