Twenty-four hours from now the waiting will end, but my thoughts and feelings remain a jumble. Just now I am doing my best to concentrate on the future: bright water, the light washing the riverscape, enlivening the somber colors and textures as the first hint of springtime is betrayed. In the distance I catch the first faint of spray of bubbles, a trout has taken a grayish dun amid the turmoil of the riffling currents…

My life has been on hiatus for more than a month, scrambling to put pressing matters in order, trying to not thinking of that first blush of spring dawning without me on a favorite reach of water. My tackle has yet to be readied for the new season, the new patterns are not fully ordered in the proper fly box. The season’s opening rod remains undecided as the reel will accompany it, and no thought of replacing last year’s old leader and tippet. If I was suddenly freed before a favorite pool at the perfect level, clear, and hosting a flotilla of Gordon Quills bobbing off the riffle upstream I would be completely unprepared.

The Beaver Kill has dropped into the upper range of wadable flows once more, though the water hovers near forty degrees. A warming trend should begin on Thursday. The first teasers, little stoneflies, a few tiny black caddis, or maybe the first scouts, could show themselves by the weekend. For me, even in the best situation, I will consider myself lucky to spend a bit of time enjoying that afternoon warmth in my porch chair. I would find myself very grateful to find myself in that porch chair.

If I make it to my porch chair, then I can begin to stock that fly box of new dries, sort through the vest that has languished since the beginning of last summer, decide upon the first fly rod and reel and put the new leader and tippet on the freshly cleaned line. In that porch chair I can dare, and plan and prepare for the glory of a new season.

Should the weather continue in a favorable trend, spring will likely flirt with spring and anglers next week. Save untold devilment on the part of the Red Gods, the third week of April should be the actual commencement of the new dry fly season. That is as about as close to a normal spring, that rare season that seems to occur once or twice a decade, that we get to experience in these Catskill Mountains.

It is a cold, damp, dreary April day in the Catskills, a very typical early spring day this time of year. Reservoirs are spilling in the Delaware watershed and the rivers are high and rising, and I am smiling. I cannot help but send my wishes to the Red Gods to maintain the status quo, for no matter the conditions might improve, I will not be along any of my favorite reaches of riverbank when Day Zero arrives on Monday.

As years flow downstream and seasons pass into memory, I find each spring, each dry fly season, and even each hour along bright water to become more precious. Those of us who can count our time along rivers in decades are quite aware of the unmistakable truth: there are fewer of those precious moments ahead than lie before.

There is a simple black aluminum fly box that has been filling with new patterns during these months of winter. New ideas, fresh thinking, flies I cannot wait to cast upon these Catskill rivers are waiting there. Despite the questions brought of droughts and hard winters, the magic and promise of the season just ahead sparkles. The promise lies just out of reach, still unattainable.