If I try, I can feel that cold spring water leaching the heat right out of my limbs…

This would be a good day for smaller waters, somewhere with plenty of shade, enough canopy to hold the cool air close to the stream. I sought what shade I could find on the West Branch, though there wasn’t enough to both stand in it and cast into the water flowing beneath it. Our big, beautiful rivers are wonderful, but a hot day will invariably roast you in your waders.

This is the kind of day to have an in with a member of one of those classic Catskill angling clubs, up, upstream where the little rivers meander under the forest, where the history hangs in the air like the morning mist. I have just the thing, a beautiful Ted Simroe bamboo rod, seven-and-a-half feet of poetry! Never before fished, and waiting just for me.

I watched the forecast just a few minutes ago: hot, steamy and stormy. Might it be too early in the season to walk the waters at dawn?

I have spent many an evening passing on into darkness. So often the anticipation craves for a heavy hatch, or risers dimpling a spinner fall from bank to bank of a favorite pool, but Nature doesn’t bestow those moments as often the storytellers say she does. Memories are full of a few, crowded moments trying to place the perfect cast just so in front of a trout, when on the very next moment I cannot see either the trout or the fly so hurriedly cast.

Mornings suit me better in my senior years. Mornings linger where evenings do not, as tailwater fog keeps the light at bay well past the rising sun. The cost might be a second roll over in bed, a full breakfast, but a few hours of beauty and solitude, to say nothing of the chance to bring leviathan nigh, is easily worth the dues.

Sitting here I ponder the chances, for it is not yet time, but long hours in overbearing sun saps both the energy and the joy. A never day spent upon bright water is lost.

A second week in the books with my regular fishing routine. I feel a little bit stronger every day. Fishing has been tough, particularly tough with very low flows after a nice wet spring and full reservoirs. I guess the predictors who advise the NYC water misers expect another dry summer, for they turned the faucets to low just as soon as spilling ceased.

I failed to find any concentration of our larger Bug Week mayflies, few March Browns, fewer Green Drakes. I have not seen a single Isonychia. To tell the truth, I have not covered as much water during these past two weeks, though I did put in one later evening before water temperatures started to climb. Fishing was slow.

I know it will be a steady climb, getting my strength and endurance back. I am, diminished. There is no way to hide from that fact, yet I still believe that bright waters will heal me given time.

Tonight is time for a celebration, as one of my best friends will be acknowledged as a Catskills Legend by the Catskills Fly Fishing Center & Museum. John Apgar has led a resurgence in the life of the Catskill Rodmakers Workshop, pushing growth of the skill programs by reaching ever more those who wish to learn the details of the craft of split bamboo fly rod making. At the 31st Catskill Rodmakers Gathering, attendees showed strong positive feedback at the condition of the facilities and it’s growing presence as a vital hands on learning experience, touching the history of Catskill fly fishing.

The Catskill Fly Tyers Guild celebrates thirty-three years to keep and expand the style of Catskill flies and fly tying in 2026 with John steps into the Presidency with more than 500 members worldwide! John as Vice President and a varied group of Board members has continued the vibrancy led by three-term President Joe Ceballos.

Is it any doubt I am still waiting for an appointment to get JA out for a day of fishing?

For me, these special two weeks were the ultimate days and nights of the dry fly season. There were different opportunities, events, each time I wandered along a stretch of riverbank. Those were the days of wonderful hatches; different days.

I drove out yesterday evening, knowing that some of Sunday’s crowd of visiting anglers would have packed up and headed home earlier. I expected some would remain, though I found one soul as I walked softly down the edge of the great river, the scene belied the impression of the full parking lot.

I stepped into the edge where the shade of the high mountain kept the bright sunlight from my eyes and watched the wide, shallowed expanse of the riverscape. Just here and there, a bright spec told me a very few of the seasonal yellow mayflies, sulfurs and Gray Fox, appeared and drifted unmolested downstream. I had should have visited this water nearly a week ago, but that still adjustment to my increasing activity is limiting my time on the water. I felt good last night, vigorous and hopeful to fish the special hours when day turns to night. It was a beautiful evening.

Nearing the earliest moments of the witching hour, the sky was filled with thousands of Psilotreta caddisflies. A few good trout rose out there in front of me, though none established any feeding rhythm. Gray Fox, sulfur and an appropriate caddis had drifted through these lies ignored. I had not found the secret it seems. In the low flow, the current appeared a vast moving sheet, barren of the wonderful subtly active darting microcurrents which can give action to the right fly. Life I believe was the secret, the missing unseen player. Whatever insect prompting the erratic rises provided it’s own movement, it’s magic of life drawing life to it in turn!

No matter prepared for this first evening, I realized late I had forgotten my un-tinted glasses. Cannot see a fly at distance, nor drive after dark without them, so I walked out as the vast numbers of those caddisflies still swirled above my head, accompanied by my dreams…