I spent a few hours with friends, angling the West Branch yesterday afternoon. We enjoyed each other’s company, but neither the reported “strong sulfurs” nor the trout cooperated. Even midweek though, there was plenty of pressure. As we took down our bamboo rods, we had to dodge a phalanx of vehicles entering the gravel lot, some not caring if we moved or they ran over us. Attitudes aplenty, a sad picture of modern flyfishermen.
I wanted none of that crowd when dawn broke this morning. My friends had a date with a drift boat, but I craved a quiet summer day of solitude and fishing, and I found it.
I mismanaged my first opportunity. Believing my fly had fallen short of my mark, the rise surprised me. Trying to catch my late recognition, I snatched that fly away too late. To change my luck, I selected a new pattern from a vest pocket fly box filled months ago. My Trout Bug seduced a soft take but the rod bucked quite hard indeed! That brownie nosed the marks just at twenty inches, and my earlier miscue was forgotten.
My joy at finding success with the new pattern, I let myself get too exuberant and inattentive. Four feet of 5X tippet is not ideal for my size 12 terrestrial bug, and I lofted one too many casts it seems. The fly was taken, but twisting in the air had weakened the tippet just at the wrong moment. When I raised the rod, there was nothing there: no fish, no fly, and no tippet save but a four-inch souvenir. Perhaps a size fourteen hook will be more appropriate.
I covered the water, working each haunt until a gaggle of Canadas began to root in some vegetation and putting off any foraging trout. I headed to another pool, pleased to leave the big birds behind.
This day seemed my fishing worked out better when surreptitious takers came to my flies. My last of the day I simply understood that the trout had taken the fly, not clearly seeing it. No wallflower when hooked, this heavy brown proved the value of Vlad Reshenko’s perfectly calibrated spring and pawl drag in my Trutta Perfetta!
Finally in the net, that twenty-two-inch trout was not very happy. The fly was swallowed deep, so I clipped the tippet short and let him keep it rather than risk damaging so fit a warrior.
I had exhausted the morning, and afternoon showed the masses of storm clouds beginning to gather, so I walked slowly just in case I might find another lurker in range of the Sweetgrass Pent. Yes, an interesting quiet summer day…
Bright Waters Catskill 