The month has turned, and yet, warm sunshine still washes the Catskills. Friday has been the first day which felt really cold to me, but the weekend returned to cheerier skies. No rain has fallen, so the rivers’ flows have receded as they have for many days. October’s rainfall missed the average here by a full two inches.

So, what am I to do here in November? Water temperatures continue to decline, though the sun has a chance to warm skinny flows a degree or two. Can I refuse to walk amid bright waters when gifted another handful of lovely days?

Clear skies and bright sun illuminate every stone on the river bottoms, and the trout have remained remarkably shy. I have hunted larger water, but little can I show for the effort, other than the contentment of a long goodbye to the dry fly season. Many fishers miss the benefits of times like these, too eager to catch something.

Some of that comes from youth, insufficient years and hours along bright rivers. I have no claim to youth anymore. By any measure I am an elder statesman of the long rod, and by the benefit of time spent amid these special places, I have learned there is much more to them than a wriggling trout on my palm.

When I operated my small fly shop in the Cumberland Valley, I learned from many conversations with persons from the industry. A crude word to speak of something magic, but to many it has become nothing more than hype and dollars and cents. I did learn that how few days the average fly fisher spends upon rivers or streams actually fishing. That knowledge taught me how blessed I was, for I spent more days on the water during a typical week than the majority spent in a year.

Appreciating a life upon rivers must include time to reflect, and fishing by it’s true nature provides a great deal of such time.

I delight at the colors of the sky, the passing of the clouds, and the feel of the currents tugging at my legs!

I wonder at the delicacy of a tiny mayfly, and at the magical way millions can appear in a wink of time and then vanish just as quickly.

I marvel at how a two-foot-long trout can mark a speck of life passing in a rushing current and glide up to snatch it at the perfect moment.