Bright Waters Catskill

Spring at last, spring at last, oh Lord its spring at last! Of course, there was more warmth here in the Catskills during the last week of winter than we will enjoy during this first week of spring, though the change of seasons still rates a celebration. I recorded eighty-three degrees on my porch Friday afternoon as the sun shone down from the western sky. It is a degree above freezing this morning, here in Crooked Eddy.

I finished up the winter with a little research, checking references and reading up on the late Ray Smith, Catskill fly tier, guide and sage of the Esopus Creek. I had read about Ray in some of the books collected here chronicling fly fishing in the Catskills, though I learned even more through a chance correspondence. Interested in adding to my little library, I had responded to a listing on the Classic Fly Rod Forum a couple of seasons ago and made contact with the widow of an angler named Terry Finger. Mrs. Finger told me a bit about her late husband, whose books she had offered, and was kind enough to send me an electronic copy of an article Terry had written about the man who had taught him to tie flies and fed his youthful interest in fly fishing, Ray Smith.

I had wanted to tie Smith’s signature fly, The Red Fox, and wished to learn any details of the pattern that I could. Like so many heralded Catskill flies, the fur of the red fox provides the body and the main coloration for the fly, though the photos I had seen looked to me to have more of the reddish coloring from the shiny guard hairs that give the animal its name. One of the things I learned in reading about Mr. Ray Smith was that color was of paramount importance in his fly tying. Legend has it he cared more for hackles with the perfect color than the lip-piercing stiffness many fly tiers covet.

While I was conducting my research, I came across a posting on the Forum asking about the Beaverkill Red Fox. When I think of Catskill patterns, I think of some of the fine works by author Mike Valla, and I found both red fox dry flies in his “The Classic Dry Fly Box” published by The Whitefish Press in 2010. Mike’s work provided a photo which confirmed the recipe posted on the Forum and, so armed, I picked up a red fox pelt and set about blending the appropriate dubbing for the fly spawned on the Beaverkill.

Both the Forum post and Mr. Valla’s book referenced Harry Darbee’s “Catskill Flytier” (Lippincott, 1977) in which Harry provided the following account of the pattern’s history: “Vera York, Neversink, picked from an alder branch one of Ed Hewitt’s secret flies, the Beaverkill Red Fox, and made it popular with many anglers. Johnny Woodruff got it from her and brought it to us. Soon it became known up and down the Beaverkill, and is credited for winning one of The Anglers’ Club contests.” With such a resume, what Beaverkill fly fisher could resist tying a few for use on the river?

Roy Steenrod’s venerable Hendrickson may be the most famous dry fly to come from the banks of the Beaverkill River, its fawn colored fox fur and blue dun hackle are notable differences from Ray Smith’s famous tie. Both of these gentlemen used woodduck flank for their tailing and winging, and both chose generally light shades of blended fox fur dubbing. Certainly there are a number of major hatches on both rivers that are well matched by a tannish colored mayfly, though the Hendrickson pattern has been aligned with Ephemerella subvaria for generations. The late Arnold Gingrich wrote that he felt the Esopus was “basically a Light Cahill stream”, though in analysis of his own comment he seemed to question his reasoning. Ray Smith certainly believed that light ginger hackle was more effective for his Red Fox. Traditional Light Cahills were tied with light ginger hackles as well.

Ed Ostapczuk, the reigning sage of the Esopus, has written that the dark Isonychia mayfly provides the best hatches on the Esopus today. The dark tone of Hewitt’s Beaverkill Red Fox immediately had me thinking about Isonychia. Curious, though I have it in mind that both of these classic Catskill dry flies will take trout on both rivers. In truth, the direct associations of classic Catskill dry fly patterns with specific species of mayflies is a more modern development. The early, innovating Catskill tiers developed flies that were effective under varying conditions throughout the season, and during multiple hatches, one of the reasons they have stood the test of time and countless trout.

Now that spring has dawned, our anticipation for the season of the dry fly grows moment by moment. Soon I will slide a classic Hardy reel into the seat of a favorite bamboo fly rod, open my fly box and choose a fly to offer to that first rising trout. If it begins like most such seasons, there will be a handful of mayflies noticed upon the currents, likely flies of more than one variety. The rise will not be that of regular feeding, it will be impulsive and sporadic, as fitful as the changing weather of spring in the Catskills. Perhaps the perfect opportunity to present a classic Red Fox or Beaverkill Red Fox, don’t you think?

I wandered along two rivers yesterday afternoon. The morning sun retreated, though the air temperature reached sixty degrees eventually, leaving me wondering what might have occurred if that sun had shone high and bright throughout.

Wading along the Delaware I saw the fledgling season’s first helicopter attack: a handful of Little Black Stoneflies buzzing low above the surface of the calm river. I was swinging flies of course, still in that winter mode as dictated by the forty-degree water. I had no takers, no bumps and rubbery tugs to be transformed into motion and excitement, but the sight of the little stones put a smile in my heart.

Wading out I finally saw an honest to God rise, actually two or three of them, though one just caught the corner of my eye. Judging the riseform – glad to be able to use that word again – and the type of water involved, I expected chubs more than trout. Since I had a North Country Spider knotted to my tippet, I did make a few casts, apologizing to myself and any divine entities overseeing my folly for my stubborn desires.

I know how unlikely it is that any significant trout would rise to those little flies there in the cold, flat current of the Delaware. Yes, perhaps if there were more than half a dozen of them over the course of a couple of hours of wandering, and perhaps if that sun had stayed out and warmed the surface two or three degrees… And yet, I had to begin my morning here, with fine thread, black dubbing, wild cdc feathers and a dun grizzly cape.

Tying morning dry flies is one of my little rituals you see, a simple act that stokes my enthusiasm and engenders hope for a touch of luck for the day. In truth, many tough fishing days have been saved with a fly tied that very morning! I have a couple of boxes full of early stoneflies, relics from my years along Maryland and Pennsylvania trout waters. In those warmer climes, the stones would often be the catalysts for the first dry fly fishing of the season. Little black stones skittering across the gentle pools of Gunpowder Falls, and the blacks and early browns bringing good trout splashing to the surface on Big Spring on a bright March afternoon, brought many smiles to my face.

I could tell you that it was simply more practical to tie those three little flies and drop them in a handy pill bottle, rather than moving a bunch of stuff and digging through the storage box that houses my many fly boxes to find those existing stoneflies. The fact is, I would rather practice my little ritual and try to seal a bit of luck for the afternoon!

I enjoyed the late morning sunshine on my river walk just now, listening to the snowmelt trickling down from Point Mountain – the sound of spring awakening. I found the river clear, its rocky margins clearly visible from the elevation of the road, imagining dimples from rising trout out there in the glare.

It is my hope that Quinlan will be the last winter storm of the season, and this week’s run of warmer days will mark the rebirth of spring in the Catskills. For the moment sunshine is warming the rivers, though that trend will moderate as snowmelt increases. It would be ideal if that moisture found its way into the soil and onward to the shallow aquifers that feed the springs in the high country, rather than spilling from the slopes as runoff. We shall see.

Certainly, there will be plenty of unsettled weather before April kisses us hello, though every angler wishes the best for his rivers during the tumultuous change of the seasons.

Here’s hoping that there are more nymphs wriggling in the gravel than last season’s hatches might lead us to believe; that the mountain tributaries hold a treasure trove of new trout fry that will find their way downstream in their time; and no spring floods shall disturb this rebirth within the rivers.

Dana Lamb, in his “The Ides of March” from Woodsmoke and Watercress, gave us his prayers for spring: “I’m looking for the April thunderstorms that wash away the drab dull colors of the wintertime. I’m looking for the spring to break wide open; to hear the phoebe and the robin and the meadowlark; to see and smell the violets and the blossoms on the apple trees; to watch the swallows sweeping low across the satin surface of the stream; to wait for ripples of the rising trout, as evening falls and nymphs emerge, and all the world is sweet with scent and song and gentle colors.”

I’m lining reels and waxing rods while the sun streams in through my window today, for there is hope on the breeze that winter has bid us farewell!

Ah the Neversink, thinking of that lovely river always makes me think of Gordon. Their legends are so inextricably entwined! The photo marks my first trip there, fishing the tailwater reach below Neversink Reservoir, that early quencher of the city’s thirst that drowned the prime historic waters haunted by Gordon, Christian, Steenrod and Cross, as well as old Ed Hewitt and his Rods. My heart aches that I cannot fish those miles of river today!

As a travelling fisher of the Catskills, I headquartered at West Branch Angler for nigh on a quarter of a century, and the Neversink was more than an hour distant from that second home. There were many miles of rivers between, and a great deal of wonderful fishing, so I heeded the call of the Neversink mostly under emergency conditions. That river would tend to be fishable when every mile of the Delawares and Beaverkill ran dangerously high in early season thus, when I encountered bad weather on those first spring journeys, I routinely checked the Neversink gages with hope in my heart.

My late friend, Dennis Skarka directed Michael and I to the tailwater reaches of his Neversink when we stopped at his wonderful Catskill Flies shop that chilly May morning in 2003. We found the river crystal clear as pictured, with a good hatch of Hendricksons bringing wild browns to the surface. We enjoyed a fine afternoon, catching a number of very nice trout on dry flies, despite the little handicap that unfamiliarity dealt us. We had come down the bank to find a large pool with duns on the drift and rises popping from mid-river to our bank. We quickly determined we were on the wrong side where it was too deep to cross, so we fished close from the bank until we caught the bankside risers, then worked our way out from the edge.

Though I have many memories of Hendricksons on the Neversink from those long-ago days, it is of course Epeorus pleuralis that is associated with Theodore Gordon’s namesake dry fly, the Quill Gordon. Students of Catskill angling history know that Gordon tied light and dark variations of his dun hackled peacock quill masterpiece to match any number of spring hatches, though the April Epeorus mayfly is the one hatch commonly called the Quill Gordon.

Though I have cast Gordon’s Quill on the Neversink, the better hatches of the mayfly I have fished have been on the West Branch Delaware and the hallowed Beaverkill. I recall one April when the Cannonsville Reservoir began to spill while I was driving the four hours from Chambersburg, so that I arrived to face higher flows than expected when I left home in the darkness.

With the river steadily rising, wading was a tricky proposition, until I eased into a backwater area on the West. There were large, dark mayflies on the subdued flows there, and good trout began to rise. I tied a size 12 Quill Gordon to my 4X tippet and stalked slowly upstream. I took three or four fine browns, trout from sixteen to eighteen inches long, until I reached a protruding rock and a more subdued, bulging rise that promised more. Several casts were required to bring a rise, as the trout seemed to move left and right in his lair behind the rock. At last, my fly and the fish met in the same line of drift, and the excitement increased.

The fight lasted about sixty yards, as the great fish turned and headed downstream on a slow, powerful run. This was a heavy fish, and I tightened the drag on my reel when he was halfway down the backwater. I knew if he reached the heavy current of the main river, it would be over. There was no stopping that fish and, when I tightened further just above the heavy current, he simply kept on going until my line went slack. The hook bend was bent wide open when I retrieved my line. No thrashing, no boiling, just a straight pull. I managed another pair of quality brownies before the hatch petered out, though I will never shake the memory of that one unseen trout, motoring south in spite of me.

At the beginning of my first full post retirement spring, I encountered a nice hatch of Quill Gordons on the high, rushing Beaverkill. The river was flowing over one thousand CFS, and there was very little in the way of wading available. I plucked a couple of the slate winged mayflies from the surface as they fluttered past my feet. While barred with dark grey, the lighter segments of their abdomens were a strong, dirty yellow. I took my first pair of brown trout for the season on a Catskill tie. No others rose to the hatch.

Back at my tying bench I remembered the stash of yellow dyed turkey biots JA had given me decades before, and created my own dubbing blend to match the Beaverkill Quill Gordons. They have since become consistent producers when Epeorus pleuralis is on the water.

It is my nature to experiment with fly patterns, and I have expanded my Quill Gordon collection with dubbed and biot bodied CDC Duns and my Theodore Gordon inspired 100-Year Dun. All have become staples in the early season fly box I’ve marked Gordons & Quills. The soft hackle is this afternoon’s creation, inspired by the success of the related patterns and my growing interest in England’s North Country flies. Since the Epeorus duns emerge near the stream bottom and make their way to the surface I included a sparse woodduck tail to provide the correct profile and a hint of motion. The hackle is a dark dun colored covert feather from a Mallard wing.

There are a few flies yet to be added to that fly box before it is slid into the pocket of my vest. I have hope for a crisp, breezy April afternoon with a perfect wading flow, and Gordon’s Quill fluttering upon the surface of bright water!

So, at last my own personal countdown has reached its final milestone: thirty days remain until that lovely second week in April, the week when I can expect to walk the riverbanks with some confidence in finding a rising trout to draw the interest of my dry fly. The signs have been mixed of late, reminders of winter closely followed by hints of spring, but clearly the time is near.

On Sunday last, I languished on my porch as the late afternoon sun streamed in, driving my thermometer to an unexpected seventy-five degrees! On Tuesday there was snowfall throughout the day, Crooked Eddy awakening yesterday to a white world, yet by afternoon I was on that porch again in streaming sunshine, tending the grill. We are told to expect a larger snowfall again tomorrow.

Sitting there as the grilling steaks hissed and crackled, an unseen bird serenaded me repeatedly. I closed my eyes with that sun on my face and listened, imagining a greening riverbank and a freshly hatched Hendrickson mayfly alighting on my hand…

Thirty days, and now the work begins with a new urgency. The boat must be readied, fly boxes sorted and the right gear for the new season stocked in the boat bag and tackle bag. The flies tied over the winter must be transferred to their correct boxes. The fly pouches in my vest will need to be restructured, the streamers swung through winter afternoons put away, and the early season dry flies fluffed and readied for their debut.

I shall make a better attempt at storing the experimental flies this season. I set aside a fly box for them this time last year, and then it never found its way into the vest. A few flies were taken from it at various times and stuffed in my regular boxes making them difficult to locate at those magic moments. Experimental patterns are intended for the trout that ignore the normal, proven imitations that stock my regular boxes. I see no other path to determining if their designs, wrought of some new theory or line of inquiry, are better, truly more effective improvements over my standard fare.

Other than the classic Catskill patterns, my boxes hold few flies one might see in another’s fly boxes. In truth, even my Catskill standards are most often tied with my special blends of dubbing, color matched to the parade of mayflies and caddisflies I have observed over three decades of angling these Catskill rivers. Not to say that my flies are revolutionary, their forms and styles are not unique, for hundreds of fly tyers have similar ideas, witness the same hatches, and no doubt ponder the same responses of the trout. An individual tyer’s flies have subtle differences, though to us these subtleties are the stuff of legend.

Last evening, I enjoyed John Shaner’s presentation of two framed collections of historic flies recently cataloged from the CFFCM’s archives. Among the treasures discussed and reviewed were flies tied by Theodore Gordon and Herman Christian. I smiled at the flies with single canted wings included in both collections, inspiration for my own 100-Year Dun. This style of tie seems to have largely disappeared for a century, the Catskill school evolving with the upright divided wing construction Gordon observed in Frederick Halford’s flies from England. That has provided me with a perfect opportunity to show the trout something different during many past seasons!

Snow is coming today, perhaps throughout the day, and I am settled in for another winter morning. Was it just Sunday evening that I sat on the porch in shirtsleeves? The warmth of September seems far away.

March gave way to a brightness of spirit in the old days, whether snowy or sunlit on any given day, there was always the expectation, the confident belief that tomorrow could be bright and warm: a day for fishing!

After my fly shop days, I worked a four-day schedule, designed to give me time to fish, to hunt, to write and to dream. Winter was still a rather bleak season, though our fishing remained at least somewhat available, thanks to the gifts of the limestone springs. The February warmup would come and go, in some years offering the first taste of dry fly fishing for the season in waiting, but March was always filled with new hope.

I haunted Big Spring, once Nature had healed the damage from the Commonwealth’s mismanagement, and I began to look at March as a dry fly month! Many were the Monday mornings that I walked the meadows, hunkering along the banks to watch the bright gravel, once the morning sunlight had its chance to banish the overnight chill.

March routinely brought days of promise. Early in the month the stream’s bright water might offer Blue-winged Olives with a touch of overcast or the Little Black Stoneflies on a sunny afternoon. Some days both would appear. These were not the heavy hatches so often vaunted in angling lore, the insect populations were recovering after all, but there would be flurries of activity to reward the patient angler. Hunting these occurrences, I never knew what magic the subtle rings I spotted might foretell. Big Spring held some prodigious rainbows in those days.

Stalking closer and studying the riseforms would fill in the details of the story. The quick little bursts in faster water were usually young rainbows, some hand-sized and still parr marked, while others stretched to nine or ten inches, showing the typical crimson band along their flanks. These fish were always fun, their wild energy overflowing from the hookset, bringing terrible bends in a light three weight rod, or a vintage bamboo.

It was the subtle, bulging riseforms stalked in the slow reaches that caused my heart to race. This was a game for 6X tippet and a prayer, for many of those Big Spring bows exceeded twenty inches. Deceived, they would streak away across the shallow flats, destined for their favorite weed bed! Many times, my frail tippets succumbed to those weeds, or one of the rocks projecting from the gravelly bottom. There was no controlling that first rush, nor the second.

March was a special time back in those years, beginning with sparse olives and finishing with the Early Brown Stoneflies in a full size 16. An impromptu hatch of Early Browns provided one of the wildest flurries on a sunny afternoon. I was walking along the bank, stopping frequently to watch each reach of holding water, when I saw the first stone fluttering on the surface. A trout rose hard in the run before me, and then another, as I cut off my Little Black Stone and knotted a larger brown version. The first trout took the fly greedily, while more rises began to pop throughout the run. In perhaps twenty minutes it was finished, but five quality rainbows had come to net during the rush, the largest a solid eighteen-inch fish who ran and leaped throughout the run.

It seems funny now, still waiting for a reluctant Catskill spring, to remember how I once looked forward to fishing in March! The limestone springs provided a unique challenge in those days. With much of the aquatic vegetation dying back in winter, I always thought of those times as the bare season. A stalking angler was much more obvious to the trout given the water clarity and more open pools and channels. That clarity also demanded the finest tackle. Six X tippets are not the angler’s primary choice for trout measured in pounds, but the wild trout were wary of anything heavier.

My common winter rig was a three-weight rod of medium action, a small disc drag reel, and an old gray Orvis fly line that was as subtle as possible. Still, my leaders ran to sixteen feet. I wish someone still offered a nice gray line like that. Stealth matters. The soft rod and gentle drag would give me a fighting chance when I fooled leviathan. Though many battles were lost, the elation of that first rush was something! The memories warm me even now, as I wait for snowflakes.

Sixty-five degrees yesterday afternoon and, though the wind kept me from feeling the warmth, it was good to be fishing again. I gave it three hours, until the runoff from the morning’s showers colored up the river. Alas the trout chose neither to take advantage of the day nor the flies I offered on a tantalizing swing. All good, for I was out fishing, and there is no better way to spend a March afternoon.

Of course, by the time I pulled into my driveway and put away my tackle, the wind had dropped so that I was a little overwhelmed with how comfortable it felt on my porch. The afternoon sun visits regularly you see, and without the winds I enjoyed out on the river, the porch was positively balmy. Sitting back with a frosty Cold Snap and a snack, I nearly dozed off. The thermometer told the tale: seventy-five glorious degrees!

I noted a comment from a follower today, asking if I might post the specifics for my Full Dress Copper Fox. I am most happy to oblige.

Thread: Uni 6/0 in Rust Brown

Hook: Size 10 3XL nymph hook, Daichi 1720 or equivalent

Bead: Brass or tungsten in copper color 5/32″ dia.

Tail and Wing: Red Fox tail

Body: UV Polar Chenille in copper

Hackle: Hen Pheasant covert feather

Collar: SLF Prism dubbing in rust brown

For the tying: Place bead on hook and slide to eye, wrap thread on behind it and wrap down the shank to the beginning of the hook bend, then back three turns toward the eye. Cut a small clump of fox tail fur and tie it in at that thread location, wrapping the thread over the butts, stopping at a point about 1/8th inch behind the bead. Trim the remaining butts and spiral your thread back to the initial tie-in point for the tail. Cut about a 3″ piece of the Polar Flash Chenille, pull a few fibers back over the fur tail and tie in the chenille binder, then move your thread up to the tie down point for the tail butts. Wrap the chenille forward, brushing the long flash fibers back toward the tail with each wrap, and tie it down when you reach the tie down point for the fur tail butts. Cut another small clump of fox tail for the wing and tie it in thoroughly on top of the hook, then clip the butts. I like to put a couple of drops of tying cement on those tie-down wraps at this point. Select a hen pheasant covert feather or smaller barred body feather, remove the fluff and gently stroke the barbs away from the tip. Tie it in by the tip and clip the excess feather tip, and then wrap the hackle collar. Tie off the hackle, clip the feather stem and dub a small collar in front of the hackle up to the back of the bead. Whip finish tight behind the bead. I prefer double whip finishes, that is two five or six turn whip finish knots, before clipping the thread.

Enjoy tying a few of these flies if you are so inclined, and have some fun fishing them, slow and steady on the swing in these wintry water temperatures!

I have a thing for movement flies, patterns that win some points in the imitation category, but do most of their scoring due to a strong image of life. The little streamer fly I dubbed the Full Dress Copper Fox is a perfect example. It has a general sort of blurred baitfish shape that is suggestive of a sculpin perhaps, though it was not designed to mimic the sculpin profile. The flashy, copper UV enhanced body could give the impression of any brownish, coppery fish, but movement is its primary attraction.

I tied a couple of little minnows the other day and have since decided that a minnowy version of the Copper Fox was in order. Enter the Ghost Fox: UV pearl and white combined with the same formula as its predecessor. I love Arctic Fox tail. The late Ed Shenk told me decades ago that it was his preferred material for his famous Shenk’s White Minnow, a fly that has a legendary reputation. There has always been something about the natural fox fur that makes flies more productive, and I have used it for my Shenk Minnows and a lot of other streamers during the past thirty years.

Fox tail moves well in the water, yet keeps its shape better than marabou, which can roll back and get caught on the hook when swimming and twitching through the water. The bulk of the soft fur gives the fly a touch of buoyancy too I think, even when well wetted.

I tend to fit a small tungsten bead to the head of these small streamer flies, giving it enough current penetration to sink quickly early in the swing, and being generally safe to fish on one of my off-season bamboo rods. I still watch the winds when I make my choice between cane and graphite for a couple of hours of winter fishing. Strong, unexpected gusts can still damage a rod when they drive your fly into the blank in mid-cast, weighted or not.

Perhaps the roller coaster of our February/March weather will give me the chance to wander out there somewhere and give the Ghost a swing. It has a lot to live up to considering the recent accomplishments of the Copper Fox!

I went fishing today. No, it wasn’t planned, not really, but then the sun did make an appearance and I decided to scratch the itch. The river brought a chill to my legs rather quickly, but the sun was high and bright above that ridgeline to the west making it almost comfortable.

I had harbored hopes of getting out this week. Monday was to be the warmest day according to the forecast, but the sun remained hidden, the winds blew hard from the Northwest, and the day simply underperformed. Today was a gift then, wanted though not expected, particularly with snow coming tonight and tomorrow’s return to the deep freeze.

The drive, in waders and winter layers, got me warmed up nicely, so too the hike down river to the pool I had decided to prospect. A nice warm torso, bathed in sunshine, put me in a good frame of mind, and that first cast rocketed out three quarters of the way across that wide run of water. I was hopeful that my little morning minnow would swing down and shimmy up one old brownie equally enthused by the warner than expected afternoon, but it was not to be. No matter, I was out hip deep in the river and stealing a few hours of salvation from the icy grip of winter.

Once I was back at home, I noticed the sun beaming down on my porch and got to thinking I might steal another moment or two. There was a package of fresh ground beef waiting in the refrigerator, so I put my boots back on, uncovered the grill, and took the empty propane tank up to the drugstore for a swap. I still try to pay heed to the heart surgeon that saved my life nearly seven years ago, so I don’t get to enjoy very much red meat. An early March hamburger deserved to be grilled, and that sun was just warm enough for me to pull it off.

Porch sitting is one of my favorite evening pastimes: the grill flaming, a cold beer in my hand, and that lovely view of the mountain with the sun easing down behind it. That beer tasted phenomenal, and the burger, ahh… well it made me forget it was winter for a little while.

The Weather Channel heralded the first of March as the beginning of meteorological spring, though our temperature in the twenties still says winter here in Crooked Eddy. I welcome the upgrade, something every angler’s spirit can use after nearly four months of frigid, mostly fishless weather. Forty days to go until I might actually be able to wander a riverbank with the expectation of a Quill Gordon, Blue Quill, olive, even a Hendrickson drifting past on its way to meet the rise of a trout.

Fly Fest lies behind us now, and it was an enjoyable day of tying and talking flies and fishing with a like-minded group of anglers. This was the first such event since the last Leap Year, when the world changed suddenly around us, and gatherings became taboo.

I tied about a dozen flies, sharing patterns and styles with interested seekers of Salmo trutta and its brethren, even walking one brand new fly tyer through the steps and techniques for tying a comparadun. The young angler advised he had started learning to tie flies this winter, and comparaduns became his first project. They are not the easiest fly to tie well, so I hope the tips I shared make it go a bit easier for him. He should find a lifetime of enjoyment in the craft.

I looked up at one point to see a couple of acquaintances uncasing and admiring a bamboo fly rod. I wanted to join them and view the treasure they had brought, but there was a gentleman at my side inquiring about the 100-Year Dun in my vise that deserved my attention. I wonder still which maker’s rod that might have been.

The Catskills of course have a long and cherished history in regard to the art of the split bamboo fly rod. The lineage traces back to Hiram Leonard when he moved his Maine rod shop to Central Valley, New York, establishing the rod shop that would be the wellspring of greatness. Thomas, Payne, Edwards and the Hawes brothers all issued from that gathering of talent in later years, and the talent has continued to grow to include some of the best rod makers of present days. Catskill Legend Bobby Taylor worked at Leonard since high school, and Dennis Menscer, inspired by Fred Thomas’ legacy decades ago, continues the Catskill tradition today, crafting his remarkable rods beside the West Branch Delaware. Is it any wonder enthusiasts gather here?

There’s a cane rod in the corner here that longs to cast a line on the river. A more temperate day is promised, though with twenty mile per hour winds fit to drive the chill through one’s bones. I weigh the advantages to my spirit against the physical discomfort…

I have yet to organize my fly boxes for the coming season, a task that, while necessary, fails to bring the same joy as tying the new patterns that must find a place there; and there are always new ones.

March first, and I should tie a few March Browns in observance! I have always smiled at the name, for they are flies of May. It seems the British cousin appears in February and March on their chalk streams, and the name was carried forward in the early history of dry flies here. Would that this burly fellow would grace our Catskill rivers this month, though it would then steal some thunder from Gordon’s Quill and my favorite Hendrickson.

There are still a couple of empty reel spools which require fly lines, and it is past time for me to decide which to wind on. These will need leaders of course, and notations in my book, lest I later struggle to recall which line they carry. There are a few things ready to be moved along that another might enjoy fishing them, and I should give some attention to that. Busy work, duties to pass the last days of waiting.

Forty days, a brief span considering the cold quiet months that lie behind, yet forever for a heart that longs to be with rivers!

I stole a couple of hours from winter’s whirlwind yesterday, trapped in a three-day stretch with highs in the fifties, before the new snowstorm comes calling.

The gift of time on the water calms my soul and refreshes my spirit, a necessary balm before I must face winter anew. My countdown sits suspended at forty-six days, closer to the goal, yet still far away. In truth I accept that my timetable has no control upon Nature’s, and the Catskill winter shall have its due.

With the luxury of residence, and with time at my disposal, I have found at least a chance to worship at the altar of the dry fly during that second week of April. That chance may be anything from the appearance of a few quivering mayflies to a full-blown hatch with rising trout, though the later quite likely may not come to pass until May lies in the doorway.

Last year the first blessing from the river was received on April 12th, a gift, for I had seen no mayflies nor any rises until that single ring appeared before me on the wide Delaware. One ring, one cast and one take, and the glory of another dry fly season began with a lovely brown trout! It would be a week before I encountered the season’s second rise. A Catskill spring comes in its own time.

It is another beautiful morning, though I wait for Nature to deal her blow. Half an inch of rain is expected to arrive just as the water temperature flirts with its daily peak. I debate whether to take the chance, to seek bright water before the chill of wind-driven winter rainfall steals the glory from the day. A single cast can male all the difference…

It is my understanding that the British were rather halting in their embracing of the catch and release doctrine, particularly in their chalkstreams. It seems they felt that brown trout, having attained a few seasons of experience and having been caught and released, might well be uncatchable henceforth. I believe their concern was valid, though perhaps they failed to recognize the supreme challenge of adapting their angling to keep up with the adaptation of the trout.

I whole heartedly believe that a trout develops, that is he gets better at being a trout and thus much less easy to dupe with an imitation of his food. A couple decades ago some may have called me a heretic for that statement, though science has come to embrace the belief that trout not only learn by experience, but pass these traits along genetically to future generations.

I do not maintain that every individual trout possesses these sublime abilities to avoid angling, though certainly many of them do. Just as human beings vary considerably in mental and physical abilities, I find it easy to accept that the lesser creatures share this variety.

I have long maintained that we must seek to refine and develop our angling abilities and our flies. Imitation has always been a puzzle, for no matter how much science and research can teach us, no one will ever know how a fish’s brain interprets the signals it receives from his senses. I find that limitation interesting and learned long ago to accept it as fact and move on. As a result, I have enjoyed more than three decades of fly tying and experimentation.

When winter locks me indoors, my thoughts turn to experimentation and my continuing quest for better imitations. As a confessed disciple of the Cult of the Green Drake, that regal mayfly is often in my thoughts.

I have called this morning’s variations on my 100-Year Dun Gordon Duns to reflect my original inspiration for the entire spectrum of canted wing Catskill influenced mayfly patterns that populate my fly boxes. Early in my experimentation with this style of Green Drake imitation, I hackled the flies in the thorax style originated by the late Vincent C. Marinaro. Marinaro’s design placed the wings at the center of the hook shank, and his crisscross hackling and perpendicular, outrigger tails balanced his ties on the surface very effectively. Wings set amidships worked with that style of hackling perfectly, but the forward set canted wing I took from my studies of Theodore Gordon’s Catskill originals did not produce the same critical balance when combined with the Marinaro hackling.

I selected an oversize hackle and wound it around the canted base of my wing in a lopsided parachute style and suddenly that balance was achieved!

Canting the parachute hackle put the barbs to the rear of the wing below the hook’s centerline, supporting the heavier end of the fly – the end including the hook bend. The fly “cocks” as Mr. Gordon and the English would say, riding the water very naturally.

This morning’s trio of patterns began with the Marinaro crisscross and then the idea became combining that style with the conventional Catskill style hackling. The first Theodore Gordon fly I ever saw was in a glass case at the Catskill Flyfishing Center and Museum. The canted wing, tied with a single bunch of woodduck flank fibers caught my attention immediately, as well as the extremely sparse hackling that looked to have been tied mainly in front of the wing. The fly on the left in the photo gallery above modifies this style with two wraps behind the thorax dubbing ball, then one wrap crossed in front of the wing below the shank and behind the wing above it, finishing with two more wraps in front. I wasn’t happy with this hackling either, so I changed things up for the center fly.

This style has a tapered thorax as opposed to Marinaro’s “ball”. I made two conventional wraps behind the wing, the first at the edge of the dubbing and the second on the tapered thorax so the fibers can’t. I moved the third wrap to the front of the wing, crossed over to finish that wrap tight to the back of the wing on top of the shank. Coming around I moved back in front of the wing onto the tapered thorax and tied the hackle off. There are four wraps of hackle total on this fly, and I like the way it sits on the table.

The fly on the right was wrapped in similar fashion, though I made three tight wraps behind the wing Catskill style, crossed over as before, and then finished with two wraps in front, spaced away from the wing instead of tight against it on the taper of the thorax. This one looks a bit more like a Catskill tie, as it doesn’t have the radical cant. These were all trials to so what little variations in hackling style might do the the way the fly will sit on the water. Number two is my favorite, though I would not take any bets on it to out fish the canted parachute 100-Year Drake.

I do think the Gordon Dun will ride very nicely on faster water. It should float a bit higher on the chop, weather natural current or windblown, and still have that seductive slouch like a big mayfly. Hopefully the Red Gods will lead me to a good hatch of Drakes this season and I will have a chance to see just how the trout react to it.

The wind and rain actually rousted me from sleep this morning. It was a bit before five, and the house seemed to be moving from the force of the gusts, with the rain driven so hard we feared it might penetrate the siding. There was no doubt that a thoroughly inhospitable day lay ahead, but I rolled up and fumbled for my moccasins anyway.

The first mug of coffee fortified me enough to head for my tying bench, and I began assembling the materials for some quill bodied dry flies. With any luck, the first Hendricksons are just fifty days away, and I felt it was time to replenish my supply of standby patterns.

Since I brush my quill fly bodies with a protective coating, I tie these flies in stages, a production technique learned at the vise of Ed Shenk. I tie tails and bodies, a quick whip finish and a coat of Hard As Hull, then the hooks are hung in my little fly rack to allow the glossy overcoat to harden. I started with the Red Quills then moved on to the Little Dark Hendricksons, all of these in size sixteen. With those set aside I decided I had earned some breakfast.

Production style fly tying does get the boxes filled, and there is another bonus besides efficiency. The flies look better! Tying several flies of a size and pattern, I tend to get in a rhythm, and that leads to better concentration and repeatability.

After my eggs and Canadian bacon, I continued with my quill obsession, tying two each of the red and dark tan bodies in size 14. Mayflies vary from season to season and riffle to riffle, so even though I know to expect sixteens, I want to be prepared for eventualities. While those were drying, I took a reading break with the late Roger Menard’s My Side of the River. It helps pass the day when you can relax at stream side with a like-minded angler.

The afternoon session included some tan Hendrickson quills and a pair of soft hackles. So with two dozen flies ready for April I called it a day, taking a moment to put away all those materials. Two dozen flies is a respectable bit of work for a house bound fisherman, so I feel like it has been a productive day. Yes, I do wish the sunshine that’s lighting the curtain above my bench was evidence of the real warmth of an afternoon and not the false image of winter. The temperature has fallen throughout the day and now sits in the low twenties and, though the wind isn’t trying to take down the walls anymore, it’s still strong and gusty.

Quill bodied dry flies have proven themselves for more than a century, and I particularly enjoy tying and fishing my 100-Year Dun style flies to celebrate that history. When I find a trout that looks for movement before taking, I offer the CDC dun variation. If that fish demurs, I know the wing silhouette of the 100-Year Dun can be a reliable trigger. I have a high degree of confidence in both of these flies as they are proven performers.

Tomorrow looks to be another very wintery day, but there is a Catskill Fly Tyers Guild Zoom meeting to provide some entertainment. Sunday might just shape up well enough to be a decent outdoor day, and next week could actually tempt me back to the river, at least before the snow comes.

Our rivers are elevated from rain and snowmelt, though I hope we escaped any significant ice damage. Hancock has been under a flood watch today due to that possibility. The riverbanks are still piled with big slabs of ice from our last rainfall event, the one that melted most of the snow. My friend JA remarked last weekend that the area around the Beaver Kill Covered Bridge looks like a moonscape. A run of nice stable weather would be a welcome change. Forty something degree late winter days are downright pleasant.