Bright Waters Catskill

I traveled a bit yesterday, at least I would call it travel as far as this year is concerned, saying hello and goodbye to the storied Neversink in an afternoon. Expecting crowds throughout the season, I had avoided this lovely river since my visit with Matt Supinski last autumn. I had been told the crowds had vanished with the coming of autumn, and I wished to spend at least a few hours where past memories had been made.

NYC has been playing games with reservoir releases of late, and the Neversink has been one of its pawns, dropping to less than 90 cfs, then bounding up to more than 200, before dropping again. I wondered if the trout would be active, though I did not hold out a great deal of hope. With some 237 cfs of flow yesterday, the little river looked grand, clear and cold with the tannin color I expect, but my flies found no takers.

I saw one rise, a significant splash along a windswept grassy bank that recalled last September’s foray. Arriving at water’s edge, I plucked a fat grasshopper from the hood of my car, and told Matt I had expected isonychia mayflies rather then hoppers. He smiled and dug into a fly box, handing me a huge hopper pattern he’d tied with one of Frosty Flies’ realistic bodies. The fly was twice the size of the live hopper on my hood, but I cut back my leader and tied it on, and at Matt’s urging, set about prospecting the hides along the grassy banks upstream.

Working a pocket on an edge where I had taken a chunky brown the previous summer, Matt’s mega hopper disappeared in a heavy swirl and a fine trout bolted into the current, putting a decided bend in my light five strip bamboo rod. After a spirited battle, the Neversink surrendered a beautifully colored wild brown trout of nineteen inches. Moral of the story: if a world class guide and fly angler gives you a fly, fish it; even if it makes you chuckle a bit!

I worked that heavy run with one of my hoppers, two isonychia patterns, and an October caddis. The rise was never repeated, and I must admit I wished I still had Matt’s big hopper in my fly box this time. It would have been nice to tempt another big brownie from the dark, mysterious waters of the Neversink.

Matt has been hard at work preparing the debut of his new online magazine, Hallowed Waters Journal. The first issue is due to arrive today, and I am looking forward to enjoying my friend’s noted flair and creativity. He’s likely in the beginnings of a run of Chinook salmon or Michigan steelhead by now, so I have no doubt his world is a whirl of activity. Wish I was there swinging flies in the mighty Muskegon beside you Matt!

Once again the western Catskills have been cheated by an approaching weather system, and our rivers are terribly low. We were forecast to receive better than an inch of rain, and now today’s revised estimate is three hundredths of an inch, barely enough to dampen the grass. The eastern reaches of our mountains are getting something right now, but only time will tell if they get enough to do the rivers any good.

I have been searching for rising fish for more than a week without finding any. I had hoped that rain and freshened flows might improve that situation. Skinny water cools faster overnight, and the water temperatures are already well down in the fifties at their daily peaks, and the forties are knocking at the door. Certainly I could simply be missing the little hatches and activity periods, that is easy to do when these occurrences are brief and spotty, but I fear that winter approaches with haste. It is a feeling I have had since September.

The long range prediction was for the second half of October to be warmer than normal in the East, but our chances for that Indian Summer are fading fast. Our only hope seems to be the last week of October. How I would love to enjoy one last burst of dry fly activity!

I am a dry fly fisherman by choice, and that choice limits me to six months of joy each year. There are seasons when Mother Nature shaves time from each end of that wondrous period; winter lingers, droughts and heat waves persevere. Yes, I do walk the rivers in the off season, for I am drawn to bright water, but a mild, knowing melancholy is my companion until the trout rise again.

My thoughts have followed me to the tying bench, where my fingers have fashioned soft hackles of late. Swinging flies is how I get through the other six months, that and wandering the mountains.

I dressed to go out yesterday, but the chill from the damp breeze caught me short. There is something about a damp fifty degree day that chills me to the bone, much more than winter ever could. A bit warmer today they promise, so I’ll go, go and try to find a run deeper than the toes of my boots. I’ll search the surface for a little boil, a dimple, those blessed concentric rings that promise me the end has not yet come.

It was wrong of me I know, and though I may offer my reasons, there are no excuses for my failing. I had tried in good faith to fish a dry fly, relocating to a somewhat more protected pool. For a while the wind stayed down and I did fish the dry, an isonychia that I led carefully down multiple chutes over an uneven, rocky bottom that simply screamed holding water. Nothing rose, and before long the wind found me again and redoubled its efforts to drive me from the water. It was then that I failed, cut off my dry and knotted a soft hackle wet fly to my tippet, committing the sin of fishing the sunk fly.

It is not yet winter, though the wind driving through me on a fifty degree afternoon felt something like it. The wind was relentless, and it simply would not allow me to make a presentation with a dry fly. A few mayflies fluttered upon the surface, but no fish rose to sample one. I had missed two days of fishing already this week, and I wasn’t going to succumb to the evil wind and give up. So I sinned, I fished the wet fly down through all of that beautiful water I had covered with the dry.

My misdeed was not rewarded, and as I neared the tail of the pool I changed flies again, this time a soft hackle – streamer hybrid I had concocted in one weak moment at the vise. Something to sink a little deeper, something with flash and movement to tempt the fish I knew had to be there, too sluggish in the chilled water to rise for the mayflies that danced above them; a winter fly.

The swing was a viable presentation, and the only one the wind would allow, but that is no excuse for a sinner.

I cast and mended and the fly swung slowly as the current relaxed in the tailout and the line suddenly felt heavy. I struck and raised the rod and felt the pull of a fish, the drag of the CFO chirped and I began to reel and fight this unseen fish. When I brought it close in the clear water I began to laugh out loud at the size of the chub that was fastened to my evil sunken fly.

The wind continued to buffet me, and I cast between the gusts and continued: cast, mend, and swing; then two steps down and do it again. There was a jolt at last, a bent rod aloft, and a chorus from the old CFO. This was no chub! The thrashing fight, short, hard runs amid the screaming of the reel; it was joyous! The dark river bottom hid my foe from me until I finally drew him to the net. Imagine my surprise when a broad flanked Delaware rainbow more than eighteen inches long lay there quivering in the mesh!

We were miles from the Delaware, there in that lonely windswept pool on the Beaverkill, but that trout’s origin was never in doubt. A grand reward indeed for my sinful departure from the dry fly.

The chill lingers, and though I see mayflies on the water, no trout will rise. It is the same here as it was on the Delaware the last few times I angled her. Has the dry fly season slipped away without the ultimate pleasure of Indian Summer afternoons and trout sipping in the quiet pools? So it would seem, but I will not put away my dry flies just yet. Most of October is still before us, and winds may calm and the sun warm both air and water once again. Forgive me my failing, a divergent for just a moment. I still have faith that trout will rise again before the white blanket of winter falls.

New York City’s Department of Environmental Protection chose the prelude to brown trout spawning and a period with miniscule flows coming in from tributaries to cut the release from Cannonsville Reservoir and endanger much of the river’s aquatic life. Issuing a last minute statement to FUDR and other river stakeholders, they planned a day long zero flow duration to fix a leaky pipe and allow USGS to remove debris and recalibrate their gaging station. As the word spread Monday, striking fear into the hearts of anglers, local conservation groups went to work to do what they could to avert disaster.

Various stories surged through the community, and it is hard to determine still exactly what occurred, though if the gages can be believed, the river never got to zero flow. NYCDEP did listen to FUDR and other stakeholders and mitigated their plans. The recalibrated Stilesville gage shows low flows in the realm of 45 to 50 cfs. This morning the flow is 261 cfs and rising gently.

I spent Tuesday morning running along the river from Hancock to Stilesville, taking photos to document the impending disaster, before learning that an agreement had been reached. I was relieved that there were no signs of dead fish, though the exposed riffles caused me to expect the worst for the invertebrates. According to the measured readings from the Stilesville gage, release flow was approximately 60 cfs during the time these photos were taken.

I’m no news reporter and again, there are various bits of information floating around about this near tragedy, but my thanks go out to all of those who went to the table at the last hour to grind out an agreement that allowed the necessary maintenance to be done without dewatering the river and possibly destroying the best wild trout fishery in the eastern United States. I would love to hear what a qualified aquatic biologist might conclude after examining the details of the drawdown and assessing the amount of exposed bottom. All of us in the community would like to know just how much the insect life of the West Branch may have declined as a result of the events of this week.

Natural disasters come and go with little hope of mitigation by man at the time of occurrence. Long term thinking, scientific study and action is another matter. Immediate manmade disasters can be sidestepped with common sense and a little environmental responsibility. Here in the Catskills we are breathing a sigh of relief that a mixture of concerned and reasonable people and those two vital ingredients averted one on a trout river we love.

I always thrill to the sight of White Birches, they were my Dad’s favorite trees. He was born and raised in New England back when they were plentiful, and I remember his efforts to plant a few in our yard in Maryland when I was a boy. They never seemed to do too well in the warmer climate, though I don’t know if it was the temperature or some missing element in the soil that kept them from growing tall and hardy. The white trees were always special to him, and will forever be special to me.

We have returned to autumn temperatures after last week’s handful of warmer days. No frost, as it is hovering around forty degrees in the first few minutes after dawn this morning. The rivers have seemed oddly quiet. Where I am used to finding sizeable trout I have taken little fish this week, little browns and rainbows eager enough to rise to a well drifted fly in hopes of growing big.

There were flies on the water yesterday afternoon; isonychia, the September peaches, and tiny olives hatching, and a few tan caddis fluttering about in the dappled sunlight, but no trout were rising to take advantage of the free meal. I moved, walked to the water sans flyrod and saw a single trout rise. I waited and he rose a second time: that is a trout to be fished to I told myself.

Of course when I retrieved my rod and waded into the fast water that fish refused to show himself for a time. When he did I was ready with a peach may that proved his undoing. Perhaps nine inches long, this little Delaware rainbow had made quite a journey from his home in the big river. He was all energy and protested still as I twisted the hook gently to free him; a fine fellow, cold, hard and plump for his diminutive size.

The golden light was dimming, as heavy banks of clouds swirled aloft threatening rain, so I turned for home. It was an empty threat, for the sun shone brilliantly an hour later as I grilled steaks on the porch. The rivers are cooling rapidly this year, well ahead of last autumn’s calendar, and I wonder if the larger trout have read this sign and begun moving toward their spawning tributaries early? The great forecasters have predicted a warm trend later in October, a promise of Indian Summer, but perhaps the trout don’t believe them. I want to, and hope that I can.

This time last year I was daintily casting terrestrials to twenty inch browns sipping in glassy, tree shrouded pools. Memory failed to record the water temperatures, though I feel certain they were significantly higher than the low fifties common to this first week of October. Each year along the rivers is different. One may draw parallels to seasons past, but it seems nearly impossible to go back to a certain pool on an identical date and repeat the past performance. The great mystery of Nature is her caprice, her volatility.

Standing in the cold river two nights ago I watched the sun crest the ridge and depart, plunging the river into shadow. I felt the chill instantly as the shadows fell about me, the warning of season’s end approaching. Little fish once again. Coincidence, or do they know, are they travelling?

Shotguns and flyrods, frosty mornings and crisp air, afternoons still bearing a hint of summer’s warmth, all bathed in that lovely amber light that says October. It is quite simply the most beautiful month of all the year, and I cannot imagine a place more beautiful, more perfect to enjoy it than the Catskills.

I celebrated the day beneath the eaves of Catskill Park, getting my legs used to elevation and the challenges of terrain once again. They have waded currents for the last six months, felt the push of the rivers at every step, but the lift of mountains is different than the steady pull of water. Good work for good health both endeavors, but the climb forces the fresh mountain air deep into my lungs! I feel it and rejoice.

The first grouse of the new season came up very close to me and yet unseen amid the jumble of leaves and branches. I heard the soft clucking, knew that he was near, yet only my ears could enjoy his swift departure. After lunch I spied his compatriot bobbing along the ground. I readied myself, walked straight toward him, watched him first duck behind a tree before flushing low and straight away into thicker brush; and I collected the first miss of the year.

I pursued, guessed at his landing zone and flushed him a second time, unseen. Time to analyze the terrain and cover, predict his flight, and hunt the bird from a new perspective. I won the battle of wits, secured a brief but clear crossing shot on the third and final flush: miss number two!

A fine shotgun would seem more than a match for a somewhat chubby bird to the uninitiated. All those pellets, why the boom itself ought to shock him into a tumbling dive. The Ruffed Grouse is the king of North American gamebirds for a reason, he is the great survivor, aerialist, trickster. My friend John says that grouse hunters aren’t people who shoot grouse, they are people who like to hunt them and talk about them; amen brother.

Trading mountain boots for waders, and shotgun for a one hundred year old Thomas fly rod, I walked the bright water to celebrate this first sunlit afternoon of the dual season. September’s parting rains had freshened the flow, but they dropped quickly. I hoped they had stimulated the insect life into resuming their cycle of reproduction: an afternoon hatch and evening spinner fall would make this day complete.

The activity proved sporadic until early evening, and though I brought two small browns to hand, it was not for me to solve the puzzle this time. Caddis flew as the shadows lengthened, but it was not caddis that the trout were taking. One of those trout took a size 20 olive, but the others I offered it to would have none of it. Soft rises and heavy ones, and me nervously changing flies in the receding light to find the right lure for those heavier rises, the ones dreams are made of.

There are times when as much enjoyment may be had outdoors without the “success” of heavy game bags or big catches. Playing the game should be about the pursuit and not solely of reaping the spoils. The wily bird evading my best efforts, and two small wild trout bending that hundred year old rod might seem like slim pickings to those devoted to counting things. In truth, they were highlights of a glorious day, the kind of day I am very happy to be around to enjoy.

Droplets of rain splashed my windows after five this morning, enough I was hoping to refresh the rivers. Alas though the puddles left behind at daybreak seemed promising, the gages showed almost nothing. Tomorrow could be the day, with the forecast boasting of an inch and a half to come, but that is a forecast for thunderstorms, always chancy, and usually much less beneficial than an extended period of gentle rainfall. Wait and see, for some added flow would be most welcome to herald October and the dual season.

All this leaves this afternoon for fishing. The Mainstem beckons, as she has given up a few of her wonderful rainbows to the dry fly of late, though insects have been sparse. Water temperatures remain ideal, though they have warmed over several warmer days and nights. Moodiness is a well known trait of the Delaware River.

There has been a lot of river traffic, with plenty of wading anglers and nearly a dozen drift boats passing during weekday afternoons. In autumn, one hopes for solitude, but there is none it seems in 2020. A long walk is helpful in that regard, though it does not insure a quiet reach to angle.

The weather remains moody today, with clouds and sunshine trading dominance. I love the feel of sunshine on my shoulders as I cast, but the cloudiness might just stimulate the hatches somewhat. What wouldn’t I give for a good hatch of isonychia?

It might be wise to carry a rain jacket along, but a nylon fishing shirt will have to do. I enjoy the freedom of the light chest pack too much! A snack I think, then on to the river…

We set out early, content to spend a long day upon the great Delaware River amid the glory of late September. Our quest was for rising trout as is our habit, and we knew the river might offer feast or famine; such being the legend of the wide Delaware. It was enough that we were together again, and enjoying good company and life on the river.

We found a few flies first thing in the morning, tan caddis were buzzing about, though not in numbers. Mike managed a brown forthwith, while I continued to search for a rise. I eventually found one, sort of a rise anyway, with about a fifteen inch brown jumping clear of the water at intervals. He was stationed directly behind a submerged rock, splashing and leaping amid the bubbly wake it created. There was simply no way to float a dry fly naturally over his lie.

As he was the only game in town I tried anyway, hoping to tempt him to stray just a bit and take a dry drifted right down the seam between his bubble trail and the main current. His leaping and splashing increased, but he simply wasn’t coming out of his little frothy piece of the world for anything. Eventually I conceded and walked downstream to see what Mike had encountered.

In the middle of a great wide eddy I found rings, gentle sipping rises to something. They weren’t frequent, and the fish that were feeding weren’t holding a lie, they were cruising. I suspected spinners, perhaps tricos, and began to play the game. A size 20 rusty spinner was flatly ignored, as were size 22 and yes, even size 24 tricos, so I moved slowly and watched the surface for a solution.

I had been hoping for an ant fall on the big river and ants are what I found. First a size 20 black winged ant, then a cluster with a black size 18 (the Queen?) and several size 28 miniatures crawling about her. I diligently tried both larger sizes, then scanned again, this time coming up with a size 18 red ant, one with a unique greenish sheen similar to the iridescent sheen on some game bird feathers. I fished the red one to several cruisers, but it seemed impossible to predict their path and direction in the middle of all that open water. After about an hour, with nothing but a chub to my credit (yes, that held a lie for a few rises) the rises ceased and I was back on my hike downriver.

I found him in a great riffle, a bubbling tumult even at September’s minimal flow, standing and waiting. He had seen nothing, but the afternoon was wearing on, and if flies were going to show anywhere, surely they would on that beautiful riff. I tied on my Halo Isonychia, walked down thirty yards below him and waded in.

I watched for a while as I slowly advanced toward mid-river. Coincident with one small emergent rock I saw it, a quick bulge that I took for a rise. I watched the spot as I positioned myself for a cast, and there was no other evidence of life, though I was confident of what I had seen.

I lofted a backcast with my five strip bamboo and made a cast, the size 12 fly alighting a foot above the rock. Pennsylvania rodmaker Tim Zietak had built the rod to my specifications several years ago. It was envisioned specifically as a Delaware River rod, two pieces at eight and a half feet, with the extra little touch of power that a pent provides. The rod proved to be well suited for its role.

Four or five casts drifted perfectly but unanswered, so I began to work the line of current upstream of the rock in small increments. My cast some eight feet upstream was taken with the characteristic quick spurt rise of the Delaware rainbow, and the long rod bent sharply with the rush of a heavy trout. The fish powered away, turned downstream for a short run before turning away again, pulling line from the reel. There was no doubt this fish would use the fast current and the pocketed, rocky bottom to cut the leader, but the full bow of the pent turned him at every move.

“He’s a good one” exclaimed Mike, and I nodded and grunted as I parried yet another short powerful run. With that tactic proving unsuccessful, the trout ran hard downstream, and I clicked another detent on the Abel’s drag. There were a hundred and fifty yards of riff below us, and he would spool me if I let him get his head. I swept the rod hard toward the bank, then back toward mid-river, turning his run before he could break away. The game was mine this time!

Heaving in the soft clear mesh of my net, this beautiful bow showed a deep red stripe and substantial girth. Measuring nineteen inches, nose to tail, that valiant fish made my day, shooting away into the rushing current as soon as I slipped him free of the mesh.

We would see just one more rise between us, though we fished across the area hitting all the deeper pockets. That nine inch bow rose little more than a rod length from me and gave a surprising pull despite his size. There is no doubting the heart and tenacity of this great river’s wild rainbows.

It was after four when we reached the trail and I was tired from two long days on the water and hundreds of casts. We parted there as Mike wanted to work up river and fish the spot I took him to a few years back.

I called him hours later to find he had stumbled upon an angler waiting on the bank when he arrived and didn’t want to intrude. He had walked out, driven to another access and waded in there. Sometimes you just have a feeling that the day is not done. He found a good fish sipping spinners and enjoyed a thrilling fight in the strong current of a deep tailout, netting a twenty inch brown! He was still breathless from excitement when we spoke.

The Catskill rivers of late September didn’t lavish us with heavy hatches and hordes of rising trout. They swathed us in the golden light of perfect early autumn afternoons, took our breath with their incredible beauty, and surrendered a few special wild trout, well earned by careful angling. These are days we will both remember!

Three days isn’t a lot of time to recapture an entire season. In our changed and unsettled world, I am thankful for the chance to enjoy the full measure of those days. You see, I have finally been able to fish with my best friend for the first time in more than a year.

We have passed twenty-five years of friendship and are still going strong. This was supposed to be the year we opted for fishing nirvanna. Finally, with both of us retired, we had the time to fish a lot and to hit the high spots of the season; to enjoy all the best that angling entails. A wraith called Corona kept us apart.

Autumn is the end of the dry fly season on the rivers of my heart; it is the most difficult and challenging time of the entire year. The trout are at their wariest, having been pursued by an army of anglers since April’s dawn; the rivers are at their lowest and clearest. The hatches of flies are sparse, and most of those flies are tiny, difficult to imitate effectively and drift naturally as we practice to deceive. We have developed our skills over thirty years or more, refined our tackle, and increased our knowledge. On some days, that is enough to meet the challenge.

Things came together on our first day, though only through patience and determination. Our surroundings were quiet and captivating, and Nature’s gifts came in varying doses as reward for our patience and skills.

The morning surprised us with a few tricorythodes spinners in the air, blown hither and yon by the gusting winds. We talked as we waited, sharing a bit of the best of life while the winds became gentle, and the spinners brought a trout or two to the mirror of the river’s surface.

Sometimes wishful thinking deceives my judgement. With a trico in my hand I convinced myself that a size 22 fly would be a perfect match. It wasn’t. Finally taking precious moments to rebuild my leader, extending it out to a gossamer 7X tippet and knotting a dainty size 24 fly, the good fish I wanted so badly accepted it on the first cast. He thrashed against the subtle power of the fine tip of the old bamboo rod, sharing his energy with me through the medium of the living culm that had been split, tapered and glued seventy years ago. A nineteen inch wild brown trout is a treasure, my best on a minute trico imitation, and I was blessed to share the moment with my friend.

The afternoon grew long, and we both worked to an occasional riser as the hours passed, working to solve the puzzle with each trout. As the sun threatened to disappear behind the ridge above us I was fortunate to solve the puzzle of another fine brown. Mike had worked intently on a large fish that had vexed both of us at various times during the day. I walked upstream slowly, cut the tiny size 22 olive comparadun from my tippet and placed it in his hand. Perhaps…

Not long after that final fly change I caught movement as Mike raised his long rod into a deepening arc, the strain evidence of the worth of his persistence in a duel with the most difficult trout of the day. It was a long fight, that big trout using every bit of depth and current the diminished river offered as a boon to its own strength and spirit. At last Mike led him toward my waiting net.

The Delaware rainbow is a warrior, and life is a battle to survive as he must champion high flows and low, a long summer of temperatures lethal to most trout, and an ever growing gauntlet of fishermen. Most don’t live more than four or five years, and thus a twenty inch Delaware bow is a rare gift. On such a day, with friendship reunited, it was the perfect gift for long hours of patient and skillful angling: the best of the day.

I took a day away from the rivers yesterday and spent the day with my friend John in the eaves of Catskill Park. There was a tree stand to relocate, and a walking tour of some of the habitat improvements he worked on through the summer. We put our bird guns together and spent some happy time with his trap thrower, breaking clays and analyzing our misses in the wind and warm sunshine.

After the guns were cleaned and taken down I spent some time with my much neglected hunting bow, loosing a couple dozen arrows to see if my skills were still worthy of some time in the woods. Best of all we sat back on the deck in that Catskill sunshine and talked, something we have had too little chance to do thanks to this pandemic year. It was a good day for both of us.

We talked of fishing of course, as well as grouse and deer and family and all the things we both hope will be better soon in this world. We each have our little piece of it to enjoy, and willingly share it.

Since it is September, I remarked that he should be building another bamboo fly rod, and we should be gathered with the rod making class for an evening of grilled delicacies, assorted cold beverages, and a wealth of conversation. To be correct, that should have happened in the beginning of the month, but Covid cancelled the class this year, as it has cancelled far too much of what makes life meaningful for all of us.

Today I’ll grab another little piece of my world and share it with Mike. Finally able to visit and fish apart, we’ll do our best to avoid the high winds as autumn announces her presence and find a few trout rising. Everything is in transition with the sudden band of colder weather, and the river temperatures have dropped drastically. All are very low and clear and the mayflies of the season seem to be figuring out their agendas amid the rapid changes in their environment. Some are hatching, but where and when seems to change hourly. More than ever the trick is to find yourself at the right place at just the right moment.

In another week it will be time to split my days between glowing mountains and shining rivers. I must soon decide if I’ll take that bow and sit a morning or two in one of those treestands, before I take the Model 101 for a walk through the covers. If all goes well, crisp mornings will give way to sunny afternoons stalking trout in the gin clear flows, scanning carefully to spot subtle rises amid the phalanx of leaves adrift on the surface. October is a blessed month indeed!

It is the last morning of summer, and thirty-two degrees here in Crooked Eddy. The frost has me taking my time, sleeping in a bit (for me), and lingering over my early morning activities before heading out for my last summer morning fishing. There’s no need to be on the river by eight o’clock, as the chill will cling to the mist in the river valleys, as everything waits for the full spectrum of the sun to entice the web of life to action.

Autumn has made her presence known for more than a week, and my furnace has run three nights in a row. My tying room is comfortable this morning, though my old flannel shirt still feels good. There are no flies to be tied this morning, as I crafted enough of furs and feathers over the course of the extended weekend. Three dozen dries wait for my friend’s arrival, and there are a few more to top off some of my boxes as well.

I experimented a bit with some of the died javelina hair my good friend John has kindly provided. The strong, tapered hair makes excellent quill bodies. In the bag of dyed material there is red and a deep, dark purple, and I have tried both for an Isonychia parachute. I am anxious to see if the trout like them. The iso’s are a rather unique mayfly when it comes to defining color. Tradition calls for a “claret” colored fur, between a maroon and mahogany, but the mayfly hatches with an olive tone then begins changing toward that so called claret hue. I have plucked duns from the surface to find a range of colors between those extremes, some with overtones and undertones that run further from either mark.

Currently I tie Isonychia patterns with four different dubbing mixes. My primary blend uses my precious dwindling supply of claret dyed beaver, provided by my late friend Dennis Skarka. As Dennis suggested, I mix a bit of natural beaver with the dyed fur to cut the intensity of the color and offer hints of tan and gray that sometimes find their way into the palette of the naturals. My Halo Isonychia has been featured on this blog, created with a thin veil of olive silk dubbing over wine colored thread to imitate the changing colors of the fly. Al Caucci’s Spectrumized dubbing blend for the isonychia has been a proven winner, and recently I found Hemingway’s Beaver Dubbing Plus. The Red Wine color has yielded some effective iso patterns in my early experiments. So many flies, all selected to appeal to the changing whims of the trout!

The spring hatch of Isonychia eluded me this year. I simply never encountered them on the water, despite almost daily fishing, so I am hopeful I will engage a good hatch during these last glorious weeks of autumn dry fly fishing!

The eight foot Granger will get the nod today. With the lowest flows of the season it will be a mainstay for the foreseeable future, it’s crisp western action providing a long reach and delicate delivery with a four weight line. Thank you Dennis! The new tips are prefect. I cleaned and dressed the line on the Bougle` over the weekend, and will freshen the leader momentarily. Expectations are that the little Flick olives will get the call this morning, so 6X tippets are necessary.

The afternoon will offer some exploration, in the hope I will have the chance to try the new Isonychia Quills, and find some untouched water to share with Mike later in the week. The Granger will deliver those size twelve dries just as perfectly as the twenty-two’s.

Ah well, time to rebuild that leader, then breakfast and a hot shower to ease the daily aches and pains: dues paid for a life outdoors.

It is Saturday morning, the 19th of September. Three days remain of the summer of 2020 and it is 32 degrees in Crooked Eddy, with frost on the roof of my car. Yes, frost. I fired up the furnace last night with frost warnings across the region despite the predicted low of 36 degrees. It was the right move, as home feels a bit more homey this morning.

The wind howled all day yesterday, and my wrist was aching from three days of throwing a long line on the Delaware, so I tended to other matters. The final coat of Tru Oil had dried on my old landing net, so I decided to restring it and install the new ghost net bag that has been lying around for several years. I sat down to tie some autumn flies as well, for my best friend is finally coming up to fish for a few days.

I first met Mike Saylor when he wandered into my fly shop in the early nineties. He was fairly new to fly tying and had some questions. When he told me he was a surgeon, I replied that he should find fly tying rather easy to master given the dexterity required for surgery. History has proven my assessment was correct. We started fishing together back then and have continued to this day. It was Mike that introduced me to Capt. Patrick Schuler and got me out in a Delaware River drift boat for the first time; the first of many trips.

Mike retired at the end of last year, and I was looking forward to him coming up frequently this season, and fishing when conditions were just right. One thing surgeons don’t have is the ability to jump in the car and head to the Catskills when their favorite mayfly hatch starts, and we were both looking to retirement to change that dynamic. Of course, we all know what came to pass with the Coronavirus pandemic, shutdowns and travel restrictions, and learning to adjust to a world that could easily kill you in a seemingly innocent moment.

We are a long way from being free of that threat, though thankfully mankind has adjusted their behavior out of necessity so that we can be somewhat safer.

So my buddy and I will finally get to do a little fishing. We will be fishing apart as I have termed it this year, but we will be close enough to talk a bit while we’re casting or waiting for that rise. We won’t be able to enjoy the conversations on the drive to and from the river like we used to, and we won’t be sitting together at breakfast planning the day, but we will get out on the river.

What will we find on the river, is the pertinent question. Autumn seems to have arrived early (that frost outside is a dead giveaway), but the seventies are forecast to return mid week. There still isn’t a drop of rain in the forecast, and all of the rivers that have had improved flows are dropping. Reservoirs releases have been reduced too, so the water is getting pretty thin in some places. The good news is that water temperatures are perfect and all the rivers are easily wadeable.

It has been a strange year. Late snow and cold, cold water well into the beginning of the fishing season, followed by an early and very hot dry stretch of summer. The heat and the drought didn’t take a break until the middle of August, and now autumn is literally kicking summer out the door early. I am going to bank on those prime water temperatures and just roll with the changes when it comes to daytime weather. Fishing ought to be pretty good once we adapt the the conditions.

I have seen a little bit of insect activity this week, as the temperature starts to stimulate the aquatics. The trout seem ready to partake when a few bugs start hatching, but patience is going to be required. The rainbows I caught early this week got my batteries charged and I tried to make it happen over the next two afternoons. It didn’t, and now the wrist of my casting hand is hurting. Three days off should help that, and I will keep the tackle selection down to bamboo rods eight feet and under like I did all summer. Having my Granger back is a comfort, as that rod does a nice job of reaching out with a light presentation.

Of course bamboo is a bit heavier than graphite, but balancing the rod with the right reel makes them less tiring than the longer, lighter graphite rods. Bamboo fly rods bend. All fly rods are supposed to, but the graphite rod makers seem to have forgotten that. Stiffer, faster action rods are powerful, but they transmit too much of that power and vibration to my wrist. Bamboo flexes fully and smoothly without all that excess energy in the casting stroke and is much gentler on my anatomy.

I’ll be sure to tell Mike to bring his light line rods, and even try to get him to fish his own bamboo rod for a change. For all I know we might be dealing with those size 28 flying ants again next week!

It was thirty-eight degrees when I walked out on my porch yesterday morning, a sure sign that the time had come to alter my morning fishing routine and seek the open waters of the Mainstem. The river has finally cooled beautifully during this past week of early autumn temperatures, and I had heard of a friend’s success finding active trout. It may be the last week of summer, but a morning in the thirties and an afternoon high of sixty-five clearly shows that the dog days are behind us.

I puttered around during the morning, finishing some reading and writing a promised book review. It was nice to be able to relax rather than hurry to hit the road. I sorted through some fly boxes to make certain the right flies were in my vest, which has spent most of these past weeks on the sidelines. I cleaned the double tapered five weight fly line on my old St. George and paired it up with Dennis Menscer’s eight foot hollowbuilt, readying myself for a visit to the big river in the afternoon.

It was around two o’clock when I slipped into my waders, pushing my feet into my battered studded boots and pulling the dry laces up tight. Ankle support counts in fast water on the Delaware’s rocky bottom. I found a couple of vehicles parked when I arrived at the river, no doubt anglers like myself anxious to return to the river on a gorgeous and wonderfully calm afternoon. There was just enough pale, lace curtain cloud cover to take the edge off the brightness of the high sun, a good omen for surface fishing.

The river was low, flowing not much more than 800 cfs, if you add the East and West Branch flows from the Fishes Eddy and Hale Eddy gages. Even with the cool weather and gentle water temperatures, I figured the Delaware rainbows would be more comfortable in the faster water with a little bit of depth.

I prospected one favorite riffle, my mind going back to an epic bow that once intercepted my swinging Leadwing Coachman in that smallish little cut. Leviathan gave me a tug reminiscent of a steelhead, ran, then vaulted into the air displaying the deep green and flaming red the species is known for. A huge rainbow, easily better than two feet long, heavily muscled and vibrantly alive with the wild energy of the Delaware strain. He took back to the water, ran short but hard again, then snapped my 5X tippet with a vicious head shake. Ah the photo in my mind of that leap! I see it vividly each time I think of that riff.

I passed an older gentleman wading slowly, leaving him plenty of water while I eased into a chute of fast water downstream. Knee deep and uneven, I believed I would find what I sought there; and I did.

Here and there I spotted a couple of spurts, a trout would rising hard to something, and I suspected that a few stray isonychia mayflies might be to blame. I knotted one to the 5X at the end of my leader, pausing to think about the Delaware rainbows that had snapped my 5X tippets in the past, but feeling confident that the soft tip of the bamboo rod would cushion even their energy. It only took a few casts to prove myself wrong. I missed the first opportunity, casting quickly to a second spurt upstream in the same bubble line, and overreacting just a bit on my hookset. I never even felt him, but my line came back without the fly.

I checked that tippet carefully as I knotted another comparadun, satisfying myself that it would hold if I maintained my decorum. The character of the afternoon was already clear: the rises would come a handful of times, each in a different place, then cease for several minutes, and I didn’t want to waste time rebuilding my leader while any rises were showing.

I must have made half a dozen casts when the next spurt appeared, knowing our bows’ penchant for moving upstream as they feed, and covering the line of drift from downstream to upstream. The next spurt interrupted the drift of my fly and the Menscer assumed the deep, throbbing arch I know and love! I was thankful that Mr. Bow didn’t want to spool me, choosing instead to make short runs and hard changes in direction, using the considerable current to his advantage. No trout I know fights quite like a Delaware River rainbow!

This was a typical nice river bow, perhaps seventeen inches long with good wide flanks and plenty of high voltage electricity, which he expended both in the air and in the water. You can never be sure whether an individual fish has migrated upstream to summer in colder water, or hunkered down by a spring seep in one of the Mainstem’s deep eddies to survive three months of seventy-five degree and higher water temperatures. You only need catch one to understand why dedicated Delaware River anglers are always clamoring for higher reservoir releases. I released that fish with a wide grin and thanked him for playing the game with me.

The isonychia seemed to lose favor quickly, and I confronted the conundrum once again. What rises I observed were the hard, aggressive spurts that make me think that fairly substantial insects must be involved, yet the only flies I saw in the air were small, likely olives and Hebe’s. I couldn’t quite convince myself to drown a size twenty olive in that bubbling chute of current, so I tried a caddis for a while and then settled on one of my Poster versions of a Hebe.

The afternoon was moving along toward evening, and I could feel the air cooling. With the mid-river action ceased, I worked back toward the bank and downstream a bit to look for rises where the current softened slightly. A couple eventually showed, likely moving fish as the big river is noted for, and my casts remained untouched. When a fish rose a second time in about the same place, I took it as a sign and peppered that bubble line with casts, finally joining battle with a second warrior.

Rainbow number two bent the cane and spun the pawls on my seventy plus year old Hardy even better than his predecessor, and that took some effort. When he leaped clear of the surface I saw a somewhat wider flank than the first bow’s. This fellow must have found a few more meals through the long hot summer than his brother. Finally drawing him close enough to scoop him with the net, I pinched the little fly and turned it free from his jaw, another nice Delaware rainbow with the heart of a steelhead.

Life on the Delaware isn’t easy for these magnificent wild rainbows, and it is rare for a fish to live long enough to reach twenty inches. I have been blessed to catch several of that size during twenty-five years of Delaware fishing. The typical nice Delaware bow, the fish that will spool you with ease should they have the inclination, will measure between fourteen and eighteen inches long. Their heart however is immeasurable.

The Mainstem welcomed me back with open arms, and I thanked her as I lingered during my hike back to the car. Spring and autumn are the seasons of this great river. Should New York City ever fix their leaks and curb their incredible waste of our watershed’s precious, pure water, perhaps the amazing Delaware rainbows way thrive in summer. It would be truly inspiring to be able to see this fishery reach its full potential.