Bright Waters Catskill

Warm sunshine and high skies illuminating each pebble on the river bottom in low, gin clear water. Sounds like summer time. It feels like it and fishes like it too.

Fly hatches have become sparse again, and there is a terrestrial box tucked in a vest pocket. If you find a trout rising, it can be really tough to figure out what he’s rising to, as there hasn’t been much in evidence these past few days. When I reach for a rod to carry for the day’s fishing, I choose a four weight like my Cumberland Queen. And though there are still boxes of spring mayflies in my vest, I have started prowling my summer haunts.

The Queen and I took a walk to one of those haunts yesterday morning, only to find an angler in the pool I had planned to fish. I left him alone and tried my second choice. There were caddis in the air, the same black ones I found on the Delaware Monday night, and I hoped the pattern I had tied for a possible return engagement there would temp some low water browns in the bright sun of morning.

The first trout I put that fly over ate it readily, but that cursed spool of 5X tippet came back to haunt me again. The trout kept my fly as soon as I tightened; and he wasn’t a big one. I checked the tippet a few inches above the break and it broke on a gentle pull. Another try a few inches further down the line held, so I tied on another fly and hoped for better luck.

There was a trout at the edge of some shade where the fast water started to slow along the bank. My cast looked good, but drag was easy to come by casting across the fast current. The trout popped the fly and I tightened upon air. A miss, perhaps a splashy refusal, regardless the result was the same.

The rest of my morning centered upon a big fish tucked into a bank side hide, that seemed as interested in playing with me as I was with him. The missed fish on that caddis? Perhaps, but that take was his last out on the edge of fast water and slow. He spent the rest of the morning giving me fits back in the nearly motionless water tighter to the bank.

He would appear to follow every relatively long float I could muster until it began to drag, then refuse the fly. Just to keep me honest, he continued to sip various tidbits back in there, every once in awhile walloping something hard. I finally tipped my hat to him in early afternoon and headed out.

I made that walk early this morning, finding a touch of natural beauty sweetened with solitude. I waited a while until the caddis became active and I saw a small trout take a swipe at one of them, then eased into the river and cast my black caddis to known holding lies. Fishing the water may be a cure for impatience, but it’s never a cure for a fishless day, not on this river.

As the morning warmed I went looking for yesterday’s nemesis, and I may indeed have found him. If this was the same fish, he wasn’t in his shady lie this time, he was out in a deeper channel pounding something. The only visible insect life was the caddis, which he stoutly refused to touch. I don’t know just how long I worked on the trout, but the glimpse I got of him on his second rise made the time worthwhile. I tried every fly I thought might intertest him, everything that had been hatching lately or was due to show soon, and he ignored them all, eventually retiring from the game.

I waited, and sure enough there was a hard rise downstream. I put the caddis on him quickly and got a solid take from a good fish, who started the Hardy talking right away. He was a nice brown, a hard fighter, but he wasn’t the big boy I spent all that time on. He was a chunky 18 inch fish though, and I was glad to slip him into my net on this second tough morning.

My next conquest was half his size, and I had to wait a little while again before another fish showed on the surface. That one was a long poke downstream, but the Queen was more than equal to the task. The fish screamed away at my hookset and I was really impressed until I got that foot long brownie in the net and saw the fly stuck in the top of his head. I guess it hurt enough to make him fight like a fish twice his size.

With no more activity to the south, I walked back north and looked to see if Mr. Shady was back in his lie. No sign of him, or anyone else for that matter, until I heard a solid thunk from downstream. Fish were up, several of them, all of a sudden. I cast to the first ones in range as I eased down and they promptly stopped rising.

I was thinking a hatch must be getting started, though I didn’t see anything besides a caddis or two. I tried a sulfur. No. Then began to scan the water in the bubble line I was standing in. Nothing but bubbles there, no sign of an insect of any kind, but those fish were rising hard when they rose. I scratched my head and went through the litany of patterns as I had earlier in the morning, with the same result.

Whatever had those fish feeding, it didn’t last very long. My opportunity was nearly spent when I considered the lone fish that was making softer rises, and dug out my sulfur box. I had one spent dun imitation left, and I tied it on, checking that hateful tippet three times. I could have sworn I heard that familiar chorus of Hallelujah when that trout tipped up and sucked in my little CDC spent dun.

There was music, for the little Hardy Perfect was in full song as that trout blitzed downstream. This was not a foot long trout with the hook in his head, this was the kind of trout I was looking for. He turned and charged upstream and had me reeling as if my life depended on it. He dug for the bottom and I raised the rod high, the supple cane bowing heavily as he bucked and raced away again. It was a hell of a fight, and I was glad to be the victor when I finally led that grown up brown into the net. He measured twenty-one inches, a trout with shoulders, and was none the worse for wear, darting away as soon as I lowered him into the flow.

The battle seemed to have put all the remaining risers down for the count. The run and the pool below were quiet, the bright water twinkling in the high sun. I exhaled and gave it a moment before I started north.

Though I was up at first light, I honestly wasn’t on the river quite that early, certainly not on a thirty-eight degree morning in mid-June! The plan was to spend an early morning on the river, fishing apart once again with my friend John. We each brought along a special rod this morning, his particularly so as it is the new four weight bamboo, the second rod he has built.

John is one of the most accomplished and artistic craftsmen I have ever known. When he told me two years ago that he was taking the bamboo rodmaking class at the Catskill Fly Fishing Center, I knew immediately that he would emerge with a truly fine cane rod. His first effort was terrific, his rod better and more carefully made then several of the rods I have handled from professional builders.

For the second season, John wanted to build a four weight, preferably and eight footer, and he spent a lot of time deciding upon the taper. That can be tough when you don’t have access to all the various rods being considered, to cast and form an opinion of their tapers. I suggested he contact another friend, Tom Smithwick, a rodmaker I have known for many years; the man I call The Taper Wizard.

The rod I got to cast this morning is beautiful and very light in hand. Tom described it as an old F.E. Thomas taper that he had “tweaked as much as I thought might make it better”. I was casting leisurely after fishing this morning, and continuing to pull line from the reel. After unrolling a long, perfect loop and dropping the fly gently to the surface I looked down at the reel. Five turns of fly line remained on the arbor. I idly asked John if that was a full length fly line. It was. The four weight that felt like a feather in my hand had just laid out roughly 90 feet of line and leader: no double haul, no punch on the power stroke, just a very light touch and…wow! John has outdone himself with this one.

It was a gorgeous sunwashed morning, with the chill in the air diminishing enough to make it feel very comfortable. For two and a half hours we watched a myriad of solitary insects drift down the pool largely unmolested. Eventually, each of us had our patience rewarded by one good opportunity, and we both missed it. I saw my fish coming under the surface, squaring off under my fly and pointing straight toward me. I believe I pulled the fly off the water a microsecond before he actually was able to eat it.

I carried my Thomas & Thomas Hendrickson, a dream rod that serendipitously ended up in my hands. This was the fourth trip for me trying to initiate the rod with it’s first trout. I never saw a single trout rise during the first three. After loosing a luck fish that grabbed my sunken fly when I started to pick it up, and then missing my only true rise to my fly, I was beginning to think my lucky rod wasn’t.

I laughed it off with a grimace and turned to John “fishing still makes us little boys again”, I said. “Just can’t always control that excitement.” He acknowledged the thought with cheer.

It was nearing the time to go when my fish decided to try for breakfast again. I offered the same sulfur several times, but he wasn’t coming to that fly again. Not even after I added three and a half feet of brand new tippet to give it a better drift. Hardheaded sometimes, I admit, though I finally changed the pattern for a smaller sulfur cripple.

My first cast may have caught his eye, but the second actually brought him up to take the fly. This time I actually allowed him to eat it and turn back down before I tightened. He was a good brown, and put a nice bend in my bamboo. Standing in deeper water, I took my time with him, until I could bring him to the net.

A twenty inch brown trout is a fitting initiation for a bamboo fly rod; one any rod would be proud of. A special rod is a talisman, and its good magic when that rod’s first trout is a big one; even better if it takes some trials to secure. Serendipity put that longed for rod in my hands, just as it brought that brown up to feed again, giving me a second chance: good magic, strong magic!

It is forty-five degrees in Crooked Eddy this morning, as we enjoy a short break from a run of warmer weather. A crisp breath of mountain air is the perfect way to start the day!

The rivers have cooled a bit, and their flows have been replenished for a time. Sadly the benefits of thunderstorms are fleeting: a quick spike of muddy water, followed by a handful of days of clearing and more moderate flows can freshen the fishing, but soon we return to low water and fishing with our stream thermometers. An all day, all night gentle, soaking rain would be a blessed gift!

I have enjoyed some fabulous fishing so far this June, though yesterday I found the river as quiet as a grave. Mayflies were scarce, a few tokens to remind that this is still spring, but no where near enough to interest a fish. It was a gorgeous day, the introduction to the cold front with cobalt skies and small, isolated banks of threatening clouds blowing by in the winds, but my anticipation for good fishing after the storm’s refresher waned by evening. Still I marveled at the beauty around me as I walked out, the mountains lit with the shimmer of the retreating sun.

In the limestone country, dry fly fishing would just be getting started. The mayflies no longer populate those classic spring creeks in any abundance, and it is the terrestrial flies that provide the surface fishing. The dry fly man who looks for rising trout may look a long time though; unfulfilled.

The spring creek angler learns the lies that trout prefer under varying conditions. The time of day and season dictates the angle of the sun, and which lies are shaded and likely to hold an interested trout. Cover is always important, vital in small waters, and in June the grasses grow tall in the meadows. Where they overhang perhaps there will be just enough security to house one good brown!

It may be the peak time for hatches in Catskill waters, but pardon my wandering through thoughts of terrestrial fishing and summer days. That style of fishing can be great fun here too. Not one to rush the year, as they pass all too quickly, but I cannot help but look forward to the long days of summer. I won’t spend hours waiting for the hatch then, for I will haunt the rivers at certain times, different times for different reaches, brief forays to hunt the choice lies.

I have resorted to terrestrials already, with breezy conditions and scant hatching activity I have offered ants to sippers cruising for a snack, both of us impatient. My heart raced early this week, as I connected with a spectacular brown, only to have the little ant let go before the finale. Yesterday’s idle hours led me to knot the new cricket to my leader and toss it over some prime cover. All kinds of insects get washed down the rivers in spate I reasoned, why shouldn’t the trout be hunting new tidbits in the receding flows? I didn’t connect, not this time, though I am sure that fly won’t languish in my box too long.

The memories of a terrestrial summer got me going in December and early January. While winter winds rattled the windows I tied beetles, crickets, ants and hoppers, with thoughts of summer filling my mind. It will soon be time to bring those daydreams to fruition!

Abundant sunshine lifts the soul and spirit of this angler, though it is not the best condition for hatching mayflies and rising trout. Sunshine though is the heartbeat of terrestrial fishing, sunshine and wind!

Summer is a wonderful time here, with long runs of beautiful weather. The richness of the rivers provide varied diversions. There are still mayflies, the olives and isonychia most prevalent on the cloudy, misty days, and the bright little sulfurs cheerily bobbing atop the currents rain or shine! Summer screams for a light four weight rod: seven or seven and a half feet of slender Tonkin cane in a classic Catskill taper, fitted with a lightweight click pawl reel, double tapered line and a long, fine leader. Beware the heavy hand of spring! No 4X tippets here. Five X, 6X and a measured hand will bring the largest trout to net.

Still spring indeed, but we are upon summer’s doorstep. I believe spring’s hatches will linger, that we may have a few weeks to enjoy the best of both.

I am listening to it now, very gentle on the metal roof above my tying desk, and I can only hope it will be enough to sustain the rivers of my heart. Things are becoming dire in the watersheds.

The Beaverkill is unfishable this morning, hitting 73 degrees yesterday afternoon and cooling only down to 68 this morning, even with this gift of rainfall. Some anglers will argue that it is still safe to fish at those temperatures, but I diverge. I find that idea self-serving. Too many put their wants and needs above the resource they claim to love. Yes, it is the peak of the spring hatch season but the rivers cannot sustain the intense pressure and warm water without a price.

Evening hatches are the rule in June, but evening is the worst time to fish under these conditions.

We had a small reprieve this week, as cold nights bought us a couple more days of fishable temperatures, but the heat and sun have recovered their hold.

The rain is driving now, with a heavy downpour outside my window. The accumulation numbers will look better, but I pray instead for hours of gentle, soaking rain, not the kind that quickly becomes storm runoff. Feed the aquifers, feed the brooks, feed the trout.

We may have dodged a bullet, at least to an extent. Rain clouds have passed by without making a deposit to the river bank of late, and abundant sunshine and warmer weather has had water temperatures on the rise. Hancock’s forecast for highs of 87 degrees today and tomorrow was blunted slightly to 84 and 83, and a couple of cold nights have given the rivers some time to cool before the next bought of low water and sunshine. It was 42 degrees at Crooked Eddy on Monday morning, and a sprite 47 this morning.

Of course, as always seems to be the case, New York City decided to cut back reservoir releases just in time for the heat wave. I hope the cold nights persist, though they are not forecast. Mother Nature needs to give herself a brake since the politicians wont.

I tried something different yesterday that I called fishing apart. A good friend joined me for an afternoon and evening on a quiet reach of water and we kept our distance to protect each other’s health. While it would have been nice to stand side by side and compare fly patterns, we were able to pass the slow periods, and there were many, with friendly conversation fifty feet apart.

We managed a few trout, despite sparse insect activity and bright sun illuminating every pebble on the river bed in the ever lowering flow. My what a difference a quarter inch of rainfall would make overnight!

I had one epic encounter, an almost. With little mayfly presence the occasional sipping of the cruising browns led me to consider terrestrials. I had thought about this Sunday morning at my desk, and had quickly tied three silk bodied ants to stick in my vest. A touch of preparation in lieu of adding a terrestrial box to a vest already heavier then my arthritic neck prefers. I tried the ant on a particularly reticent cruiser.

That fish would have none of it, in fact, pushing the fly in the water then streaking away before I could even begin to react. When another trout sipped something on the edge of sunlight and shade moments later, I immediately delivered my fly just above his rise form. He tipped and sipped, and I was suddenly connected to a very angry brown noticeably in excess of 20 inches. He gave me a great sun lit profile to judge his size, then headed for deeper water and boulders to rid himself of my little black deceit.

Countering his bid for nearby cover, I was rewarded with a long bulldogging run well into my backing! He stayed downriver as John headed up to watch the show, alerted by the pleas from my Hardy. We jousted for a long while, and things seemed to be going my way, the trout grudgingly coming back upriver as I regained first my lost backing and then more than half of my fly line; but it was not to be. I felt a distinct ping and the trout was gone. The hook, still perfect, simply hadn’t been secured in anything but bone I expect, finally losing its hold.

As the shadows gathered our anticipation grew, but no hatch was forthcoming. That is fishing most certainly, with the joy of long missed company to allay thoughts of lost trophies or hatches that might have been, leaving memories of the beauty surrounding us and a pleasant dialog amid the quiet of evening astream.

I like to sit here at my tying desk and experience the quiet of the morning. Its even better out there, along the river, waders soaked from the dew in the tall grass. I have not been there often enough, and that is something I need to rectify.

When I travelled to fish the Catskills I would usually angle late at this point in the season, rush to the Troutskellar well after nine, arriving just before the kitchen closed to put in my dinner order. Dinner and a McCallan at ten thirty isn’t conducive to early morning fishing, except perhaps for the very young. There were times though, when the weather trounced my late evening fishing, when I had that unfulfilled urge that caused me to rise before daylight, shower quickly and haunt the river bank at first light.

There was a trout of my acquaintance that inhabited a certain run. Grown wise from the ways of anglers, particularly this one, he shunned all larger flies and savored minutia. His lie was a marvelously devilish mix of currents that defied my ability to repeat the perfect drift with a size 20 or 22 dry fly, unless I tied it to a long section of 6X tippet. I believe I could feel that old fish grinning every time I cut back the 5X and pulled a few feet of 6X from its spool.

Suffice to say that the trout had broken 6X more than once. Upon feeling the prick of my tiny hook he would twist his head at the moment I was tight and snap it. Other times he would charge from his lie full force, pull the tippet across his favorite rock and win his freedom that way. The old boy was good!

One morning I crept into the water and into casting position as the sun was rising. The Catskill mist hid its rays, enveloping land and water in moisture the color of smoke. I stood and waited, savoring the quiet of the morning, and the anticipation of an engagement with my old adversary. No size 22 adorned my leader, not at this hour; a size ten mahogany spinner was secured to my 5X tippet.

After a quarter of an hour a tiny ring appeared amid the swirling currents of the lie, dissipating almost immediately as if it was never there. Sampling the drift at dawn, eh? I smiled and made ready to cast. Memory fails to recall the exact number of drifts that spinner completed before it was replaced by one of those tiny, disappearing rings upon the surface. It wasn’t more than three.

I lifted, the pocket boiled, the head twist failed, and Mr. Brown charged out into the full force of the run and dug for that favorite rock. He came up just a hair short, thanks to the additional pressure brought to bear by my long rod and 5X tippet. He could have cut that too, had he reached his rock.

Another dawn, another river, waders again soaked with the morning dew. I had not been able to get near this favorite reach of water, besieged both day and evening, but solitude beckoned at dawn. Another size ten spinner knotted to my leader, but with no pre-arranged meeting this time. I walked, and stalked, hoping for an adversary.

I found one far upriver, sipping in a smallish pool of dark water to the side of the main current, ghosting about among the weeds and finding what morsels remained trapped from the night before. The fish was moving, as the water was nearly still, and I timed each cast to set my fly in front of him when he established a line of travel. A long cast, low light, but the twinkle of my big spinner helped me see when the ring replaced it on the dark surface. What a boil erupted in that quiet backwater when I arched the rod!

We battled in the weeds, his domain, and fortune prevailed as I led him through the fronds of water weeds and into the current at last! There he ran long and hard, finally surrendering to the pull of the rod: a fat, golden 22 inch brown, indignant to find his breakfast was a biting fraud.

Summer approaches, and rain is scarce. The rivers will warm this week with two days near ninety. So too will the crowds encumber many favored pools. Perhaps I’ll arise early, wash the sleep from my eyes and pull on waders, run the line through the guides of a cherished rapier of bamboo, and stalk the river banks at first light; waders drenched by the morning dew on the tall grass.

Its been a great week. I have enjoyed an up and down spring, thanks to absolutely crazy weather and doing my best to avoid human beings. When the medical experts say that you are a top candidate to die from Coronavirus, you take them very, deadly seriously.

I have missed visits from and fishing with my friends, and I have missed some great fishing, if you believe the stories anyway, in my quest to avoid the crowds. I admit that, by nature, I do my best to avoid crowded waters anyway, but this madness has put a whole new urgency into play. Its not just solitude in 2020, its survival.

I got off the river late last night, and found a voice mail on my phone from one of my friends. Seems he is planning upon coming to town to get in some fishing and hopes we can fish together. I have to figure out how to tell him that we could say high and catch up from thirty feet away I guess, but that fishing is not going to be in the cards.

I guess we are all doing the best we can to cope with this unprecedented situation. I have been coping on the rivers for the past five days.

Yesterday was my time to pay some dues for the terrific fishing I have enjoyed this week, but I hit a new milestone in the process.

Driving to the river the sky was beautifully cloudy, and I was hoping for a really good bug day. I parked, rigged up my Menscer Hollowbuilt and walked down to see what the bright water had in store. Conditions looked great, and I hadn’t been standing on the bank any longer than required to check my leader and tippet and tie on a sulfur pattern; the fly that had been the special of the week. The sun peaked through a little as I scanned the surface, spotting three fish making gentle sips in the low, clear water.

I started slowly wading into a casting position to work the closest player when I heard voices coming from up river. Kayaks, and a lot of them. My urgency increased tenfold, knowing that I was going to get one chance instead of three and that it might be the only chance for several hours. The first cast alighted perfectly and drifted down unmolested, the second brought a tip up and a take, that I answered with a lift and a smil… groan. I felt that trout, a good one, for half a second before he was free. I drew my line in and found about an inch of my tippet remaining: a clean break just below the leader knot. That same spool of tippet that plagued me earlier in the week seems to have had another bad spot.

The 8 kayaks made sure to paddle over the best holding water, right where the other two rising trout had been. For good measure they spent some time stopping and milling around over the top of the deeper sanctuary water in that reach. Have a nice day!

A sipper finally appeared about an hour later, but not with the confident gentle rise that began the day. The sun was fully out by then, and all of the disturbance surely put them on edge. Oh and yes, the wind came up again. Nothing but frustration chasing cruisers throughout the afternoon. Find one, try to make the quick cast required before he vacated the area, and wham, another wind gust blows the fly off target and straightens out the leader.

One of those gusts hit me straight from the rod side hard, in mid cast, and wrapped my fly and tippet around the fly line. Untangling the mess, I found the dreaded cut, where the 5X fluorocarbon had tied around the line and cut the coating. I knew that I should repair it, that if I hooked a fish the strain would likely separate the coating from the core at that break and ruin a ninety dollar fly line. I passed the buck for a while, chasing a few more cruisers, then resigned to make the long walk back to switch out my tackle.

Half an hour later I had a fresh, cold bottle of water, an Atkins bar and my Thomas & Thomas Paradigm with the Hardy Marquis that has found a home in its reel seat. As I reached the river I heard a splash and voices. Kids and kayaks. One said hello, I said hello, then turned downriver hoping they would float on through before the sun got off the water. They reached my spot about the same time as I did. I tied on a new tippet, tested it twice, and sat down on the bank to watch the show. Kids being kids on a hot summer day on the river. After they passed I figured the place might just be finished for the evening, but one of the cruisers surfaced at a distance not too long after the kids had paddled into the distance. It was four o’clock.

The shade was slowly building at the foot of the mountain and it was getting along past five o’clock when I gave up on any meaningful cruiser activity, but then I saw one big rise back in a shady pocket along the far bank. There were a few big mayflies, the advance scouts for the Green Drakes about, so I figured why not see if a trout that has been sunburned and chased by invading kayakers all day might risk a rise for enough of a meal to make it worthwhile. I chose a 100-year Dun.

I made the stalk, delivered the fly, and the trout rose to meet it. He shook his head from side to side, characteristic for a big brown trout, then headed out, quartering downstream toward the middle of the river. Everything was going well and then it just stopped: fly free, fish gone, poof! I inspected the fly and it looked perfect, the hook wasn’t opened up, nothing to explain why its hold slipped. I didn’t know it then, but I was to lose another big, big fish on an idle cast just at dark, making a total of four for the day. Paying my dues, as I said.

I dried the fly, and fluffed the hackle, then wondered if I’d find another player as evening approached. I had seen the same gentle, bulging rise about a hundred yards down river four or five times over the course of the past hour. They weren’t frequent, but they were all in the same location. One fish was holding to his lie. I started the long, slow stalk downstream to check him out.

I guess that trout rose maybe three or four times during the 20 minutes it took me to stalk downstream the hundred yards to get within striking distance. He was in open water, but I was able to mark his position by the sunlight and shadows on the water as the sun drew closer to the summit of the ridgeline above the river. I saw a big bug drifting down the lazy current, met with that same big, soft bulging rise. I adjusted my position by a few careful steps, lofted the line in a backcast, and made a long reach cast just short of the trout’s territory to check the drift. If you drag the fly over a fish like that, he’s done.

Satisfied that I would get the float I wanted, I stripped another few feet of line from the reel and made my money cast, further out into the shade and right in line with the fish’s lie. It made up for a long tough afternoon when that beautiful bulge appeared where my fly had been.

The hookset was followed by a hard, screaming run right straight into my backing! No preliminaries, no handshake, just let me get the hell outta here. You gotta love a fish like that, and a classic reel with a palming rim. I used it. Multiple times.

This trout had weight, speed and power, and I began to wonder just what I had on the end of my line. Fish have surprised me before though, and they will again. One night years ago I cast a big spinner downstream into the remaining glare, watched a subtle ring appear, and held on while an unseen trout headed for the Atlantic. That turned out to be a 21″ brown trout, a beautiful wild fish, but the combination of the run and the darkness had me expecting, well, something more.

The trout held deep, staying in the shade when I finally had him close enough to see, so there were a couple of brief flashes, but nothing else; and then he was off to the races again, the Hardy wailing like a heavy metal ballad.

When I drew him close that final time, a big silvery brute of a Delaware rainbow made a tired turn at the surface before I slipped the net under him. Twenty-three inches, with a big deep body, a bow easily topping four pounds. I levered the big fly from his jaw, my heart still pounding as I admired my largest Delaware rainbow in 28 years of angling Catskill waters.

I wanted a picture badly, but the great fish was spent, and its said that rainbow trout shouldn’t be removed from the water for more than thirty seconds. There was no way I was going to risk killing that gorgeous milestone bow for my own vanity. I eased him from the net into my hands, held him pointed into the flow for a few moments, then tickled his belly to watch him dart away. The image will live in my memory as long as I live, and that will be just fine.

Funny how you can find so many different moods along the same river system. With the bigger fellows like the March Brown (Yellow?) on the water, one would expect the trout to be paying more attention to them, but that hasn’t been the case this week. In fact, where they were the only mayflies witnessed, rises have been pretty much non-existent. This is a big, meaty mayfly that likes significant current, though I have seen them drifting long distances on flat pools, even on the warmer days. Sure seems like an easy meal to me, particularly for a trout just hanging out.

The players have been the sulfurs, whether during a nice hatch, or with a very sporadic hit and miss appearance, the trout have been paying rapt attention to the little yellow mays. No sulfurs, no rising trout.

We have enjoyed a nice mix of weather this week: sunny days, both moody with shifting cloud banks and gut wrenchingly beautiful bluebird skies, and cool, overcast days with a hint of moisture in the air. If I had to pick one of those to peg for a no holds barred bug day it would definitely be the latter. Wrong again. Hard to figure out the fickle moods of a river and her wildlife, even after nearly twenty years of an intimate relationship. Of course, that is a big part of the magic in this game!

Yesterday began in a stunning tableau, the colors of the Catskills so vibrant I wished I could wrap myself up in them. The new green of the mountainsides was irradiated with the morning sunshine in a sky so vividly blue and cloudless, the rivers low and startlingly clear! I could pick out stones on the river bottom while driving down the highway. I was awestruck, and thankful, though I figured it was not going to be a bug day. Got one right for a change.

Mayflies were pretty scarce alright, and rising trout, well, one would show itself every once in a while. These were generally one time sips, not the kind of thing that makes it easy to target a fish, stalk it, and make that perfect cast. Did I mention the other dimension? The wind blew. Not the 5 to 10 mph gentle zephyrs that were forecast either, but the 15 mph and better, blow the budding leaves off the trees style winds. They arrived at exactly the same time as I spotted the first gentle little sip in the film.

I cannot count the number of times that has happened on a trout river. I might do better at least trying to estimate the number of times it hasn’t. In my mind I think of the Big Guy up there with his finger on the fan switch and a smile on his heavenly face, waiting for me to start my backcast. Suffice to say that there weren’t too many opportunities during the day, and wind blown leaders causing drag at the worst possible moment obliterated a few of those that were offered; except for one.

I was trying to cast to a one time sipper after a methodical approach when another round of gusts forced my hand and, just for a moment, let my temper get the best of me. I forced the cast in frustration, the fly blew 20 feet upstream of my target on a perfectly straight leader, and I cursed the wind once again. But then it calmed down for a moment, the planets aligned or whatever, and a different fish sipped something from the film. I elevated the line, turned my body to the left, and threw a perfect reach cast with my trusty replica Payne 102, laying that little CDC sulfur just above and in line with my target. Sip!

I raised the rod into a serious arc and the fish bucked and shot downstream at a quartering angle, while I wrestled with the slack fly line in my hand to keep it from tangling. It only took a second before he was on the reel, and another couple of seconds for him to run out all 90 feet of my fly line. There are boulders here, and the trout had reached one of the largest ones, intent I am certain upon rubbing the offending biting insect from his jaw. I put all the bend in that slender shaft of bamboo that I dared, the tip raised high to keep his head away from the boulder, using every ounce of strength in the 5X tippet.

I regained some line with pressure, lowering the rod to put the bend in the middle and butt instead of the tip when I could, and raising it again when he ran and turned for the bottom. I had most of my line back and could feel his power as he surged from side to side, then boiled the surface before he was off again. A good strong trout will make 2 or 3 runs, but this guy was something special.

Several times I pressured him to recover my line, drawing him toward the shallower side of the river, only to have him turn and run again, taking all of my hard won line with him in his search for another sharp edged rock. The fish had made half a dozen runs, and I was worried about the tippet. You never know just where the fly is in the fish’s mouth. Is the tippet rubbing against his teeth every time I reverse pressure?

I got him shallow for the fourth or fifth time and walked slowly over, easing my pressure and reeling up the remaining line and leader, net out and ready to bring to play, but he still wouldn’t have it. His runs were short now, 25 feet, another surface boil, then succumbing to the pressure as I led him back to the shallows. For the last time I pointed the rod at him and reeled the leader butt through the guides, turned the rod over, and took the net from under my rod arm, easing him toward me. I kept thinking about that thin tippet as I put the cane to work in a frightful bend and led him to the net.

He was mine, finally, the little fly snugged into his hard outer lip right on the side of his mouth. Perfect. The brown measured better than 24 inches, but his size and weight were more impressive than his length: five and a half pounds is a conservative estimate. I was close to a grassy bank, but there was no way I was going to take that vanquished warrior out of the water. As I turned the net over to slip him back in the river I noticed he had torn it. He settled down to the bottom and we watched each other.

I took out my fishing camera and tried to take a couple of shots but the glare of that bright sun defeated me. Then I remembered the camera is waterproof, submersible. I slipped it an inch under the surface and did the best I could to line it up and took the shot. When I downloaded the photos last night I saw that I was too close to get his full length, but didn’t do too bad framing blind. Not fine art photography to be sure but hey, its clear that fish had shoulders.

Funny how June began with a cold snap, and the fishing heated up significantly. Rivers that began to get too warm to fish well dropped like a stone in temperature thanks to a night near freezing and another deep into the forties. Thank you Red Gods!

Fifty degree water was a scarce commodity during April and early May, and yet I was standing in it on the first of June, thankful for my fleece lined khaki’s. Yesterday offered some sunshine and some dramatic clouds, and a lot more wind than I would have liked. I had planned to fish bamboo, but it was already blowing hard when I parked my jeep, so I reached for my old Thomas & Thomas Paradigm graphite. It proved to be the right choice for the day.

I have enjoyed afternoon long sulfur hatches on cool, rainy days a few times, but Monday’s mainly sunny weather seemed to agree with the little yellow mays. The hatch was pretty steady from one o’clock until after five, and a number of good trout were taking advantage of it. Wind always makes technical fishing dicey. It takes away a great deal of an angler’s control. Drag-free drifts require controlled slack in the leader and tippet, and an ill timed wind gust likes nothing better than to straighten the whole thing out and send your fly way off target. Dealing with gusty winds requires patience.

Between gusts, I fired a cast low to the water to intercept the first riser. The wind died suddenly and the fly landed closer than intended to the trout, so of course he took it a split second early and I missed him clean while trying to hang the line over the free finger of my rod hand. He wasn’t going to give me a second chance. Nothing to do but rebuke myself and re-position for another player.

With the breeze calmed for a bit I spotted a wide bulge in the surface with a little ring and just smiled to myself before sending my CDC comparadun on its way. One cast, two, three and there’s that bulge again, and a big bow in the Paradigm! It was instantly clear that this was a serious fish, as he ripped line to the Hardy’s lament. He gave me everything he had, refusing even at the end to come quietly to the net. When I saw him, I eased the pressure a bit lest the 5X tippet betray me again. The big boy measured a shade past twenty-four inches.

The wind kept things challenging, as if the wild browns of the Catskills weren’t suitably capable of challenging the angler. There are days when they bring us to our knees! As the sulfurs continued to emerge and drift down river, occasional flurries of the much larger Gray Foxes would join them. During one of these, a telltale heavy rise urged me to quickly change my fly, and put the improved Gray Fox emerger to the test. It took a few casts to get the perfect float on such a blustery day, but the brown rose confidently and engulfed the fly. He took off hard downstream coaxing the reel from a stutter to a scream.

In the net he measured a solid 21 inches, and I savored my good fortune before slipping him back into the flow.

The devils returned for an hour or two, with fish rising a few times, then ceasing as I completed my approach. Low water fishing requires care and stealth, but I refuse to believe that we can ever be completely undetected by the trout. An ill timed wind gust resulting in a slapped down fly is another great equalizer, and one I endured more than once on the afternoon.

Finally another calmer spell allowed me to square up on a late feeder, but this one proved resistant. He showed no interest in the duns on the surface, so too the sparkle duns I offered, the closest thing to a cripple or emerger in my vest. I finally coaxed him into a take by using the wind-rippled surface to my advantage. I shortened my line and dropped my CDC sparkle dun well above him, letting it run out of float on the edge of his dinner table. A quick lift of the rod then an immediate drop, coupled with the release of the slack in my hand sunk the fly and allowed it to drift drag free again below the meniscus. Mr. brown trout couldn’t stand that tactic and grabbed the fly hard, charging away in haste.

A three fish day wouldn’t impress the fish counters, but with all three exceeding twenty inches I felt amply rewarded for an afternoon of challenging work on the stream.

Tuesday seemed perfect for another day long hatch, and I arrived early considering the anticipation of a banner day. Cloud cover was forecast to be constant, with calmer winds and a bit warmer temperatures, and I could almost see the legions of flies on the water as I walked down toward the river. Never try to predict Mother Nature.

I was on the water by half past Noon. It was cloudy and calm, and the river’s surface didn’t betray a single mayfly. Waiting, I uncoiled my thermometer and dropped it in: fifty-one degrees at one o’clock. Perhaps the rising temperature due to yesterday’s broken sunshine had sparked the early hatch?

After half an hour, I began to see an odd March Brown or two, but the first rise was a puzzling little waver in slack water along the far bank. I knew what that fish was about and hoped to be ready for him this time.

The approach took some time, but my target didn’t seem hurried. He was finding an occasional morsel out of the main current, his “rises” clearly the wavering of his dorsal fin breaking the glassy surface. I made a few perfunctory casts with a small sulfur dun, a handful having begun to show on the water. The trout of course paid no attention to my dry fly and continued his fin waving taunts. I smiled as I knotted one of the size 16 Klinkhammer style cripples I had tied that morning to the 5X tippet.

Patience always helps with a moving fish, and this fellow was roving a fair piece of real estate. My casts were delicate, courtesy of the Payne tapered bamboo rod and a supple DT line, and I made them only when the trout waved at me from a new location. Eventually my little half sunken fly and the brown arrived at the same location, and he sucked it down gently. I waited an extra tick then tightened in a slow, controlled lift and had him!

That old Hardy St. George was getting acquainted with trout a decade before I was born, but its as smooth as silk after so many years. After some head shaking and short pulls, the brown made his first run and coaxed a familiar melody from that vintage spring and pawl. We had a good time, that trout and I, the cane with a deep, throbbing bend throughout. I took my time with him, dutifully turning the rod upside down when the fish was closer to me to equalize the stress on the bamboo. A 21 inch Catskill brown can put a set in a fine cane rod if you aren’t paying attention to what you’re doing.

For a long while it appeared that one good fish would be the hallmark of my day. Flies came only in the barest of trickles, and only an occasional soft rise drew my attention. Most were not repeated. As the afternoon wore on, one fish rose half a dozen times, the last of those rises to my dry fly. He ate it late in the drift, just as I relaxed my attention, believing the fly was past the taking zone. My beleaguered hand let the line slip too as I raised the rod, and he charged straight at me barely hooked. By the time I recovered control of all that slack line, this smallish fish had run around a rock and pulled free of the hook. Yes, a one fish day to be sure.

It may have been half past four, and I had walked back in the direction of the jeep. I stopped along a favorite little run simply to savor the place and the moment of solitude. A splash brought me back to attention and I noticed a few sulfurs popping to the surface in slick, fast current. Covering the rise, I hooked what must have been the hardest pulling foot long brown trout in the river.

Slipping him back, I spotted another rise, then another, as the sulfur hatch finally made its appearance. In that last hour I caught three more trout, a pair of racehorse strong 20 inch beauties, and another. That final adversary was sipping beyond the seam on the other side of the fast slick before me, and I knew from experience what to expect.

I worked myself upstream and out into the channel to allow a long, downstream reach cast. Float time would be extended that way, but it wouldn’t be long, so the cast had to be accurate and drop the fly gently no more than a foot and a half above the rise. Presentations like that are what bamboo rods were made for: enough smooth power to get the distance required, feel and delicacy to deliver the fly perfectly.

He rose to my second cast, and boiled mightily when I raised the rod into a full arc, streaking down into the rush of current and bringing old St. George to full and vibrant song! There’s nothing quite so thrilling as a big fish in fast water, all of that oxygen charging every fiber with wild energy. There were two turns of fly line on the reel when he stopped, turning and thrashing the surface to foam. We battled there at a distance for a time, joined by a slender line and an arc of flamed bamboo.

Thrice regaining line, then losing it again, I worked him through the channel and to my side of the river. I backed toward the bank, urging him into calmer, shallower water in stages, giving line as needed, and taking what he allowed. At last I dipped the net and led him in.

I exhaled as I raised the rim, looking for the fly to disengage. He was a dark, beautiful brownie, deeply bronzed and heavily spotted. On impulse I took the two steps to the grassy bank and fumbled for my camera, laying the great fish gently along side the rod and saving the moment with a quick photo.

I waited for a while after I released him, eventually seeing a final rise upstream. I waded up and across to a casting position, though I knew my day was complete.

June 1st, Crooked Eddy, Hancock, NY, thirty-four degrees at sunrise. A hazy summer morning, no, nearly a frosty one!

I have been wondering where all of the rusty spinners have been hiding this spring, then I found a pair on the screen of my front porch door the other morning. Spies! Reporting back to the mating swarm this angler’s whereabouts that they might chose a different riffle. Nonsense of course, perhaps they are just a little lost.

I have caught one trout on a spinner, a fine 20″ brown in fact, though there was no real spinner fall. The rising fish I was working began to ignore my Hendrickson, and I searched the drift for answers. I saw one or two small spinners, perhaps even expired duns, as it was hard to say in their faded state, and changed my fly accordingly. Success. I may simply have been in the wrong place at the wrong time, but with so many frosty mornings and windy evenings I wonder how the next generation of Hendricksons, Blue Quills and Quill Gordons will fare?

I get to go fishing today, a pleasant thought on this chilly morn, and I am glad for the chill as it has come in the nick of time to cool our rivers. The Delaware and Beaverkill had reached and exceeded seventy degrees last week, not a condition we want to see in May. I’ll wear my fleece lined khakis and a sweater again, and the heavier wool socks and be glad of it. Catskill rivers should be cold in spring, and remain cool and productive throughout the summer.

I am still wondering at the paucity of insects since the Hendricksons completed their annual affair. I have worked hard to stay away from crowds, though I haven’t tried to avoid the hatches! I greet each day astream with the delicious thrill of anticipation: will this be the day the flies come heavily? It can happen like that, yes, but it can also continue at more of a trickle; a few flies at odd intervals throughout the day and evening, hunting trout in out of the way corners where they lie securely and sip the handful of mayflies that nature offers.

I love hunting trout, though I associate it more with a summer game, once the heavy hatches have come and gone for the year. Stalking with a terrestrial dry in the quiet places, or floating the riffles and tossing a big isonychia comparadun to the pockets and eddies along the bank, its all hunting, and it is all exhilarating.

I set up the perfect drift last summer, the oar handles slipped beneath my knees, the drift boat an ideal distance from the bank and floating straight downstream in a familiar riff, allowing me to sit and cast my isonychia, working the covert to flush out the bird. A brawler of a 22″brown trout liked the morsel I dropped in his pocket, sipped it gently, and we were both surprised when he boiled to the arc of my rod and streaked into the main current.

Many days I picked the perfect hour to slip into quiet pools and stalk, moving with agonizing stealth into casting position for each suspected lie. Sometimes a take would come, an explosion in the quiet water; sometimes no response, leading to another cast or two, knowing each drift has a little less of a chance of connecting than that critical first cast.

But wait, it is not yet summer, not at thirty-four degrees with the greatest of the hatches still in front of us. Ah yes, still spring, with the peak ahead, and the puzzle of timing to be solved.

My fishing is coming back, slowly. The Red Gods are offering this angler salvation a spoonful at a time. Ah yes the caprices of Mother Nature!

I chanced a somewhat more favorable wind forecast on Wednesday and dropped the boat in the Delaware for a solo float. They are all solo floats this year, thanks to the need to avoid human contact. I tend toward being a loner on the river anyway, but it would be nice to share the day with a good friend.

That wind was supposed to be in the 5 to 10 mph range, but it did get up a bit stronger in the afternoon. Floating the Big D means rowing, so I expected to get a workout pulling through the big eddies. The extra breeze just upgraded my cardio.

I had hoped of course for a lot of insect activity, and rising fish. The sunny morning was gradually overtaken by clouds, just as forecast, but the activity never happened. The Delaware has a reputation of being moody, but it can really impress you when it smiles.

By early afternoon I was anchored in the tail of a riff just upstream of a famous pool, watching and waiting. There were a few caddis popping around on the surface, and eventually a few more of them brought a couple of those little spurt rises that said “rainbow”. I removed the X Caddis from the hook keeper on my rod and started casting to the familiar moving targets that are Delaware River rainbows. We found each other, that bow and I, and started to dance; he flying a couple of feet out of the river he calls home two or three times between drag pulling runs, while I countered with rod pressure and reeling. A nice bow, 16 or 17 inches, and a great way to start the day.

The caddis activity waned quickly, and, after another wait I lifted the anchor and moved on, rowing all the way through Lake Lenore against the breeze. Payment to the Red Gods for services rendered. There would be a lot of payment for that bow, and the foot long brown who bent my rod hours later while waiting in another riff.

I was tired by the time I caught sight of the Buckingham landing, better than two hours earlier than planned. I anchored and watched a lot of riffles, but there wasn’t anything else happening to put a bend in my rod, unless you count that chub. Lets not even talk about that.

Cell service is almost non-existent downriver, but I stopped along the shoreline in Buckingham pool and turned the phone on hopefully: one bar. I tried to text Cathy, but it came back with “message could not be sent”. Hooray for little black boxes. I slipped a little further down the bank where the hillside wasn’t looming over the top of me and tried again – message sent! Glad I avoided sitting there in the boat for a couple of hours.

My arms, back and shoulders thought it would be a great idea to go wade fishing the next day. I agreed. I headed out midday, bound for one of my favorite quiet stretches of water, another one of those places that had been bugless of late. It was one of those misty afternoons, a dozen degrees cooler than the previous couple of days, the kind fly fishers recognize as a good bug day. Hmm, well I guess I’ll see about that.

I made a long walk leisurely, stopping to watch each reach of river, seeing nothing moving but water itself. I settled in where I had had great fishing this time last year and waited for an hour.

The obligatory handful of caddis were the first things to show, and then, was that a mayfly? A slow, bulging rise put me on alert. I had wanted to fish bamboo, but the rain led me to select the Thomas & Thomas Paradigm. If I had to fish graphite, it was going to be with feel; as close to cane as possible. I moved into position to work to that rise and waited for another.

The trout rose, I lifted the line softly and the Paradigm painted the fly on the water sixty feet out. He rose to intercept my fly, took it, and the tension of a long stretch of slow fishing let me pull my hair trigger a half second too soon, and the fly right out of his mouth.

It took a while before I started to see a big mayfly or two drifting down: big, yellow, March Browns or Gray Foxes. To Hell with the DNA scientists, I thought, and tied on an East Branch Special I thought might pass for either. I’d found the pattern on the Sparse Gray Matter forum, credited to Art Patterson, brother in law of the late Al Carpenter, Sr., the long time owner and proprietor of Al’s Wild Trout in Shinhopple, and tied a few this winter.

The target had showed me that one big, slow bulge that got me into stealth mode, but his subsequent rises varied to more subtle sips. Still, he hadn’t risen until the big mayflies showed, so I was going to offer him a big mayfly. Seventy odd foot reach casts flowed out of the old Paradigm one after the other, as I prospected for the old boy between bursts of wind and flying mist, the gift of Mother Nature’s immaculate sense of timing.

I was nearly ready to change the fly, to offer a low floater, when he liked the drift enough to come up and eat that hackled dun. I paused half a breath, then tightened, and the rod arched as he porpoised right there in his lie. Before even starting to move, he was simply gone, the 5X tippet broken cleanly. I pulled the remaining tippet through my fingers to check for abrasions, finding none, then tugged gently below the leader knot and it broke again. Bad tippet, just my luck, or was I still paying dues for yesterday’s tail dancing rainbow?

I cut the leader back and retied it with four feet of 4X tippet, one size heavier; a little extra insurance for the larger dry flies.

The March Browns were as sporadic as their reputation, half a dozen coming over the course of 15 minutes time, then nothing for half an hour. A trout would rise once, 150 feet away, then no more. There was one near a submerged rock that ate something every once in a while, but he showed no interest in my flies.

There are times I feel certain that the “one time rises” in this area are really cruisers. A trout or two with enough appetite to cruise the flats and target the emerging nymphs of big sporadic mayflies, taking them as the reach the surface, or perhaps an inch beneath. Fishing to cruisers is a sport for the lucky in any case. But hey, that guy is still up near that rock…

Movement here is stealth mode only or the game is up. Impatience has no place in this water. I was finally back in the right position to play another round with the rock trout, still eating something every once in awhile. I decided that the light March Brown version of the 100-Year Dun was the ticket, as it sat on the water just like those stately fellows who drifted by much less often than I wanted. Mr. Rock Trout agreed.

Finally I got to hear the ratchetting music of the Hardy and feel the limber Paradigm throb and buck with a fine brownie. He came grudgingly to my net, a solid twenty inches (oh I’m gonna pay for this!). There had been a foot long brown earlier chasing down a big March Brown comparadun as it pulled under when I began to strip it back from a downstream cast; my version of a luck fish. Another two fish day, and I am thankful for it. They are not coming easily this season.

I did miss another riser before the river quieted completely and I began my walk out. One of those sampling kind of takes at the end of a downstream drift where drag just starts to flirt with the fly. They want it because it moved a little, but somehow they don’t, and indecision seems to let them kiss it gently on the surface, waiting for an expectant angler to pull it away just as I did.

Over anxious nerves, bad tippet, a little luck and the right fly at the right place a couple of times this day. Sounds like fishing doesn’t it?

If you fish, you will have a run of “bad luck” though, if the truth be told, there is nothing truly bad about spending time on a trout river. I had a rather long week, one in which it seemed that wherever I wandered, I found no hatching flies and no rising trout. That is “bad luck” to a dry fly man, for we wait less than patiently for May, once the final hatches of October have brought our season to a close. May is expected to be the perfect month, so when one strings together a number of fishless days, those oh so precious May days, it can be perceived as the end of the world.

My salvation was of course a fly; not a completely new fly, but an improvement on an old standby. I had a report from a reliable source that good numbers of March Browns were on the water Monday afternoon on the Delaware. Fly shops you see had been reporting them on “all rivers” during that past week, in the optimistic way that fly shops do: some guy sees a big bug of some sort fluttering out there by itself and voila! The March Browns are hatching!

I have been broadening my use of Enrico Puglisi’s Trigger Point Fibers during the past couple of years, and I have found some merit in combining them with CDC on some of my favorite patterns. For years I have sandwiched light and dark colors of CDC feathers to replicate the darkly veined and blotched wings of some of our largest spring mayflies. Since the Trigger Point fibers incorporate both light and dark fibers in their color mixes, it was a natural thought progression to take advantage of that while reducing the bushiness of some of my multi-layer CDC wings. Hence, the improved version of my March Brown Emerger.

I had no foot access to the portion of the river where the heavier concentration of mayflies was showing, so I got as close as I could hoping for the typical upstream progression of many of our hatches. The problem with public river access is that it is, well, public. I waded out into a productive riffle with three trout rising irregularly as they picked off a sparse emergence of March Browns. I heard the small army of kayakers before I saw them. They piled into the river hollering as the young are wont to do, and my pent up frustration from a week of bugless fishing caused me to rush things, trying to catch all three trout before the inevitable advance of the plastic fleet.

I missed one of those fish twice as I kept taking my eye off my fly to look at the progress of the boaters bearing down upon me. On the third try he rolled up and, I thought, ate the fly solidly, and was off in a spirited run downstream into my backing. He wasn’t coming back up so I followed. When I reached him, I was dismayed to find my big fly in his side. He had rolled on it, refused it, and I had foul hooked him.

I removed the hook as gently as I could, and the indignant brown wasted no time in streaking back to deeper water. I started walking back to my original casting position rather dejectedly, and then the fleet was upon me.

I guess they tried to avoid disturbing me by going behind, but plastic kayaks don’t float on wet rocks. It is truly amazing just how much noise half a dozen people can make bouncing plastic hulls off of rock after rock, all the while splashing and stumbling. They tried, but just didn’t know any better, spoiling their own fun and mine by their good natured effort.

It took a couple of hours before another trout rose within 100 feet of that location. I scanned the water up and down river, and there was nothing encouraging. Every once in awhile a March Brown would pop up and bob along unmolested, and here and there a caddis would dance past.

Eventually one of those original fish began to sip or pop at, I thought, one of the caddisflies. Not feeding, just taking a bug now and then, every five to ten minutes. The fish was moving as Delaware trout like to do, so I couldn’t seem to put a cast over him, either that or he simply didn’t like any of the 4 or 5 patterns I offered. I was thinking about heading home for an early meal and had decided to dig out one more caddis pattern to try, when I heard the thunk of a solid rise close at hand. Looking up, I saw a couple of March Browns were hatching again, so I tied on the improved emerger.

It took five minutes for the thunker to rise again so I could spot him; a good fish. Two casts was enough, as that heavy thunk intercepted my fly and the game was on. You’ve gotta love a solid Delaware River trout in fast water. They come to play and they give it their all. Nineteen inches in the net, a beautifully colored brownie with deep bronze flanks peppered with black and red spots. Monkey, kindly remove yourself from my back!

There were no others, at least not until I started wading upstream and spotted a splash halfway back toward the landing. I waded out and gave him a try, but the sparse flurry of bugs has dissipated and he wasn’t coming up again. Time to grill the sausage and cook the pasta until evening.

I drove to several places after dinner. The crowds at some of them were ridiculous. I miss the old days when fly fishers would drive by an access that already had its complement of two cars. Now you see a dozen, sometimes two crammed in end to end, and all these guys playing line up in the river.

On my last try I found a pool that was empty and pulled off to the side of the road. I knew the river had hit 68 degrees on that hot, still afternoon, but I knew that the deeper half of this particular pool had been in shade for the past couple of hours and was well oxygenated. Still, there wasn’t much activity until nearly dark.

The first riser turned out to be a very well energized 9″ stockie, a NYS issue regulation brown trout, released quickly and none the worse for wear. It had to get a little darker before a couple of better rises began to appear. I tied on a size 16 Grannom X Caddis and took a very nicely colored eighteen inch brown who was even more energized than the little guy. The action passed quickly, as there simply weren’t a lot of bugs on the water. One more good rise, one quick cast and one heavy but brief hookup. That fish literally ripped himself right off the hook! A good one, though I’ll never know how good.

I tied some more March Brown Emergers this morning. Right now I am debating whether I should chance floating the big river with a 5 to 10 mph SSE wind.

Sixty-four years completed, and a season just begun. The calendar hints that this should be the peak, the great finale to spring, but in this strange Catskill spring it is only the beginning.

I have enjoyed some fishing, yes, some satisfaction and a little heartbreak, just the things that make angling a passion; but I have missed so much more. The company of friends adds much to the life of an angler, and all my fishing has been solitary by necessity this year.

I miss the visits with my friend Dennis, and the joy of sharing his knowledge and enthusiasm for the history of fly fishing, the bamboo rod, and the legacy of the Catskills. By now there should have been at least a couple of those afternoons in his rod shop, the ones where talking a bit lasts half the day, filled with intense interest, stories and laughter. We managed one breakfast last winter before the world turned upside down. It was just enough to make me miss our visits even more.

My best friend Mike finally retired as the curtain fell upon 2019. I looked forward to his visits, more frequent, and freed from the stress of schedules and responsibilities. I saw us fishing together because the fishing was good and the hatches full, rather then because the days suited our vacation schedules or work commitments. I am missing long days on the water, jawing at one another, catching trout, and sipping late beers on the porch when the day is through and the tackle put away. We should be sitting at the bench each morning and talking about the new fly just fashioned that’s sure to make that day a success!

John and I have renewed a friendship forged decades ago in conversations in my fly shop, and evenings along the gentle Falling Spring. I hoped we would have floated the river a time or two by now and met along a reach of water to share an early hatch and laugh at the crazy weather. I am anxious to cast the new bamboo rod he built, one he just got to fish a bit himself. I watched him planning strips and gluing them into a blank last September, and I am certain the result is beautiful.

I have been after my friend Andy to join me for some fishing in the Catskills for several years now. This was the year he was sure to set aside some time. As a young doctor he has been caught in the thick of the madness, burdened not only by trying to help the sick, but to keep himself and his young family safe. My heart and my hope goes out to him! May we somehow yet string up our Granger rods along the wide Delaware.

There are those I have met only through correspondence, whose words led me to speak of fishing, of showing them my rivers, once the madness is behind us. It will soon be summer and we seem to be teetering upon the brink of another disaster, rather than sighing with relief at the passing of the threat.

I contemplate the questions of the season before me, and I hope that we will find peace and safety. I look toward the day I can reunite with my friends, and walk the banks of some favorite reach of bright water, when I may once again live the full measure of my angling life.