Coming home brings all of the charms and challenges of a favorite place.

The morning began with beautiful blue skies and brilliant sunshine, buoying with my spirits. I could blink into those skies and all but feel the river warming. I worked through my morning chores, just like a normal morning, like any day of that precious span anglers know as dry fly season.

Waders donned and into the SUV, that special Leonard ACM behind my seat, I felt downright giddy as I told Cathy our destination. Once near the river, I strapped my wading staff about my waist, hoisted my vest on my shoulders and joined my rod and turned the locking ring of the reel seat snug, sublimating the excitement to take a slow deliberate pace down to the riverbank. At the moment I set foot upon the grass beside the flow, a cascade of wind rushed up the valley on cue, a welcome from the Red Gods.

I laughed and told her of the typical events anglers are presented with, sudden winds, rain and the creatures of the realm, all and any tossed out as a greeting as welcome. She has read every word these many years, but all I could do was laugh and utter: “it’s true, it’s true”…

Even though as I chuckled at the wind, trying to catch line and leader as it was blown around my head, I eventually managed to string the line through the rod’s guides and knotted a Quill Gordon to the tippet. I sat beside her to see would be the next act, pointing out the rises between the gusts.

The winds vanished as quickly they had descended, and at last I took up my rod and waded slowly through the clear waters. My legs began to gather a bit of stability with each step, sensing the familiarity of these rocks, as I worked my way to the thread of current where those rises were showing. Of course, a few gusts returned and played with my first casts, but within a few minutes I had my fly alighting along the trail of bubbles bouncing over the rocks shrouding the fish rising haphazardly.

Nature and the Red boys had an ace in the hole though, one challenge still to overcome. That first rise that came to my drifting fly brought the rod up just on time, and I felt a spirited dash. There I was smiling with every turn of the reel handle until I drew that fellow near to see the thick white lips that seized my lovely dry fly – a chub.

My mangled fly was discarded, amid a pang perhaps of doubt: might the handful of moving risers before me wear those same big green scales? Could such a favorite reach doom me to a season beginning with rising chubs?

I knotted a fresh quill and studied each rise in turn. Some were questionable, but to my eye there was one that drew my eye immediately. That big shapely head rose a second time, leaving nothing to fear! The winds chose to erase the vision at that moment while I was planning my cast.

Once the next calm spell I watched carefully, hoping that fish would return.

I found no more of classic head and tail rises, but there was some evidence. A soft rise and a mayfly I was tracking was simply no longer there, and the Leonard sent my fly dancing down that line of drift, twice and thrice, and I answered with it’s quiet disappearance!

The classic Hardy LRH Lightweight reel has a characteristic wail when one’s fly line and backing leaves it’s spool at a high rate of speed. To an angler, it is a symphony, a pure expression of ecstasy. Not a chub this time, not indeed.

There was another fisher downriver who had arrived as I was working out into the river. After I had finally snubbed that first run and made a few turns of the reel handle, the demon on the wetted end of that line dashed another screaming run right at him. He turned and I caught a mix of surprise, perhaps even fear, might he be at risk of bodily harm.

I saved him though, turned that downstream flight and began the long line stalemate, the gaining of a few feet of backing and then surrendering it, short dashes and turnabouts as a powerful fish gives his all. I thought I had beaten him half a dozen times, all to lose whatever line I had gained as he charged away headlong.

I backed slowly toward the riverbank, working shallower and working toward a patch of smaller cobble where I might work him into the net. When I got the first good look I understood, for my eye caught not the bronze and butter color of the expected brown trout. This was a migrant from the wide Delaware, green, red and silver, and he knew no quarter.

Finally, I stretched out the net, and guarding the fine tip of that lovely old Leonard, drew him in. I wanted a photo, but he had battled so long and hard, I honored him with a quick twist to the steel and a gentle return. There was no holding him into the current, for as that cold bright water touched him he was away like a dart! Welcomed back to the river, to life, as he welcomed me.

Perhaps the rarest trophy of these Catskill rivers are those special wild rainbows which exceed twenty inches long. In more than thirty years I have touched half a dozen, and each has been uniquely memorable. I will leave you a memory of another from the past.

At last, I am gathering rod and reel, flies waders, boots and staff to take my first steps in bright water for the 2026 dry fly season. Though my fly boxes are well stocked, I am tying two Quill Gordon’s this morning.

I have the hackle tails and dyed wild turkey biots wrapped, with a durable coating applied and drying as I write. Yes, these are my 100-Year Duns, and those tied I refer to as the Dyed Wild variations that betray the deep yellowish hue amid the banding observed along the hallowed Beaver Kill.

I can see that my supply of my special Quill Gordon dubbing is running spare. I will need to blend more before next year; a sour yellow, a wisp of gray, and a touch of sparkle in each hue, a good winter task. Now it is finally spring, and time for fishing!

I have two rods waiting in their tubes, their ferrules cleaned and checked, but that special Leonard seems to be tugging at my thoughts now that the day has finally arrived. I have promised to fish that one with a number six line after a brief comparison in the yard, and with the river’s flow and a wise extra measure of care considering the turns of my life have taken the past month and a half, that mysterious ACM seems ideal.

The two Quill Gordons? All reports have been telling of sparse mayflies and sparser rises, and I have found a special magic in flies tied the morning of a fishing trip. This pair will find my tippet before any others, waiting for the first season’s rise. That magic? Well, it can take something special to tempt a chilly, winter weary brown trout to rise to take a lone taste of Gordon’s Quill miraculously laid before him. Hope and wishing isn’t necessarily quite enough to make that happen, so that magic can be all the difference in just how wide my smile shall be at the end of this first day.

One more ferrule cleaning is in order, and if my hands should stray to polish the varnished bamboo, forgive my stretching out of these last few moments and finally fuss with my tackle, for this day has been a much longer time coming.

We took a couple of short walks yesterday, brief visits to a couple of places along the riversides. I carried binoculars, not a fly rod, bundled up against the harsh cold wind. Rivers have risen once more, and I scanned the likely currents I hoped to see some signs of life, there were none.

It is twenty-one well frosted degrees here in Crooked Eddy, and the changeover has been complete. West and East Delaware reservoirs are spilling once more, and river waters that had warmed to sixty unexpected April degrees have tumbled down to forty.

It seems the pair of bamboo rods chosen for my first forays shall remain in their tubes a little longer.

A few more days to gain some strength and stability lost amid the turmoil of winter; a few more hours to tie another dozen flies augmenting my already burgeoning supply, and wait.

Winter whispered a little reminder after dawn, just in case we have forgotten is still in charge.

I find the thermometer dropping down below freezing is a gift. River flows had been far too warm for the middle of April after several eighty-degree days, so Nature’s little adjustment is welcome. I won’t be convinced that a more normal season of rainfall is due for the Catskills until I actually see it, feel it, and wade in cold, seasonal flows in it.

I would like to see perfect temperatures and good levels as May closes out and welcomes mid-June on the Beaver Kill, and I want to watch the capacities keep flirting with the 95% mark as the reservoirs reflect the early summer sun on a still morning. I want to thrill us a long, glorious season, the kind I know a Catskill Summer, with highs in the mid-seventies and cool mornings where the mist raises the hairs on my arms at daylight.

It seems like a long, dim tunnel is coming to it’s end, and there is just a glimmer ahead, with something bright and cool and wonderful.

The chill of the river penetrates despite the layers of fleece beneath my waders. I have a sense of tingling, every nerve, as I watch the soft kiss of his neb touches the surface, while the rings emanate outward. One foot glides above the cobble then nestles gently back down. The fifteen minutes I take to close the distance to fifty feet seems more than an hour. That neb and it’s rings continue, but at long intervals rather than the regular beats of a confident feeding trout on a steady hatch.

I cannot say that I have clearly seen a winged dun meet that neb, so I have knotted a flush lying pattern with a low CDC crown. The first back casts feel stiff, but the smooth power of the vintage bamboo and the line begins to flow, feeling familiar, and then the cast is away…

Sunday morning, and the third week of April begins. A chill has returned to the Catskills, snow showers lurk amid the weather forecast, and a too light rain is dripping on my roof.

We traveled to the Catskill Museum yesterday to tie a few flies for the Fly Tyers Rendezvous, the annual gathering held each spring by the Catskill Fly Tyers Guild. I saw some friends, proving I am still around, but I noted a much smaller group this year than memory recalls. It was a beautiful day, and I expected to see the Beaver Kill dotted with anglers as we drove along the Quickway, but their numbers proved also much reduced from the norm. Spring comes gradually, even after a good string of days that were downright summerlike.

I am still lingering, still wont to venture out to bright water. My hands may not feel the old strength, but for the grasp of a cork handled wand of split bamboo, yes! Time is my healer, and time is ever patient, so mine must match its duration of patience which my own.

I am just a bit closer each day. I still find signs though I remain short of my goal. I felt the tiredness yesterday afternoon, sitting there in the Wulff Gallery with eight dry flies tied before me.

If Nature graces with good hatches this season, the first comers I expect to debut this week. April’s third week I have known as a rare creature, a normal spring in these Catskill Mountains, no more often or no less than an early or late one. In truth, the difference amounts to a week, a brief time, yet to a winter bound angler who breathes not unless standing amid the dappled sunlight upon the river’s flow it seems an eternity.

It took me three tries, winding both tag ends of the 4X tippet material around the standing line, then catching as I pulled that blood knot smoothly tight: finger retraining after several months. A good sound knot is paramount, for we all know if its not.

The arthritis offers pain, stiffness particularly when cold, and the carpal tunnel robs the sensitivity, making it hard to feel that 4X, 5X, worse than anything finer. When thirty-five years has been a passion, there is hope a full supply of patience when things complicate the essential, like tying knots. The trout often shed their patience. No, truly that isn’t what I believe they are doing, they use theirs differently.

A big wild trout is an older wild trout, they may have been caught a time or two, more likely they have escaped from being caught perhaps quite a good many times. Breaking tippets is the tough way to escape. I think they prefer to escape from being caught by avoiding people and their flies, nets and all our paraphernalia. I think patience goes a lot into that. Patience to study everything of, about or near what they hope is a bug that catches their attention, before they choose to take it.

They remain patient, but even after they take that first bite, they just hold back before they take another. You or I see that first rise and we want to make a cast. Yea, we know it might be better to wait, but we saw that one and there might not be another, and while the line is already in the air while we are still convincing ourselves to be patient… Oh, we already hurried out that cast. How many times when that scenario played out that we never saw a second rise in that location, either to our fly or a live bug?

One rise doesn’t tell enough. Depending upon the location and conditions, that one rise hasn’t even told us that a trout is or has been anywhere nearby. Things splash into the water, fall into from overhead trees, blown in by the wind, etc.

If we are looking right at the event when it happens, chances are better we will see a better picture and be able to decide whether this was a fish’s rise or some other disturbance. If not, maybe not. One rise that tells us a fish took something from or near the surface, but it doesn’t tell us if that fish is stationary or moving, much less in which direction. Consider these facts and patience seems more important doesn’t it?

Years of time spent upon rivers in pursuit of trout will expand your patience, but it night also weaken your will to employ it. Whether you think of the works of the Red Gods, fishermen’s luck, etc. there are days when things fall to our favor and days when they fall on our head. Seems like which choices, decisions and moves turn out like golden on the best days, while the same choices, decisions and moves turn to crap on bad days.

When I recognize one of those other days, I try to think about the way I have been fishing and make the effort to change the decisions which guide my fishing. If I have been patient and methodical and reaping nothing, I will work harder to react to things quickly rather than analyzing everything before I make a cast. Fish a different type of water, cover more water or less, doing the opposite of what I have been doing without results.

Sometimes I just stop after the Red Gods have whooshed a big gust to send a dead tree branch crashing down on top of the big brownie I had been stalking twenty minutes to get into position to make the perfect cast to, and just blurt out a big loud, lusty laugh at myself and them!

Another morning, and the cusp of a very warm string of days begins. Alas, this is another doctor day, in fact the post-op checkup to see if the surgical nurse is pleased with my healing. I am hoping this will be the last hurdle, that the following days will be nothing more than the familiar dance with weather and the Red Gods, culminating that first, longed, cherished cast!

Forty-one days I have lost, stripped away, with all of the preamble I count toward spring. I have not set foot upon a river since January 13th, a single breath captured amid a long, frigid winter.

If I close my eyes I catch the vision. Scanning the horizon I note the first hint of movement. Straining for several minutes those clues morph into wings. Five, ten minutes later I can see them clearly, twos and threes dance down the rippled surface along the head of the run, lifting free and gaining flight. My hand trails in the current and I notice the warmth, the life it brings, until that final act, a flash of defiance where one beautiful pair of wings no longer bob and flutter!

Seven and a half feet of flamed bamboo flexes in my hand as a part of me, the soft curl of dusky line points to a new wing bobbing amid those same currents…

I wait, until I am bathed in the light and warmth of the air, and my soul joins with the spirits of the river gods once more.

What can I say, for I pushed through the film and perched myself at last upon the surface! Many people have played a part, my Cathy most of all, who handled the stress and worry while taking care of all of my needs, loving, nursing, and cheering for me to find a way to move forward. A certain fly fisherman newly met, played a major role. It is good here upon the surface, wings drying, upon the cusp of first flight.

With clear eyes seeing the Catskills before me, I am surrounded by the classic pre-spring pattern. The Beaver Kill flows at a wadable level, with it’s water temperatures rocking through the forties, teasing on the warmer days as it closes in toward the magic range which awakens the primary aquatic life, returns their world to the final days of the long sleep on the colder nights. All Delaware reservoirs are spilling, but light rain seems in the offing, leading their tailwater rivers to seek equilibrium and warming, clearing flows. Will the rivers be ready before I can meet them?

At last, I feel the urgency to take down my vest and work through its fly trays and pockets, readying my tackle for the spring. I can see the path through the riverbank, where it has been overgrown and strewn with the winter’s litter cluttered where water meets land. Body and spirit will be healed.

Now the decisions shall be addressed. Easing into the cast, shall my typical eight-footer get the nod? Leonard’s ACM has been scratching about my head all through this long winter, though the fringes of my thoughts have been thinking a seven-and-a-half? My namesake, the Thomas & Thomas Hendrickson, even the Winston? The sun is promised today, should not be the decision made outdoors on the grass?

Too many newly tied winter flies still hover here in pill bottles. They must be apportioned into the Wheatley boxes, and memory refreshened which nooks cradle Gordons Quills, Blue Quills or Blue-Winged Olives. Spring is nearly on upon us!

My wading staff will be cleaned and checked, for it’s steadiness helps my legs regain the feel of gravel and stone beneath my feet, as legs strengthen. Leaders, tippets and the reel themselves must be oiled and readied.

Winter coats shall be stowed, finally, and light insulateds, fleece and the rain jacket brought forth ready.

It is not yet daylight and my mind is reeling! So much to do, so many tasks usually apportioned over many weeks seem suddenly immediate. First though, I must stop and take a full breath of the new air.

Morning comes slowly, rising before three o’clock. A month of cobwebs begin to gradually clear of my brain. What to do fist? Breathe…

Twenty-four hours from now the waiting will end, but my thoughts and feelings remain a jumble. Just now I am doing my best to concentrate on the future: bright water, the light washing the riverscape, enlivening the somber colors and textures as the first hint of springtime is betrayed. In the distance I catch the first faint of spray of bubbles, a trout has taken a grayish dun amid the turmoil of the riffling currents…

My life has been on hiatus for more than a month, scrambling to put pressing matters in order, trying to not thinking of that first blush of spring dawning without me on a favorite reach of water. My tackle has yet to be readied for the new season, the new patterns are not fully ordered in the proper fly box. The season’s opening rod remains undecided as the reel will accompany it, and no thought of replacing last year’s old leader and tippet. If I was suddenly freed before a favorite pool at the perfect level, clear, and hosting a flotilla of Gordon Quills bobbing off the riffle upstream I would be completely unprepared.

The Beaver Kill has dropped into the upper range of wadable flows once more, though the water hovers near forty degrees. A warming trend should begin on Thursday. The first teasers, little stoneflies, a few tiny black caddis, or maybe the first scouts, could show themselves by the weekend. For me, even in the best situation, I will consider myself lucky to spend a bit of time enjoying that afternoon warmth in my porch chair. I would find myself very grateful to find myself in that porch chair.

If I make it to my porch chair, then I can begin to stock that fly box of new dries, sort through the vest that has languished since the beginning of last summer, decide upon the first fly rod and reel and put the new leader and tippet on the freshly cleaned line. In that porch chair I can dare, and plan and prepare for the glory of a new season.

Should the weather continue in a favorable trend, spring will likely flirt with spring and anglers next week. Save untold devilment on the part of the Red Gods, the third week of April should be the actual commencement of the new dry fly season. That is as about as close to a normal spring, that rare season that seems to occur once or twice a decade, that we get to experience in these Catskill Mountains.

It is a cold, damp, dreary April day in the Catskills, a very typical early spring day this time of year. Reservoirs are spilling in the Delaware watershed and the rivers are high and rising, and I am smiling. I cannot help but send my wishes to the Red Gods to maintain the status quo, for no matter the conditions might improve, I will not be along any of my favorite reaches of riverbank when Day Zero arrives on Monday.

As years flow downstream and seasons pass into memory, I find each spring, each dry fly season, and even each hour along bright water to become more precious. Those of us who can count our time along rivers in decades are quite aware of the unmistakable truth: there are fewer of those precious moments ahead than lie before.

There is a simple black aluminum fly box that has been filling with new patterns during these months of winter. New ideas, fresh thinking, flies I cannot wait to cast upon these Catskill rivers are waiting there. Despite the questions brought of droughts and hard winters, the magic and promise of the season just ahead sparkles. The promise lies just out of reach, still unattainable.