We got to go fishing the other day; just me and my best friend JA on bright water under clear blue skies with just a hint of breeze. Several years ago we envisioned this as a very regular occurrence, but then life has a way of getting in the way of idyllic plans. Over those intervening years, we have stolen a day, or maybe half of one, when we could.

Spring has been reluctant this season, so to get a truly perfect weather day, one with some actual hope of a hatch or two took a little serendipity. There were some caddis on the water when we arrived in late morning, but no fish were taking them. The river levels were near perfect thanks to Nature’s sorely needed gift of rainfall, and the currents were clear enough to let us enjoy ourselves while allowing the trout to keep a few of their secrets.

JA decided to prospect the riffle down into the run, while I sidled downstream into the head of the pool. We both fished a little, making a few casts with our favorite caddis imitations despite a lack of rises. We both figured that there were enough flies on the water for a trout or two to be out there looking, and if we drifted our caddis over just the right rock…

As early afternoon arrived, I saw the first Hendricksons begin to drift by. It wasn’t long before I saw a soft rise, covered it, and had a good trout take my fly. As I was playing him, I heard a couple more rises behind me, so after netting that fish I waved to JA to come on down. Within five minutes there was another rise and a second nice brownie took my 100-Year Dun. More rises behind me. I waved some more and JA started down. He hooked a nice brown between us, but it jumped and threw the hook. Then things went quiet. We talked a bit, waited and watched, and finally he decided to work his way back up into the run. That was the best decision of the day!

I would find only a recalcitrant sipper or two for the duration of the hatch. They kept me busy trying to get a cast into the perfect spot, but I had no further success. I had looked upriver once during my time in purgatory, and seen JA’s handmade bamboo rod high in the air and bucking with life. I smiled and went back to my own business. That was the first bamboo fly rod JA had made about five years ago and it was beautifully done. I believe he is working on rods six and seven now, and one of those is a surprise gift for me. He has also spent a lot of time over this past winter teaching me how to make one myself and fulfill a special dream. I suspect that gives you an idea of what kind of man my friend is.

Not too long before the hatch petered out, they have been short and sparse this year, I heard a call from JA and looked to see him carrying his net to the bank. I could see his smile from a hundred yards away.

When I joined him he was still smiling, telling me about the half dozen good browns he had taken on one of his little caddis emergers, including the twenty-one incher I saw him carrying to the bank. He wanted a picture of that one, the fish that jetted away instantly and started emptying his reel.

As we talked beside the road before heading home, he handed me a fly box full of those special caddis. He still ties flies for a few, select fly shops including one in downtown Roscoe. He ties more than thirty dozen of that particular fly for that shop each season, as it’s their best-selling caddis pattern. There’s a reason for that.

I’ll be looking for some more good fish taking caddis this week. They hang around for a while much better than the mayflies, and I will give JA’s emerger plenty of time on the end of my leader!

There’s an old 1940’s St. George waiting on the ottoman, it’s line freshly polished and a brand-new leader and tippet attached, snugged into the sheepskin liner of it’s leather case. The ferrules on the five weight Leonard were cleaned just the other day, and it waits too right beside that ottoman. I can feel the old magic now, that tingle at the first blush of morning on the spring skyline; I’m going fishing!

A best friend will join me, and he’ll bring polished cane and dry flies just as I do. We know what it is we seek, to touch that magic of the past and pull it with us into our own futures.

The rivers are freshened with a long spring rain. Hope says they have cleared just enough, and the mayflies that have proven more than ephemeral for these past two weeks will make full appearance and greet the season with their own ritual of life and renewal.

Mr. Brown will consent to join us too, for he’s as hungry for those flies as we are for his company!

We are both old men, but this morning we feel as giddy as boys, comparing flies tied just yesterday, vaunting their merits as the be all and end all patterns no trout may resist. Aye, we go a-fishing!

Pleased to say that the riverscape has changed. At last, a forecast weather system actually released it’s promised rainfall over the Catskills yesterday! Roscoe received two and a half inches of that precious gift, and here in Hancock very nearly two inches fell. The rivers are rushing brown torrents, though their flows are already receding as far down the watershed as Lordville, NY on the Delaware. Now the dry fly anglers hold our collective breath and hope that the refreshed rivers may still produce the spring mayfly hatches that we dream about.

Various members of the Catskill Fly Tyers Guild and our little band of fledgling bamboo rod makers enjoyed the rain from the comfort of the Catskill Fly Fishing Center and Museum’s Wulff Gallery. We had a nice turnout for our first live meeting during the morning and lunch hours, with a few new members joining the old guard. Catskill dry flies were tied, and many squirreled away to be boxed up and presented to the Museum for a raffle prize. I wistfully tossed half a dozen freshly tied Hendricksons into the fray as a leap of faith that we will still see our season’s best hatch once the rivers return to wadable flows.

Post meeting, I joined Dave Catizone, John Apgar, Gary Moleon, Joe Ceballos, and CFFCM’s new Director of Operations Laura Colangelo for a continuation of our quests to build our own split bamboo fly rods. Between minging with groups of Museum visitors and explaining our efforts, we enjoyed quieter moments orchestrated by the unique sounds of multiple hand planes sliding over strips of bamboo nestled in steel planing forms. I managed to complete the final stage of roughing five of the six strips required for one of my rod tips. The next work day should allow me to get the seven remaining strips roughed before resetting the planing form for the final tip dimensions.

New York City will not update their rainfall data on their Catskill reservoir page until sometime Monday, but that update may finally show the Delaware River reservoirs at full capacity for the first time this year. The four had reached an average level of 93.875% before this rain event, with April rainfall down an inch from the historical mark. If normal rainfall returns to our region, we can look forward to better river conditions on all our freestone and tailwater treasures!

The early insect hatches have left dry fly anglers in a quandary, with sparse showings of expected flies in many corners and absences in others. Whether this situation reflects the damage of the 2024 drought and a very difficult winter remains to be revealed, but good river flows will certainly improve our outlook.

I spent Thursday on the river with my buddy Mike, visiting from Maryland. It was the last day of a three-day trip for Mike and the conditions had tested us. Perhaps that’s why he lingered at his car that last morning, urging me to go ahead and walk ahead to the river while he puttered with his tackle. I made the long walk and found the chosen reach lower than I can ever recall, the riverbed displayed in stark relief. I decided to scratch my early morning itch with several casts to prospect visible lies.

While the shallower rocks failed to reveal any lurking trout, I did see one soft rise in the deepest thread of the run. I worked more line through the guides of my vintage Leonard and let my little CDX caddis bob down the bubble line, drawing a repeat of that soft rise. The golden bamboo arched heavily as I raised the rod, and the CFO began to sing the praises of dry flies in spring!

The fish was substantial and used his size and strength to keep to the deepest portion of the drought shrunken run. The pressure of the bamboo finally led him closer, and he darted and dashed through the shallower water until I finally brought him to the net, twenty inches of dark flanked bronze perfection!

Mike finally ambled onto the scene as I released the brownie, and shared in my expectations for the day. We enjoyed the company, and though a few mayflies did find their way to the surface that afternoon, the trout in the slow, shallow pool refused to come to the surface. Under these most challenging conditions, the trout feed on the active emergers beneath the surface, taking them just before they reach daylight. Past experience has proven that our best efforts at tying lively flies fall far short of mimicking the strident movements of the naturals. Without the camouflage of current, the trout have a high-definition show of insect life to attract them, a test no drifting fly will pass.

In truth, wild trout’s survival instincts are heightened under challenging conditions, and that is all part of Nature’s plan. Anglers may marvel at it while we fail to overcome the abilities of our quarry, smile and wait until conditions change.

A cool morning, though it is heading for eighty degrees! Rivers remain low and continue dropping, and the hatches, such as they are, aren’t even making sense. My front porch will probably hit 90 this evening, though the Summer Ale isn’t even in the stores yet. There’s no corn on the cob, no steaks or burgers for the grill waiting in the freezer, oh, and no fishing.

I guess that last part isn’t quite accurate, it just seems that way. I have seen a few quick, spotty appearances of Red Quills, and there were shad caddis on the Delaware yesterday afternoon. No sign of a Quill Gordon, or a Blue Quill or a traditional Hendrickson. I have not seen a mayfly on the Beaver Kill, and wonder about the effects of that terrible sustained drought followed by two months of ice cover. Oh yea, on a positive note, the wind is blowing, hard.

Maybe my ramblings require explanation. In any kind of a normal, or even abnormal year, the Quill Gordons are the first mayflies to appear. The smaller Blue Quills show next, giving the trout an option of a juicy size 14 or a diminutive but plentiful size 18 when they are both on the water. This may occur any time between the second week of April and the last week, depending upon Mother nature’s calendar for the year. Once we get to that last week of April the Hendrickson’s begin and as that hatch progresses over it’s first week we see some Red Quills. The Hendrickson hatch usually takes us through the first couple of weeks of May. As they are waning, the Shadflies or Apple caddis begin to appear. Hatch timing always presents some sort of quandary, but the progression stays the same once they start. Not this year.

Even the fly shops, whose business it is to exclaim how great the fishing is, have been reporting “a few Quill Gordons and Hendricksons just starting”. The fishermen you talk to though haven’t seen many of them; and what are the Shadflies doing here two or more weeks early?

Perhaps I should be carrying a fly box containing one pattern of every fly I own, as it seems there is no way to know what might show up today. One each should be plenty regardless, as there won’t be many of them anyway. I’m going to stop bellyaching now, let a hot shower take some of the pain out of my bones before I dig out my summer fishing clothes. Now, where did I put those ant patterns?

So here we are, the last full week of April. There have been a couple of very nice warm days, and the river temperatures soared into the mid-fifties at their peaks. It was just thirty degrees this morning when I stumbled onto the porch here at Crooked Eddy however, and they have taken the sunshine from my forecast. The weekend reports are buzzing with all of the right words, though expectations are tempered a bit since they are commercial reports after all. It seems its now or never.

I tied a few flies yesterday, and a few more this morning, keeping to my ritual for the coming of the dry fly season. That was inaugurated on Friday at last, the cane dutifully bent and writhing with life after a clean stalk and a lovely cast with the 50 DF. Another 100-Year Dun has made it’s mark, fooling a great fish, cautious in low water despite her hunger for the new spring’s looked for bounty.

After a very long, very cold winter, the question on a thinking angler’s mind revolves around the effects of two months of snow and ice encrusted rivers at extremely low flows. This week should begin to reveal the answers. As a general rule, Mother Nature offers a handful of small olives or our father Theodore’s honorably named Quill Gordon as the first mayfly of the season. I have seen neither, though of course there are those reports. This early cup full of Red Quills surprises. Though surprise is something Nature has demonstrated countless times.

I hope the full complement of spring hatches lies right here on my doorstep, further that I might begin to enjoy their company just hours from now. It is nothing new to find some surprises in the mix, for that is all part of the magic we seek every free day of the season.

Here we are, closing out the third week in April, season of almosts. Our rivers almost warmed to that magic place: 50 degrees! But then a few nights well below freezing took care of that. There were almost some flies on the wing; but they were just the early stoneflies that hatch and buzz the surface without the notice of the trout.

Honestly, there was no true hope of an early spring after the winter we just came through…I think we’re through it… 26 degrees yesterday morning, 48 outside for this one. The miles and experience of several decades wandering Catskill rivers has taught me that the last week of April ushers in the dry fly season. Anything earlier than that, and it has happened, qualifies as an early spring.

What we have in an embattled Catskill April like this one is a procession of… clues? Hints of spring, yes, that’s what they are! A sunny day here and there, but after a deeply cold wintry night, where that morning sunshine has to begin by melting the heavy frost lying upon the land. Being far too enveloped in the angling life for my own good, I am out there regardless of the weather, ignoring the common sense I was born with to wander in search of that first tiny gray pair of wings, that first subtle ring upon the surface that isn’t the result of an ice crystal falling from the sky.

I have seen those hints of spring, I mean, I waded a river in mid-March and caught a pair of very nice Catskill brown trout, though that was swinging a sunken fly. A dirty business that, not at all something to be proud of. Sometimes though, the soul of an angler craves solace. I have seen rises too. One here on one day, another there a few days later, but not those wings! A trout with a wild hair? Who knows. Maybe a last remaining bug from back in November that was flash frozen in the river ice and just thawed out to take it’s last kick of life in front of a trout who was just as interested in springtime as I was.

Sitting on a riverbank, the Leonard 50 DF laid on the brown grass beside me, I feel the alternating warmth of the sun and the chill bite of the wind. Every moment of the afternoon that passes tells me that, once again, it is not going to happen today. I accept that, for I believe it will happen one day soon. I live for that belief, for precious hours along bright water whether sitting in the grass or casting to some rising flame of wildness. Each day I cherish, and I search and wait, all the while finding just what I am looking for.

There are just a few flies bobbing now and then on the wind tossed surface, one here, one there. The only motion of the water is driven by the wind. I search, and sometimes I find a tangible hint of spring, hear the soft plop over the rushing of the still bare branches. The 50 reaches out just then, as my search becomes reality for just one perfect moment; and then the cane is bending, surging with life and the old reel sings to drown out the rushing of the wind!

The sun was out when I reached the river, and the wind the forecast had warned of was still keeping time elsewhere. I had prepared for the rain that was said to come later, but I hoped the warmth and stillness would last.

I carried my old Orvis “99”, rigged with an upscale CFO and one of those modern half-heavy lines, a WF6.5F you could say. That line loads the old HCH rated “99” fully, and the combination will most certainly handle the wind.

I knew I was early for any fishing that might develop. Yes, the Catskills are still in that wishing stage of spring, with lovely sunny days in mid-March having bowed to cold, damp and windy during the first half of April. The only way to meet the first hatches of the season is to be there, to walk the rivers, stand in their currents and wait. I fished a little along a protected bank, feeling overly warm in the rain jacket I had worn in deference to the forecast, but nothing stirred. Strange thing I am sure from the trout’s perspective, a fine Gordon Quill perched on the surface, when there has been no sign of a mayfly for five and a half months.

Now all of the old literature will tell you to expect those Epeorus flies by eleven o’clock, but nearing one none of them had shown, so I ambled back to the water I had hopes of fishing to sit down and wait. Just as the hope was welling in my heart, the clouds began to move through over the mountains.

With that wonderful sun vanished, it felt cooler, and the breeze strengthened just a little with the first tiny shower of raindrops. I rose, stretched and sat again, passed some time with dreamy thoughts of days like that pictured above, dark skies, but with mayflies by the thousands in the drift!

After that first little shower the sun began to reappear, jousting with each new bank of clouds for mastery of the sky. The clouds proved more valiant, and the Red Gods claimed dominion over the angler’s best part of the afternoon. The squalls came in force for the next hour and a half, each one building on the former’s prelude. Standing in the river, hoping for a reason to cast during one little spell between them, the sudden wind came so hard it nearly knocked me off my feet!

I recalled one fly shop’s morning report had called for hail in the afternoon, and I laughed at the thought of being knocked silly by a hailstone while sitting on a downed tree in the river, waiting for a calm moment and a fish. I sat there laughing at each thundering gust of wind and rain for quite a while.

A blur of color and motion… life? Indeed, I hope to encounter a trout as tired of waiting as I am, one to pose that question and find his answer in the drift of the fly.

And so begins week two, it’s predecessor’s hopeful arrival having succumbed to cold air and colder water. Once again, we failed to receive the coveted rainfall we were promised. To my eyes, last year’s drought cycle continues. Rivers are low here in mid-April, and reservoirs remain unreplenished from the City’s ill-timed drawdown of 2024.

The sun has appeared once more, and I hope it stays. Low flowing rivers warm faster than those flush with runoff!

A classic Catskill dry fly rod lies ready, a pair of freshly tied 100-Year Duns await. Experience says no, but I have been fooled by cold water before. The rivers must be visited, not simply considered, and no, I shall not dredge the bottom in want. It is the grandest of sport that I seek, the magic of the dry fly! Nature and her Red Gods decide when that sport begins.

Another day at the Catskill Rodmakers Workshop has come to an end, and I wrap the finished strips of bamboo with tape and nestle them into the familiar hexagon shape that has been associated with the genre for more than 150 years. These six tapered strips form the middle section of my 3-piece bamboo rod, and join those of the butt section previously completed. I am some halfway through the planing process at this juncture.

Driving home from Livingston Manor the big, wet snowflakes are still flying, seeming almost suspended in front of my windshield; a lovely Catskill spring afternoon!

I was thinking this morning of the joys I have savored as my interests have wound along the historic path of split bamboo and great rodmakers. Ed loved his short rods, particularly a diminutive Thomas & Thomas dubbed The Gnat. His interest was piqued when I offered Tom Smithwick’s five-and-a-half-foot gem for him to cast many years ago. Tom would make one of those miraculous little rods for him some time later.

The first rod made for me came from the skilled hands of Wyatt Dietrich. Seven-and-a-half-feet, casting a number five line with dreamlike grace, the rod emblazoned the Sturtevant Dry Fly started me down this path in search of the beauty and history of angling.

These days I can easily count the handful of days each season when split bamboo does not grace my hand. The lovely reed has become a part of me, a key element in the essence of my angling passion. I might be found with any one of several Catskill classics: perhaps a rod from Dennis Menscer, whose works are the current class of those traditions, or a Leonard born as many years ago as I was.

Having the opportunity these past months to use my own hands to craft a rod has heightened my appreciation for such masters. I have spent many hours, working while learning the techniques required to produce a fishable fly rod, and there are still many tasks and many hours ahead. I sat back after breakfast today to watch one of my favorite films. Chasing The Taper chronicles a group of top rodmakers, many of whom I am pleased to know. In one scene Per Brandin speaks of pondering the amount of time and labor required to produce a single trout rod, “its daunting” he exclaims, and never have truer words been spoken. The film makes that point very clear, together with the overriding fact that it is, very much, a labor of love.

Though this fitful spring has allowed a few days for wandering bright waters, the gift of dry fly fishing has yet to be bestowed. This is the pinnacle of angling for which the classic Catskill bamboo rod was born, the magic time on legendary rivers for which the rods have been refined over a century and a half. That day is coming, and there is nothing to do but continue down the path to meet it upon arrival!

I came to the call Monday, ignoring my best judgement of the challenges the weather presented and welcoming the new season. In truth, I did see a couple of rises, the type anglers refer to as one timers, for they seem never to be repeated. I certainly didn’t expect better, for the surface of the cold river proved quite lifeless. Even a swinging fly was ignored.

One again, spring has begun with low water, a blessing during those warm, sunny days in mid-March, and a curse now that the calendar has increased my anticipation for the coming of the dry fly. Low flows warm quicker, but they also cool very rapidly, as witnessed by this morning’s river temperatures in the low thirties. Rain is forecast, but it has been forecast multiple times in recent weeks without falling in any meaningful amounts.

My thoughts are haunted by the memory of the long months of ice bound rivers just past. Judgment and experience tells me the hatches will be late, that my longing for the best of angling will endure. Science believes the nymphs crawling about the gravel require a certain number of days at a specific minimum temperature to mature. They speak of degree days, and it seems reasonable, but then again there is something of supposition about the idea. Anglers wise to the ways of Nature have learned to expect most anything!

Though I fished most of my life near home, in waters where sulfurs and terrestrials provided the bulk of the precious gift of dry fly fishing, I do believe that I have tied more flies to match the Hendricksons than any other insect. I have boxes filled with them, some I have not seen for several seasons, and when I think of springtime I reach for the wood duck flank and fox fur and a classic medium dun hackle cape. Such is their magic!