Dodging the biting wind laced with snowflakes, I ducked inside the Roscoe gymnasium yesterday morning to join another early spring tradition, the Catskill Cane Revival. This year’s event was dedicated to the late Mike Canazon who had been the driving force behind it.

This is quite simply an informal gathering of rodmakers, bamboo fly rod fishers and enthusiasts and those interested in learning something about the beautiful implements born of a split and glued Chinese grass that is the fountainhead of Catskill fly fishing. American rod making reached a zenith nearby with the Payne and Leonard rod companies and spread across the country.

There are still a few superb professional rodmakers in this region, though time gradually thins their ranks. There are also many amateurs working upon their craft for the love of it, some of whom may one day become the next generation of professionals.

Hancock’s Dennis Menscer is one of the top professionals keeping the Catskill rodmaking tradition alive. In his rod shop beside the West Branch Delaware, Dennis creates beautiful, remarkable rods that have been fished all over the world, rods like the gorgeous eight-foot three weight he handed me in early February. I had the chance to cast his seven-foot wand for a number three line yesterday, and found it to be another gem, particularly for smaller waters where shorter rods shine. Like my eight-footer though, it will allow long casts with finesse and easy grace.

Another attendee brought an interesting rod to share, a Fario Club model from Pezon et Michel. A “true parabolic” action, I found the rod to be powerful while offering easy control. Many anglers describe parabolics as difficult, but I found this classic to be invariably friendly.

I particularly enjoyed the chance to cast a rod that is not often encountered. Jed Dempsey was featured in the wonderful film Chasing the Taper as a Catskill Museum trustee, though without mention of his considerable skill and talents as a rodmaker. His resume includes time working at the legendary E.F. Payne Rod Company. Dempsey’s seven-foot four weight was beautifully executed in design, fit and finish, casting smoothly and accurately to any required distance, a rod I would love to add to my collection. Jed is a close friend of Dennis Menscer, who deserves thanks for bringing the rod to our gathering and giving all of us a chance to enjoy the work of a quiet master of the craft.

In keeping with the spirit of the day, I even planed a little bamboo myself, trying a bit of rough planing on one of the strips that will be glued, bound and finished into my friend John Apgar’s next rod. John began with the Catskill Museum class a few years ago and produced a first rod that was truly remarkable, impressing enthusiasts and experienced makers alike.

Were it not for arthritis, I would be sorely tempted to attend a class myself. I take comfort in the fact that I dedicate my time to fishing the wonderful creations of a number of masters of the art of rodmaking!

April fourth, spring, and it is 32 degrees here in Crooked Eddy. Our landscapes and riverscapes were freshened by spring overnight, and gleam white as the sun strives to illuminate them through the clouds. The rains have raised all of our rivers and thoughts of fishing are far away. This is Day Four of my countdown, and I am reeling from the Red Gods’ Revenge.

I fought back yesterday, as the rain continued to wash away my hope, tying half a dozen CDC cripples to match the Quill Gordons and Hendricksons that torture my dreams. My punishment is white!

One hundred sixty days have passed since I last cast a dry fly to a rising trout.

I just tossed my hat into the ring to join the gathering of fly tyers at the Catskill Fly Tyer’s Guild Rendevous on April 20th. This once annual event was missed last year, and I am pleased to see the tradition honored again. The event is open to all fly tyers. Many of our Guild tyers will be on hand to demonstrate and share all manner of Catskill flies, from the original classics to our own modern styles and interpretations of mayflies, caddisflies and all manner of trout food.

Adding to my stock of emergers and cripples comes as I ponder the high, cold water I expect to encounter when the weather does allow me to begin my seasonal hunt. Trout are less energetic when the bright waters only flirt with that magic fifty-degree mark, and there are times when a vulnerable cripple drifting in back-eddied currents can be the difference between endless waiting and watching and actually experiencing the thrill of throbbing, arching cane.

I tie the CDC wings a little heavier at this time, as the flies will have to struggle to remain afloat in faster currents. My wings are just a notch taller as well, to retain the fly’s visibility while bouncing along with their bodies beneath the film. They can be tied more sparsely in summer’s low flow and heightened clarity.

There is no baseball today to take my thoughts away from the waiting, so while the snow melts I may as well tie a few more flies. The Struggle Dun idea seems well suited to the conditions I will encounter once the Red Gods release their hold, so perhaps a few with an extra heavy CDC wing…

So here we go, down to the last few days of the dry fly angler’s purgatory, or maybe the next to the last week, or…

I awakened to rainfall, and I soon discovered that the Red Gods had invited the forecasters to throw their science to the winds of fate once more. An inch and a half of rain in 36 hours is the current prediction, followed by a chance at two to six inches of snow as we work our way to the weekend. Yes sir, an early spring to be sure!

Dennis Menscer called me yesterday after a drive to Roscoe and back. He told me he counted fishermen in the Beaver Kill all the way from Roscoe to the stacked roadways. I had thought of giving it a try until I heard his report, confident that the cloudy day wasn’t going to boost the water temperature enough to matter. It was good in some way to hear that there were still enough of the faithful out to celebrate the tradition of Opening Day, and the sun did finally make an appearance; just before it set below the mountains to our west.

I had spent the morning sitting across from my cardiologist telling me that my recent passing chest pains carried no concerns for my heart, and that he was retiring this year and going fishing himself. I should have asked him if any of the other doctors in his group were fly fishermen. I have a tradition of my own to keep up.

I have always liked for my doctors to share the passion to some extent, if for no other reason than to allow me to feel they understand what my lifestyle and passion demands. You’ve gotta keep me wading and casting guys, that is a given.

The rain was kind enough to pause for me to go out and hook up the drift boat this morning, as I had to take it for the annual trailer inspection. The ways things are looking, I am going to get more use out of it this year.

Though it doesn’t look like a good weekend for fishing, there is the late Mike Canazon’s Catskill Cane Revival gathering in Roscoe Saturday morning. Bamboo aficionados, whether seasoned veterans or curious newcomers, will get together to cast some rods, whetting our appetites for the season we must continue to so patiently await. In the past, this little event has allowed opportunities to cast rods by all manner of makers, including some classics. Dennis and I talked about the selection of rods he plans to bring along, and I suggested that his hollowbuilt 8-foot five weight simply had to be among them. That model is the quintessential Catskill fly rod in my book, capable of the performance to fish all of our rivers effectively. We will be casting in the Roscoe Central School’s gymnasium from nine until Noon. The address is 6 Academy Street, Roscoe, NY.

Despite the weather, something keeps tugging at me to tie a few flies. I have thousands by now, perhaps tens of thousands. I know there are too many to count. There is one big storage box with older flies dating from my first efforts as a fly tyer. They haven’t been fished in decades of course, not since my skills improved and I wandered into the fascination of fly design. There was a brief period when I tied patterns out of books, sometimes substituting materials for those I didn’t have and perhaps failed to find at the little fly shops I frequented. We all more or less start out that way.

It did not take long for me to start picking up bugs from the streams I fished and noticing that having the perfect color dubbing and hackle for a sulfur pattern in this or that fly tying book did not necessarily lead to my flies matching those bugs. The wonder of Nature and all of her variety of life taught me from the beginning to use my eyes and mingle the furs and feathers in my growing store of fly-tying materials to get closer to what I saw when I plucked a freshly hatched mayfly from the surface of Gunpowder Falls or the Yellow Breeches.

As a student of flyfishing history, there are times that I want to replicate a classic fly pattern, to tie it exactly like the famous dead guy that created it a century or more ago. There is a satisfaction in learning where we came from as anglers, as well as a little special rush when a good trout takes a classic Catskill dry fly and reaches for the sky. It is a bit sad that, with the fantastic growth of our best loved sport, fewer people are even aware of it’s beginnings, and the accomplishments of the generations of anglers who came before them.

Even when I design a “new” fly for my own fishing, I pay homage to the past, and I look to those pioneers of angling for inspiration. It is often said that there is nothing new in fly tying, and there is great truth in that. Though any of us can have an original idea and follow through with it, the chances always favor the fact that someone else has had that same thought and put thread to hook to see what they could do with it.

Appreciating the history of flyfishing is what led me here to the Catskills, and I am fortunate to honor that history every time I cast a fly with a bamboo fly rod or hear the ringing song of a trout spinning the arbor of a classic spring and pawl reel! Honoring and appreciating that history is a large part of the passion for me.

My countdown may be winding into it’s final week, but it truly looks like a long one. Time to sit back and watch the forecasters scrambling to predict the angler’s fate…

After another concerning brush with mortality two days ago, I am contemplating that as I watch things continue to change on the weather front. Its a lot like watching an action movie. Since yesterday afternoon, they have spread out the rainfall a little, taken one of the three snow days out of the picture while adding some accumulation to one of those remaining, and trimmed five degrees off the high temperature that still hinted at a little promise for day zero.

The three Delaware reservoirs continue to spill. They have gained volume over the past day or two, and there’s another three quarters of an inch of rainfall on the way before that snow blows on into town. The Beaver Kill has reached a wading flow, though the water temperatures have not recovered to that verge of magic reading that teased me two weeks ago. Everything looks ready to change, and not for the better.

Instead of getting a few early days on the river this week, I’ll be sitting down with the cardiologist while trying not to dwell on the slow start to the fishing that is looming as April begins. Come on Red Gods, give us a break!

Pardon my indulgence. I had to step away and bask in the glow of some brighter April moments: the anticipation of that soft, bankside bulge amid the drifting mayflies, the full, glorious arch of vintage bamboo amid the crescendo of notes played by an English reel!

I look to memories to soothe my mind…

There are less than two weeks to go before my annual target date to begin my dry fly season arrives, and the Red Gods seem to have hit the rewind button once more. Rivers are high and un-wadable, their waters wintry cold, reservoirs are spilling again, and tomorrow is slated to bring day long rainfall – another chapter in the early spring that wasn’t.

I uncovered the drift boat yesterday, and today I’ll wash it and check the bunks, rollers, lights and tires to be certain its ready for the road. Fly boxes are about to be loaded into my vest, along with any new leaders, tippet or sundries required, but God I need to go fishing!

I just read a Blue Mountain TU newsletter post, courtesy of my friend Ed Ostapczuk, telling me that February was the warmest ever recorded in the United States. I managed maybe three visits to bright water, courtesy of the bronchitis that stole my opportunities. Just two weeks ago it seemed that everything was about to explode a month early, and I drank the Kool-Aid!

Dangling my thermometer in the river I read a temperature of 48 degrees, watched the first Quill Gordons riding the sun warmed air currents, and tightened my grip on the cork. Since then, rain, snow, wind and freezing temperatures have brought us back to winter. Yes, once more I let the Red Gods get the better of me. How many of my fellow anglers made that same mistake?

As with any and every spring, it will come when it is ready. If the good days come in fits and starts, so be it! I am alive and waiting for that first rise to the dry fly!

It seems that winter’s winds must find the Catskills to their liking, for they always stay behind to welcome spring. Many times I have sat the riverbank or waited waist deep in the river as those visiting winds blew whitecaps upstream.

I do believe that the Red Gods are behind it. They cultivate those howling wintry winds, teasing them to linger past their season for the benefit of their devilment!

One spring day I dropped the boat into the West Branch, smiling at the forecast for light and variable winds and a warm overcast. I was set to begin counting the Hendricksons with such perfect conditions. Ah, best laid plans…

The Red Gods had other ideas, courting one of those leftover February winds from their hiding place and unleashing it upon me as I anchored along the one bank to reveal a handful of rising trout. Back casts do not fare too well when necessity directs them into the teeth of a steady 20 mph blow.

Wading doesn’t fare such better during such hijinks. Countless days I have endured where the only trout to show occupied some difficult back-eddied lie along the windward bank.

There are times though when blind perseverance has defeated such evil magic. I can recall a wild, windswept day on the Beaver Kill when a rise of trout seemed hopeless. To add to my frustration, a pair of fishermen decided that despite miles of open water they simply had to wade in right on top of me. The interlopers paid their penance that day, for their casting proved to be as lacking as their courtesy. One good fish took a Hendrickson fifty feet out and my Menscer hollowbuilt fired my fly through the gusts, taking the lone trout that pool surrendered, a beautiful twenty-inch brown!

It is funny how many fine tales I have read of wondrous spring hatches bringing great fishing under the worst conditions. I have huddled against winds, hooded and hunkered to keep the sleet from biting my cheeks, and shivered in countless chilling spring rains, and on none of those days can I recall so much as a threat of fishing.

And so, the winds rattle my little house and bring fond memories of suffering the wrath of the Red Gods. Of course, as winter continues to defy the calendar, I’d welcome some time on the river to enjoy that sweet torture. These last two weeks of March seem endless…

It is the first day of spring 2024 and it is twenty-six degrees here in Crooked Eddy. The grass bears evidence of a few flurries, and the Weather Channel is all a-bubble about snow and wind and rain; all of the anti-fly-fishing things Mother Nature is poised to bring forth. Leave it to the lady and her Red Gods to punish us for daring to covet the thought of an early spring. Wasn’t it just Saturday that I watched a Quill Gordon rising from the river in the sunshine?

I tied half a dozen QG wets yesterday, all save one of them using my Atherton Inspired dubbing blend, a sinful activity borne of desperation and remorse! Indeed, this is the most difficult stretch of the long wait between seasons, teased for months by milder temperatures and warmer waters, I can see that first rise to my dry fly before me. It is not to be.

Winter will have her due.

And so, I will continue with preparations. There is a new number three fly line to be spooled on a classic Hardy Featherweight, and there is no rule that dictates I cannot tie the terrestrials and the tiny duns of summer. I will make the appointment for my boat trailer’s inspection, uncover it and make it ready for fishing, for the reservoirs continue to spill. With more rain on the way, the season may begin with a solo float. Heavy precipitation will bring a return to unfishable conditions for the wading angler, and the projections seem to favor that result.

I left my name for the Angler’s Reunion Dinner, March’s last event and a grand Rockland House feast welcoming April, and before that night baseball will return with games that count. Life will continue to move slowly as winter grudgingly leaves us, though angler’s hearts will beat faster each day.

To be official, spring arrives on Tuesday, though the week just completed was far more springlike than the one here begun. We had two absolutely gorgeous days midweek, 67 degrees, bountiful sunshine, the kind of days to perfectly usher in the evening porch sitting season. Yes, I took advantage of them. The first day of spring conversely will bring a return to the thirties, with snow showers on Wednesday morning.

I slipped out of the Fly Tyers Guild meeting just after Noon yesterday. Having tied a few Quill Gordons, I wanted to spend my afternoon wading bright water and casting them, I hoped by some miracle to a rising trout.

While I knew that the ten-day forecast wasn’t promising, the talk at the meeting was centered on another two full weeks of cold weather, another perfect example of the Red Gods setting up anglers for a fall. I figured this was my last chance to spend a few quality hours on a sunlit river.

I took a Galvan reel with a fine tapered seven weight line along to match with my Kiley, it’s leader already set up at home with four feet of fresh tippet. With the number seven line, that rod is well equipped to toss one of the smaller streamers I like to swing under winter conditions, but it does a remarkable job with the dry fly I was hoping to use. The river looked so inviting in the afternoon glow that I knotted one of the Fox Squirrels, also tied during the meeting, and sat down on the riverbank to watch.

I hadn’t even matted the brown grass down beneath my seat when I saw a hard rise three-quarters of the way across the river, smiled to myself, and rose to make my way out into the flow.

Now I would like to tell you that rise was repeated, ideally just after I had waded into comfortable casting range and pulled a dozen feet of line from the reel. I really, very earnestly wished to be able to tell you that. The Red Gods though are not ready to allow the joy of a perfect cast and perfect take to a drifting dry fly. That one rise would be the only one I would see.

The river was at last at a good flow, clear and marked here and there for a couple of hours by an occasional mayfly or early stonefly drifting on the surface. I had checked the water temperature during my retreat on the bank, reading 48 degrees and whetting my appetite for success. I surmised that the mayflies that showed just often enough to keep me interested were Quill Gordons. One did fly past nearby, well lit by the sunlight and betraying that yellowish coloration to it’s abdomen, and I took that as confirmation and tied on the Dyed Wild 100-Year Dun I had tied during the morning.

I did do some casting of course. I peppered the entire area where that rise had shown, as well as all of the water around the various early season lies experience highlighted. My shoulder has that telltale twinge this morning, evidence that I worked the water, shook off the old lethargy of a winter indoors.

I seemed to get my wading legs back much quicker than I have in some years, so something of value was accomplished; my comfort with wading no less than the boost to my spirit that any taste of spring on bright water offers.

It is looking bleak over the next ten days, wind, rain cold – a little of everything I don’t need any more of. I know that weather patterns can change easily in these mountains, that warmer winds can find their way north again as they have all through this winter. It is time to get down to work.

My vest needs to be dusted off and readied for the season, the drift boat uncovered, cleaned up, checked out and it’s trailer inspected. Any significant rainfall is going to keep those reservoirs full and spilling, and March has been a wet month so far.

My calendar says there are 22 days left for waiting and preparing for another dry fly season, the real fly fishing that I live for. I still believe there is a chance that things may start to happen earlier than my traditional second week in April, and I’ll be prepared for that. The season can last anywhere from six to seven months, and I don’t want to miss a day of it!

Such a beautiful day yesterday, a winter’s day in accordance with the calendar, belied by the bright sunshine and sixty-seven-degree temperatures here in the Catskill Mountains. Spring lies just five days hence, though a return to colder weather is expected. Yesterday and today though; paradise!

With all of our rivers still writhing with the high runoff from Saturday’s rains, I could not resist the call of small waters. Driving east toward Livingston Manor, I turned off old Route 17 and travelled away from the village. There were others abroad with similar ideas, and I drove on beyond the wider waters of the Willowemoc to DeBruce where legend says celebrated angler George M. L. LaBranche cast the first dry fly in America.

I found a quiet reach, small water, where the stones were visible even in the deeper runs, and set up my little Orvis Madison bamboo. For a change I spooled the suggested number six line, for I expected to be casting short in such environs, and yes, despite all reason I succumbed to the warmth of the mountain air and the glory of the sunlight and knotted a dry fly to my shortened leader.

My Catskill Adams danced merrily upon the bright water, though it found no trout to greet it.

I was once a fisher of small waters. The spring creeks of the Cumberland Valley are intimate environs to be sure, and I visited many others during my twenty-five years there. As hatches dwindled and I spent more of my precious angling days here in the Catskills, the region’s historic and larger trout rivers captured my heart.

A good friend mentioned as we spoke last weekend that he was surprised that I did not explore the myriad small streams of my new home. In reply, I said that I was set in my ways perhaps.

I have a friend on the east side of the Catskills that spends a majority of his angling time on high country brooks, and from reading through his field notes, he finds wild trout on most occasions despite the season.

I must admit that I have been seduced by the cunning and the stealth required to hunt the trophy sized browns and rainbows of the wide Delaware, the Beaver Kill and Neversink, where I easily settle into the simple joy of casting a long line with a favorite cane rod.

I didn’t fare too badly in yesterday’s tighter quarters, hanging that dry fly on a bush behind me just once. Those skills, the tight precision of aiming both back and forward casts, have laid dormant for many years.

There may be similar opportunities ahead, for more rain is expected just about the time the Beaver Kill reaches a wadable flow. I still have a bit of exploring outside the expanse of the Catskills lingering in my mind, and I have twenty-five days until it’s time to walk the Delaware or the Beaver Kill with a Quill Gordon and a smile.

The allure of small waters always includes sweet solitude. There are times when that is worth more than the thrill of trout measured in pounds.

The wind’s thrashing of my little house awakened me continually throughout the night, and I arose to see the snow blowing like specters in the darkness. It is the eleventh of March, a week and a day until the spring equinox arrives, and it is 29 degrees in Crooked Eddy.

The reservoirs of the Delaware system are spilling, and our rivers remain in spate, some with flows still rising this morning. The Beaver Kill has receded markedly from it’s crest at 6,100 cubic feet per second, down to a gentle flow of some 2,530 cfs, just five times the ideal wading level! Once this storm blows through, three quite pleasant sunny days are to follow, before another half an inch of rain falls on our Catskills to presage the weekend. Though the warm sunshine will be most welcome, there is no chance that I’ll be fishing my home waters this week.

I awakened once dreaming about my roots, somewhere in the middle of a conversation with the late, great Ed Shenk. The words vanished upon full consciousness, as dreams are wont to do, but the image of my old friend remained in memory as I rolled over and stretched the sleep from my bones.

I would be fishing there most likely, gliding along some trail through the water meadows with thoughts of big brown trout in my head. Spring often came early there in the Cumberland Valley.

I wrote the other day of the last truly early angler’s spring, when mayflies began popping this month more than a decade ago. We had a run of seventy-degree days in Chambersburg that March, and I took a fateful walk along Falling Spring after my travel plans had fallen into the trap of auto repair. I brought twenty-five inches of wild brown trout to hand that morning, my largest from the silken little spring creek I called home for twenty years. I keep the small black Shenk Sculpin that delivered that beast as a talisman of my good fortune.

The fishing in the Valley had declined by then, and that trout was a surprise to say the least, seen finning there beside his twin upon a glance as I was striding by. An early spring can astonish you with a quick flash of magic like that!

Thinking of those days while our river temperatures rose had me more than planning to get out and begin my search a month early. Ah, but weather does what she wishes of course, and the contemplation of waiting continues…

I’ve spent far too much time housebound, fighting with colds and bronchitis and feeling depleted of all energy. I need that sunshine badly, and I may just head out this week to do some exploring, though I don’t expect to find the clear flowing streams I’m dreaming of.

My friend Mike Saylor called on Saturday to cajole me into a quest for steelhead, but that lack of energy caused me to decline his offer. I hope the weather and the fish reward his gesture and he has a great trip. Many seasons have passed since I fished for that tug, and the flash of chrome.

I did dust off my vise and tie a dozen dry flies to accompany a little regional exploration that has been dancing through my mind. Catskill Adams’s, my 100-Year version of the Quack, and some little black stoneflies with mojo dubbing courtesy of Raven the Cat; just a few that could tempt a small stream, early season trout should I find one of those mythical clear running creeks after all.

I’ll most likely carry my camera rather than a rod and reel, though the little Orvis and my waders will be stored right there in the car should some unexpected glint of magic catch my eye.