After weeks of staring at ice and snow, the Catskills bid farewell to the year amidst warmer air and some occasional sunshine. I nearly took the plunge Thursday, drawn by the abundant sunshine, but I was swayed. Rather than having freezing return overnight, Thursday promised a low in the upper thirties and Friday, well Friday was headed for the mid-fifties, and we were to see the sun again!

The cloud cover ruled Friday, though it let most of the warmth through, and I walked toward the river with a crispness in my steps. Water temperatures had risen a bit, and I knew that this day had a chance to be one of those special winter days.

I strung the eight-foot bamboo rod with the clear intermediate line I have been using for swung fly presentations of late, knotted a fresh 4X fluorocarbon tippet in place, and then one of my new Dazed Dace patterns. My fingers felt warm and alive as they worked on my tackle, as much from anticipation as from the warmth of the air. I waded slowly to keep my own pressure waves from alerting any old river wolf that might already be out hunting unaware he was in peril. At last, the first cast arched out toward the far bank and the little streamer fly slipped quietly into the flow. It was grand to be fishing on the next to last day of 2022 and I was smiling.

Swinging flies is not the choice for those possessed of a need to count fish, but it provides a thorough exploration of the angler’s chosen reach of water, and a time to pay homage to the bright waters that have caressed us throughout the season. In winter, I seek a connection with the rivers of my heart too long trapped beneath the ice and snow. I know the chance of a strike is low, but that it is the fishing itself I have come for, my own little rebellion against the power of a Catskill winter. I also know that, should I feel that pulse of life suddenly at the end of my swinging line, that living thing is likely to be something great and wonderful.

Cast, mend gently, and swing. The fly hangs loosely at the end of the arc, and two downstream steps are taken. Cast, mend gently, and swing…

I listen to hawks and eagles, watch the little flares of sunshine as its rays find a momentary hole in the clouds and play upon the mountainsides, and continue ever slowly downstream.

As the afternoon begins to cool, I know that this will not be one of those rare, magical days when leviathan takes hold and thrusts my consciousness straight into springtime and a battle for mastery of the river, yet I continue downstream, taking everything the river has consented to share with me with a smile.

I have tied a few dry flies recently, now that we are past Christmas and coasting through the last week of the year. Yes, I am still putting off the sorting of the primary fly boxes, something that needs to be done before I get seriously into my winter tying. I started yesterday with a trio of Coffin Flies, my quill bodied 100-Year Duns that brought me success last June. The two-foot brown that gulped that fly lives vividly in my memory, as I enjoyed a gorgeous evening capped off by an involuntary chill running down my spine from the howls of gathering coyotes from the surrounding ridges, just as I waded out of the river at dark.

This morning I decided to add a couple of the Translucence 100-Year Duns I tie to imitate the Quill Gordons that often begin my season. It was just past mid-April last year when I waded into the high, cold waters of the Beaver Kill hours before a major storm. I had welcomed the first Quill Gordon’s of the season three days earlier, a ten-minute hatch that produced two rises, and I hoped there might be a decent flurry of activity in that same run on the eve of another shutdown weather event.

The winds were rising, as were a few good trout, and I managed a 16″ brown early in the hatch. Two better fish had begun to rise later in the hour long emergence, but they resisted each pattern I hurled through the gusts. Seeking to expand upon my Translucence formula, I had blended a small envelope of silk dubbing over the winter, a dark yellow and gray concoction to match the Quill Gordon duns captured from the Beaver Kill. I selected one of these new patterns from the Wheatley and tied it fast.

It didn’t take more than a few drifts to completely fool both of those brownies, well colored fish of 18 and 19 inches. Both provided thrilling runs and bullish head shakes, using the fast current to their best advantage. The hatch had all but subsided when I slipped my net beneath the larger trout, unhooked with storm clouds pressing in on my windy reach of river. It was a perfect afternoon, the tension of angling the first real hatch of the season heightened by the impending storm.

Ah the glories of summer in the Catskills! Memory makes it easy to slip into dreams on an icy morning such as this one. My dreamscape varies each summer, as I find that the variety of hatches, weather and conditions around this lovely region seek a constant state of flux.

I found a hard pattern for success in my third full Catskill summer, and I was panting for a return to those days as the penultimate hatches of June began to wane. I so coveted the idea of another record season that I tried to force it for a while, tossing experience and better judgement aside, as if I would make the rivers and their trout conform to my plan. Twenty-one was a very wet year, while ’22 began that way until drought came knocking, but it took me a little time, and some humbling days, to admit to myself that I could not carry through with the same angling approach amid such different conditions.

In my own defense, summer started extremely well, with my planned tactics almost immediately rewarded with a spectacular twenty-five inch brown. That day convinced me that I could forge on through the season with last year’s tactics and it took a long run of very thin fishing to awaken me to the obvious.

Eventually, I adapted to the conditions at hand, changed flies and approach and made patience and stealth my daily mantra. The rivers forgave me my boastful attitude and offered the solace I sought. The trout of summer always demand hard work from an angler, better technique and careful thought. The magic of trout and fly must be pondered and appreciated each moment we venture astream.

I played a long game with one great fish. Often, I would stalk his favored lies, but usually without rousing his interest. When we did cross paths, it was I who was found lacking. My foe would wait out every drift, certain the easy meal at the tip of his substantial nose was a thing suspect, then startle me with a late, splashy refusal. When I entered his realm at my best, he would still manage to triumph. Tippets were broken, flies pulled out, and always the great fish swam away. After several of these encounters over long weeks of my favorite season, my nerves became a bit frazzled whenever I ventured near this uncatchable trout.

Summer was blissful elsewhere, as I adapted to Nature’s twists and turns and found salvation in new haunts. As the season approached it’s final weeks, I realized that I had again enjoyed a remarkable summer, returned to my roots a bit regarding tackle and flies, and learned even greater appreciation for the magic Nature shares with the patient angler. Perhaps that realization brought me at last to the proper state of mind to face off with that demon trout once more!

We met in the chill of an early autumn afternoon, with cold rain blowing from the north, and I teased him to my fly when I spotted the wake of his approach. He fought me with everything he had, but this day I would finally see him come to the net. He was a grand old brownie, the autumn kype just beginning to form, and he was long and heavy and beautiful. I had imagined him even larger, his proportions growing each time he managed to elude me and escape the pull of my rod.

Just past three, and the sun is already dropping behind the summit of Point Mountain. Evening comes quite early at this season of the year. We enjoyed the sunshine all day, defying the forecast, and it helped make our little home cheerier this Christmas Day.

The last week of the year is upon us, amid hope for a glorious fishing season. Thankfully the winter storm spared our rivers from another flood, at least on this side of the Catskills. I see the Esopus drew close to flood stage on the Eastern side, and I hope the many brooks that descend those Eastern mountains did not suffer significant damage. Here the rapid chill kept Thursday’s rain from sending all of our snowpack down to the Delaware.

Watching the sun’s glow depart to the West, I feel a bit of warmth in spirit. The wait for springtime is down to four months or thereabouts, and that is better than six!

Quickly tying my Christmas fly this morning got me to wondering if a 100-Year Royal might be worth squirreling away in the vest. Lee Wulff’s famous version has been offered as a fine pattern for the Isonychia hatch over there on the Esopus. Who knows? Perhaps I will have to find a better bucktail and tie a handful this week.

The turkey is roasting, and before long the potatoes will have to be mashed and the biscuits baked. Dana Lamb’s “Bright Salmon and Brown Trout” is by my armchair, begun after I finished Schwiebert’s “A River For Christmas” for Christmas morning. Hooks and silks have been ordered, the better to continue my search for the ultimate fly; and I’ll be watching the long-range weather forecasts to spy an opportunity for the first outing of the New Year. I wonder if we will be blessed with another February warmup?

That does seem to be an ideal time. If only Nature herself was an angler I am sure she would understand, and toss us a little bone just when four months of dreaming have left us ready to burst.

Better check that bird…

Throughout my own journey as a fly tier, I have sought to present an image of life to the trout. Natural mayflies have several qualities of note, their translucence and blends of coloration ranking at the top of the ladder in my opinion. Very early on it was impressed upon me to work toward mimicking these visible traits, and I quickly became enamored with blending dubbing materials to achieve that goal. The furs of foxes and beavers and muskrats, both natural and dyed, were combined with Gary LaFontaine’s miracle Antron carpet fiber to create flies with the blends of colors I found in the mayflies I captured at stream side. Sweetened with the reflectivity and affinity for holding minute air bubbles provided by a small amount of the synthetic yarn, I was overjoyed to find my flies combined the appearance of not only the natural coloration but gave a hint of the translucency of the natural flies as well. To this day, my tying bench houses four dispenser boxes and dozens of small zip lock bags filled with dubbing blends to match the hatches I have encountered in more than three decades of trout fishing.

Fishing the clear, still pools of our Catskill rivers, I have experimented more with capturing the elusive translucency of the naturals, as I find our wild brown trout growing ever more challenging. One avenue that showed promise involved wrapping an underbody of pearl tinsel before applying my blended dubbing to my 100-Year Drake imitations. I am convinced that larger dry flies are more likely to arouse suspicion in a taking fish and hoped this method might increase the translucency enough to enhance that image of life that I seek. A pair of these special duns were placed in my fly box to be used only under appropriate circumstances.

I encountered a large brownie a few seasons ago that took selectivity to the extreme. Green Drakes were on the water sparsely, and this fellow had chosen the perfect lie in the most populated line of drift, where he passed on most of the natural duns coming down to him. I expected that movement was the trigger for this trout, but close observation showed no discernable movement in the naturals he selected. I fished him carefully with several flies, including two that had seduced three other browns that day which exceeded twenty inches. He remained unimpressed. There was mixed sunlight and overcast that afternoon, and I decided to try my experimental drake with the pearl tinsel underbody. I believe I showed it to him twice. He drifted up to that second presentation and sucked in my fly as he had his special naturals, gave me a hell of a good battle, and stretched the tape to twenty-two inches. Although the dubbing blends I had used for a dozen years had taken many fine trout during the Green Drake hatch, that fish convinced me there is always room for improvement!

My quest for heightened translucency began to focus on pure silk dubbing during my first full season here in the Catskills. The formula for my experiments involved blending various silks for color, using pure white tying silk to construct my flies, and tying them on Daiichi’s Crystal Finish hooks which I had used sparingly since the Falling Spring Outfitters days. The patterns spawned from those experiments, my Translucence Series flies have brought substantial success, and I have tied and fished them more each season.

At one point, my friend JA suggested I check out a blog by British author Robert Smith called “The Sliding Stream”, after reading a post on fishing bamboo rods in England. I liked Mr. Smith’s blog and later found his post on an early twentieth century British author named J. W. Dunne. Dunne had undertaken substantial work in regard to imitating English chalk stream mayflies a century ago, producing a thought-provoking volume entitled “Sunshine and the Dry Fly” in 1924. I was interested in what Smith had to say about him and added the title to my want list.

This week I received a copy of the 1950 second edition of “Sunshine and the Dry Fly” from England, finally enjoying the chance to learn of Dunne’s inquiries and methods in detail. As a chalk stream angler, he was influenced to great extent by Frederick Halford, the same authority on English dry fly fishing who corresponded with our Theodore Gordon. Based upon his own observations, Dunne took Halford to task regarding many of his prescribed chalk stream fly patterns which he found poorly imitated the coloration and translucency of the natural mayflies. Dunne did not embark upon this quest to one-up Halford, expressing that disagreeing with the great man was not his purpose since Halford had been “his guide” as he learned of the mysteries of trout and fly.

Dunne found it necessary to paint the shanks of his dry fly hooks with white enamel to prevent his carefully chosen and blended colors from darkening when the flies were oiled or wetted. He preferred synthetic “silks” for their handling and consistency of color, blending various strands of different color to achieve his blended copy of the hues of the natural flies. His bodies were wrapped with these blended strands rather than dubbed, and he studied the naturals and imitations when lighted from above by natural sunlight of varying intensity. I found his work terribly interesting, marveling that we two anglers followed such similar paths a century apart.

I feel fortunate to be able to acquire this little book and learn of Mr. Dunne’s work as I do to read and observe the work of Theodore Gordon and other Catskill dry fly pioneers. The history and literature of fly fishing are tremendous resources for the fullest enjoyment of our fly tying and fishing!

The news wasn’t good this morning: a new winter storm barreling across the country with rain and snow for the northeast before the trailing effects of the big chill. In short, we could be looking at another Christmas flood for the Catskills. It seems that storm is expected to sweep up a patch of warm air on it’s way bringing rain and 52 degrees to us Friday before temperatures plummet. That 52-degree high is to be followed by a 9 degree overnight low. Of course, there is nothing any of us can do about the weather, other than hope the cold comes early enough to limit the snowmelt the rain will bring to these mountains.

Cold is well seated here for the moment, with a cloudy 29 degrees around Noon as I took my river walk. The East Branch Delaware runs free, with a balmy 35-degree water temperature at Fish’s Eddy. Last week’s storm system had it down very near the freezing mark overnight. Should we escape another flood, and temperatures moderate, I would love to get out for a walk in the river, a last goodbye to the year with fly rod in hand.

The Solstice brings to mind the winter fishing that was once a regular occurrence. The last foray of substance proved unforgettable, both for the trout landed and the belief that the day could easily have qualified as the beginning of the end. It was a cold day in March nearly eight years past, and early in the decline of the wild rainbow fishery there at Big Spring. My friend Andy and I rigged our Granger bamboo fly rods with long, fine leaders and 6X tippets, hoping for a handful of little blue-winged olives, and the chance at a rising trout.

I led Andy to a reach above the Willow lot where we began our reconnaissance from the streambank. The wild rainbows would lie in the open pockets of bright gravel, close to the edges of the larger weed beds. We were fortunate, and a few olives began to hatch on the surface, bringing a few good trout up with them. We took turns working the risers we found, and I connected on a long cast with a dainty size 20 CDC dun. Andy brought his phone into play and collected video footage of the fight and landing of a fat twenty-inch bow! The excitement of battling that heavy fish raised my heart rate, for keeping a raging fireball of a trout out of all of those weeds and deadfalls on 6X tippet is heady work. The recently experienced burning sensation centered near my Adam’s Apple came upon me with a vengeance – angina, though I was yet to know it’s name and grim portent.

A short time after that eventful day astream, I found myself confined to a hospital cardiac ward. When spring arrived, I was rehabbing and, once my surgeon cleared me to lift the massive weight of twenty pounds, very gently wading the Catskill rivers closest to my rescued heart.

That day, and the events which followed began a new course for my life. I positioned myself for retirement, determined to take the best that life offered for whatever time remained to me. To me, there is nothing better than a fine wand of split bamboo, bright waters, wild trout and the dry fly!

I think often of that chilly, overcast March afternoon, giving thanks that it was not my last day beside bright water. Verily it was the last truly special day of winter dry fly fishing that I was to enjoy, my last chapter of life along the legendary Pennsylvania limestone springs!

They are coming down with clear intent just now, quickly building from a light beginning around one o’clock. Sitting back, Dana Lamb’s first book in my lap, watching them swirling and careening to earth through the big bay window, I think about the good they will do come springtime.

At the moment, the Catskill reservoirs seem to have finally reached par after this year’s drought, and December’s rainfall virtually mimics the historic average here in the middle of the month. Whether reservoir fed tailwaters, or freestone rivers born of mountain springs and their spiderwebs of tiny brooks, Catskill trout waters will benefit from a good snowpack that lingers. Watching Nature’s vital gift of snowflakes fall, I find it easy to dream again of spring…

Such thoughts led my fingers to the vice this morning, where a few wisps of hackle, silk and wood duck feathers became beacons of hope. In truth, I live each winter for the promise of the Hendricksons!

Always I find myself searching as April unfolds, walking rivers, checking my watch, turning should I hear some sound from the water. I wish to be abroad on that first afternoon, to experience the very beginnings of the hatch! Doubtless, I will be more than prepared: too many flies, a fine fly rod, hopefully a vintage wand crafted of split cane.

The flies are invariably the first discovery. Typically, the day will be cloud darkened and chilly, as I stand in the high, cold flow of early spring, eyes straining to turn each bubble upon the surface into fluttering wings. Most often I will find just a few. If I am very lucky, one will drift close enough that I might pluck it from the water to welcome it, cherish it, and to be certain the magic has begun. Within moments there will be line on the water and a dry fly resting upon the leg of the stripping guide while I pray to the Red Gods for that first glorious sighting of a trout’s rise form.

The odds say there will be no rising trout on the day the first flies appear. Nature and her rivers are wont to tease we anglers just a bit longer. Barring some tragedy of weather, they will come in another day or two. If I am deemed worthy on that day, my rod will arch and my reel will sing the song my heart hears even now, as I sit and watch the snow fall.

As the sun’s first rays caught the treetops on Point Mountain, I found my porch thermometer flirting with the ten degree mark. The last triumph of my thirtieth Catskill dry fly season is 45 days behind me, and the next one lies some four months away!

I opened the silver Wheatley fly box that rides closest to my heart amid the pockets of my vest. I began the changeover, removing the terrestrial flies and spying on the various mayflies that will follow them on their path to the summer boxes to be stored away. In those lidded compartments the Hendricksons and Quill Gordons will return to their homes, doubtless to be joined by new variations as I wander through these next four months. In it’s lid, the box holds a few Rusty Spinners and soft hackles whose ranks will be fortified, where they will wait for a warm, glorious April afternoon as it blends into evening.

The flood endured during the first third of April 2022 stole the majority of this fishing from me, but I remember a few bright moments. I had added a row of Rusty Spinners to my Translucence Series in the lid of that box, and they proved invaluable once low, clear summerlike flows predominated late in the month. I was surprised by spinners on the water near four in the afternoon, divulged only by a trio of soft risers along the shallow riverbank. One sipping trout beyond mid-river betrayed his position in filtered sunlight, the scenario that inspired my Translucence spinner.

I offered that fly on a long, downstream reach cast, the delicacy and control of the bamboo rod allowing perfect presentation. Ah, the glory of that straining arc of cane and a screaming reel!

The top left compartments of that Wheatley hold my favorite Quill Gordons: the Translucence 100-Year Dun that started off my Beaver Kill season with a pair of heavy brownies, my Dyed Wild variations, and the classic Catskill ties.

The Gordon Quill most often heralds the beginning of my dry fly season, but the Hendricksons follow close behind. With them, the season springs forth in full bloom! When the Hendricksons are heavy on the water, the trout can become terribly selective, and much of the Wheatley’s remaining capacity will hold my armada of patterns. Author Al Caucci considered that there are a number of related Hendrickson species of mayflies floating along our Catskill rivers, and it pays to be prepared to match each of them with various patterns! A good deal of my favorite winter days are spent tying Hendricksons.

In my own fishing, I have matched five decidedly different mayflies I consider to be Hendricksons. There is the classic tan bodied fly, the most numerous, that begat Roy Steenrod’s iconic Hendrickson dry fly. This size 12 or 14 mayfly is the one most anglers agree is Ephemerella subvaria, and Art Flick’s classic Red Quill is most often the match for the smaller male of that mayfly. There is a big, brick-reddish dun I encounter on the Beaver Kill alone. I tie several patterns in a size 12 with a special blend of dubbing for that early spring emergence, though I swear some of the naturals look to be closer to a size 10! I have had great fishing to some very selective wild brown trout taking a size 16 brown bodied dun that I would equate to Harry Darbee’s version of the Dark Hendrickson dry fly. Last in the procession is the sour, sulfur yellow bodied 16 dun I have taken to calling the Lady H, a contraction of little dirty yellow Hendrickson. If you conceive and tie high and low-floating duns, emergers and cripples you will begin to understand why I have so many hundreds of Hendricksons!

Seven inches of new snow lies softly here in Crooked Eddy. The temperature remains squarely at the freezing mark, unwavering over the past twenty-four hours. Winter has settled in and become comfortable here in the Catskill Mountains.

I have begun my winter work, inventorying and ordering silk, counting hooks and planning those orders. I cleaned, oiled and polished the old .30-.30 deer rifle, putting it away to sleep until next November. I even managed to craft a few more flies, that new dace pattern that sparked my imagination, for swinging winter currents as I did on Friday.

It dawned a sunny day Friday, and blessedly stayed that way. I knew that weather was coming, so I grabbed the Kiley rod and an intermediate line, then pulled my feet into the heaviest socks I own.

The fluffy alpaca wool and all of that sunlight kept me eager to make the most of the day, wading the river for nearly four hours, finally settled in myself to endure hours of cold water in something not too far from comfort. The trout seemed to have been unimpressed by the day that charged my batteries, for I found nothing to interrupt the slow, deep swing of my flies save a pair of rocks quite firmly planted in the river’s bottom. No matter. I have learned that winter’s trophy trout are rare blessings, best saved for when the spirit sorely needs them. It was a good winter’s day!

I am thinking of bacon and pancakes this morning, a little substance to warm the inner me, before I get back to those chores. Dry flies still wait to be sorted, and there are a few rods that might appreciate a polishing. My tying desk sorely needs to be excavated from the wealth of books, gear, papers and practical fly containers hiding the warm glow of that curly maple. I need to make it ready for the season’s more serious tying, and I owe the Catskill Fly Tyer’s Guild an article for their Gazette. Our editor is planning a celebratory issue, as January 2023 marks twenty-five years of publication. While I was not a Guild member a quarter century ago, I was a Catskill fly tyer and angler, so I plan to consult the archives of my memory for an idea.

I was thinking about uncasing my flintlock and visiting JA’s favorite corner of the Catskills. He reported sighting two bucks that survived the rifle season and showed up just where I had been hunting. This morning’s weather outlook was sobering though. Calling for ten degrees here by dawn tomorrow, I would expect single digits higher up in the mountains, and a noisy, crusty and slippery world completely unsuited for sneaking within handshake distance of such a whitetail buck. Perhaps some warmer air will allow a careful walk along those ridges before the season closes, though there is more snow expected for later this week.

Should have been up there as this snow was falling on the last day of rifle season, though those bucks would have moved on elsewhere with me within a mile of those haunts!