For the past month, spring has barely flirted with us here in the Catskill mountains. Rivers ran high and cold after a brief, sweet encounter with Quill Gordons, and fishing was more walking riverbanks and fruitless waiting than actual fishing. Nature’s changes can be dramatic, and certainly those wrought this second week of May have been.

Our skies cleared; the gusty winds of springtime laid down, and our temperatures began a steady climb through the sweet spot of the seventies up to eighty degrees. The wild trout of these rivers seem to have been caught unprepared just as we were. At a time they should be feasting on bountiful hatches of Hendricksons and caddisflies, they are moving fitfully in low, clear water under bright skies, hunting the last morsels of these waning hatches. Suddenly it is stalking time.

Walking, waiting, and finding a comfortable seat along the bank, I await the arrival of the sporadic mayflies, and then heighten my search.

The past few days have evolved to summer conditions: scanning for that funny water out there amid the river’s gentle currents. Those intent upon the perfect concentric rings of the classic riseform will miss a lot of opportunities. Some of these odd little disturbances look like brush strokes on the surface, others a quick, tiny wink that might be a seed pod flipped by the breeze – or something more. I stalk all of these once the straggling mayflies appear.

As the flies multiplied the other day, one finally held a station: wink, wink, ripple and glint. I know who you are my friend! I had prepared at the vise after dawn, fortifying myself with Lady H patterns, dun, cripple and trialing shuck flies to mimic the active mayflies emerging from the cold water into the warm air.

I began with the CDC dun, offered at distance, less my approach ended the game before it began. He gave it no attention, that perfectly floating dun, its wings moving in the breeze. So be it, and on to the crippled emerger. Cast, drift, retrieve gently far away from the trout, for they have been restless, movers under such conditions. Obviously, a no. I had tied just two trailing shuck duns as an afterthought, for sometimes you must offer something in between…

He took it with that same slow, gentle caressing of the surface, and exploded into a run with the arch of bamboo! Rushing down river and away with elan, strength and speed: twenty yards, fifty, and I begin to ease toward the shallow shore as he finally stops and begins to turn. I battle him there at distance and he comes back slowly, darting side to side as I recover precious backing, then fly line. He streaks left, toward the familiarity of his taking lie, there among the rocks, and I move the rod to the side to execute the side pressure sweep that has turned so many of his kind intent upon destruction of the frail connection, but I am too late this time. He reaches his goal and cuts the tippet on the knife edge of stone. An amazing fish, what wouldn’t I have given to see him there in the shallows at my feet!

So I am there once again, sitting on the bank with the Queen and waiting when that funny water catches my eye one hundred feet away. Another traveler this one, so I make my approach as slow and gentle as I am able, while he meanders left and right, sometimes up current, always unpredictable. Brush strokes, a wink of light, and the game begins!

The sixteen trailing shuck dun is at the end of a bit more than three feet of 5X fluorocarbon, affixed to twelve feet of nylon leader. The Maurer’s parabolic action lays it out there perfectly in the shifting breeze, across and down with an upstream reach and a kick, seventy feet away. The casts vary as he meanders, a little more line for this one, somewhat less for the next. This one, yes, this one looks perfect; and then the brushstrokes surround the fly. He takes it slowly, as I steel my nerves, and raise the rod when the surface is calm again.

The little Abel sings a sweet note, different from my old Hardy’s; American music. This fellow fights his own way, he doesn’t chose the long tiring run, rather many shorter ones, digging for one rock and then another, fighting relentlessly against the golden arch of cane. The game is a long one; he does not tire easily. Gradually his runs lessen, his power ebbs, comes in shorter bursts, and the inevitability of the net creeps into my focused thoughts.

Twenty-two inches of spotted gold finally held aloft! The net hangs deeply with his weight. Rod quickly secured under my arm I lower the net to the water and reach for the little dun in the corner of his mouth. I free it and slide him back into the cool of the river, where he rests with belly on the stones nearly at my feet.

Waiting, this time with a broad smile. Was that a wink a hundred yards away, on the edge of the shade? Take a few steps and watch: yes, a wink indeed. Stalk slowly, too easy to push waves ahead in low water…

How late, yet how lovely these days of May! Though it seemed such days would never come, we are blessed at last with the perfection of springtime, days with brilliant sunshine, sparkling waters and without the gales that so trouble the fly fisher.

How fitting that Mother’s Day was the setting to welcome the Lady H. Some have said this more diminutive member of our Hendrickson clan is the mayfly called the sulfur, Ephemerella invaria. I won’t debate the thought, as I seem to have left my entomology degree in my other pants. Though I have always strived to be an observant and well-read fly fisherman, I cannot quote the sages on the number of tergites or the color of the eyes of the male duns. I can however fashion a proper fly to interest our Catskill trout.

I had not seen this mayfly until my first full season on these bright rivers, as they come a bit later than the signature Hendrickson, a hatch I have faithfully sought for many years. Smaller than the fly I recognize as subvaria, this dun is copied with a dry fly hook in size 16. The slightly olive-ish, golden hued yellow of the abdomen reminded me of some of the sulfurs matched long ago on Maryland’s Gunpowder Falls, while the darker bulky thorax and gray wings mimic the Hendrickson. Unaware of the certainties of species, I called them as I saw them: little dirty yellow Hendrickson, or with proper respect, Lady H.

Mother’s Day looked to be fairly late in the Hendrickson hatch, with a mixture of the larger tannish duns and Red Quills on the water. The trout, though willing to rise, were not the steady feeders we pray to encounter, causing me to suspect the specter of motion might be the ingredient for success.

When I finally located a good fish willing to rise in the same place thrice, he paid no attention to my Hendrickson. Taking a moment to pluck a natural from the surface, the fly’s blood red abdomen told the tale. A CDC Red Quill fulfilled his need for motion and color, and seduced that fine finned adversary to bring the T&T Hendrickson to a full, throbbing arch!

Scanning the breadth of the river, I spied the telltale wink of a big white mouth and eased downstream. Observation proved this one was being as obtuse as possible, ambling up-current and side to side in a wide drift line, sipping the bugs that caught his fancy. I stalked closer, but not too close, then checked the naturals once more as I waited for this cruiser to enter comfortable casting range. The larger tan Hendricksons had made their appearance, so I knotted a dubbed bodied 100-Year Dun to my 5X tippet. The waiting game proved my undoing!

Watching that big fellow working slowly and erratically my way served to enhance my excitement, and when my 100-Year dun finally sailed down into his meandering path I tightened a split second too soon for the downstream presentation. Half a pull and then nothing was the sum of my reward.

It was late in the hatch when I worked my way through deep water, stalking a sipping trout along a line of dead current. When he liked the look of a particular mayfly, he would slide into the light and pluck it from the drift. After a rest, his next meal came from the slack current in the shade, a place I knew would not allow my presentation of a fly. I must entice him, bring him into the light.

Patience and multiple presentations convinced my he was not enthused with my imitation, and the stark difference between sunlight and shade brought to mind my Translucense duns. I traded flies, preening the hackles on a silk bodied 100-Year Dun, and went back to work. It still took a while, as it often does with a moving target, but our drifts coincided eventually, and my dun vanished in a bright little bubble!

Now the old feeling came back into the lithe arc of cane, leaving no doubt I had engaged a champion. The little St. George ratcheted loudly in the stillness of late afternoon as the trout battled for his freedom. I saw the deep bronze and gold the first time I urged him out into the light, before he bolted back to his shade and den of snags. I used all that the light rod had to give to keep him from those snags, and at last he was mine, scooped and lifted high in triumph!

The first trout measuring more than twenty inches each dry fly season is always special, restoring my faith in the magic of these rivers. I glanced from his golden flanks to the azure sky and gave thanks, twisting the fly free and slipping him back into his crystalline home.

The flies changed again after my victory in the shadows, and that proved to be the dance of the ladies. There were not numbers of them just yet, simply a sparse, quiet hello after the passing of their larger brethren, but it was clear their time was at hand.

I found my box of Lady H imitations crowded more with larger flies, and so at dawn this morning there was work for me to do. The warm weather has shown some very active mayflies, and the trout have been more than choosy when willing to rise. I made certain to prepare the patterns required to meet that challenge.

In retrospect, perhaps my selection is still incomplete. There are times a trailing shuck dun proves to bring the answer to the angler’s knock at the wild trout’s door. Ah, back to the vise…

Blustery yesterday on the mountain, not so much like May as early April. We kept warm planting trees, garnering a new appreciation for the early subsistence farmers of the Catskills, clearing fields in mountain ground, as we struggled to dig far enough into the rocky soil to plant a seedling dogwood. Their stone walls remain, a monument to the backbreaking labor required to remove the larger, unplowable stones from their fledgling fields.

Planting trees amid the forest you say? Yes, JA is steward of his lovely piece of the high Catskills, improving habitat for the wildlife. I joined him and his wife Donna this time, starting three holes for each seedling successfully planted, thanks to the preponderance of underlying rock. We know we won’t likely see these seedlings grow enough to attract the grouse within the span of years we have remaining, but JA has grandchildren, babes already drawn to “the cabin” and the woods. It feels good to all of us to put something back into the land for them.

It seems hard to imagine, but I cast my eyes upon a favorable weather forecast this morning. Of course, the dawn underperformed as usual here in Crooked Eddy: thirty degrees an hour after sunrise, though the sun just now peaked through my window to the east.

I have ferrules to clean, wiping away the oxidation from six months of winter. I pulled the rod from its tube just now, savoring the sweet fragrance of the varnish that Tom Maxwell applied forty-five years ago. The scent lies full in the tan poplin and brings back memories…

Hendrickson they dubbed this gentle scepter, and I hope for a meeting with the legions of its namesake, hoping they have not yet passed on for another year. The Thomas & Thomas Rod Company was eight years old when Maxwell and Dorsey crafted this rod; they passed fifty, three short years ago. Dorsey saw the change coming earlier than many, and the young company forged ahead into the new field of graphite rod design, always maintaining the founders’ passion for cane. I am privileged to enjoy the beauty and finesse of this vintage wand!

I fish their graphite rods too, at least in the early days of new seasons. Deep wading, casting maximum distances, and fighting fierce winds no sane fly fisher would choose to chase trout in seems less gentile than the quiet stalking and perfect presentation of the more supple weeks of spring. Such conditions have been the rule since April dawned, thus I am later than expected enjoying the sweet perfume of bamboo. The Hendrickson will walk with me today, mojo to court the magic of those splendid mayflies, my favorite if at times the most ephemeral of hatches!

As I think back, it was March when I uncovered the drift boat, had my trailer inspected, washed it inside and out and put all the new stickers in place. I was ready for the early spring that seemed to be coming! May is not March, nor even April, the times I anticipated taking the season’s first float down the river.

As a matter of fact, May has tended to be the month that I parked the boat, the crowds of waders and the burgeoning flotilla of watercraft becoming so heavy that the fun was stripped from a nice drift and a bit of fishing. I finally put the boat in the water on Tuesday, trying hard to believe the forecast when it told me that those dreaded southeasterly winds would be in the five to ten mile per hour range here in Hancock. Five to ten is reasonable, the fifteen or better that I got for my trouble is not, at least not for a 65 year-old with half a lifetimes worth of experienced arthritis to deal with. Basically I rowed all day to get downstream against that wind, and I felt it.

Still, there’s a certain pleasure to being alone on the river, and it was my pleasant surprise to find there was not a large number of boats out that day.

I didn’t expect the amount of muddy color to the water that I found either. Reports had said the river was clear and, though there was a little rain overnight, the gage remained as steady as a rock, the graph of the river’s flow making a near horizontal line with the barest hint of a decline. You fish the river you get, so it was to be a windy, colored river for me, with hope for good hatches. The good news was the sunshine and blue sky I found around Deposit.

After rowing steadily for several miles, I found a little ring along a pocket in the riverbank. I couldn’t really see any flies on the water, but sure enough, there was a trout sipping something tight against that bank. The first hatches in late morning are often Blue Quills, so I had already knotted a favorite little parachute to my tippet. The Red Gods were ready for me, raising the stakes by raising the velocity of that upstream wind.

I made more casts than should have been necessary before the fly was taken, sunk just above my mark when the windblown slack in my leader started to play games with it. The ring appeared half a second after that fly sunk, so I raised the rod gently and had myself a trout. Well, just for another second I had one. The rod tip bowed but straightened before the corners of my mouth could arch up into a smile.

I expected to find another fish along that bank, but I didn’t; nor the next bank, nor the one after that. In fact, I was about two miles further down the river, working through a choppy run behind another boat that had passed me. The white splashes along the near bank stopped me right away, coming just as that first boat passed the spot.

The wind had a good catch in that reach of river, and it was blowing hard opposite the current of the run, making the surface very choppy. Try as I might, I could not pick out any insects in that bouncing brown and white water, but there were two trout smacking away, and they don’t eat bubbles. I couldn’t see my Blue Quill parachute either, the wind regularly blowing it down somewhere other than the spot I aimed for. I finally tried a couple of Hendricksons, settling on a bright, synthetic winged pattern that I could see on the water about one out of every three casts. I finally admitted defeat, hoping to find some fish rising in the pool below. Maybe they were eating bubbles…

Did I find a nice riser in that pool? Of course not. I rowed another mile and a half before I snugged over against the bank at the tail of a riffle and anchored to watch and wait. I know that spot well, and it is a good bet to find some trout partaking whatever flies are coming off in the riff. I didn’t have very long to wait, and I didn’t even have to lift the anchor.

There were two again, about fifteen feet apart, sipping away at something. They were not interested in the Blue Quill, and there were clearly no Hendricksons showing, so I stared at the somewhat calmer surface here to solve the puzzle. Finally I began to pick up tiny wings. Really studying the drift along that bank, I could make out a steady little parade of tiny olives, about a size 20.

Having a tough time following my flies in the windy conditions, I tried a size 18 to no avail, then dug out the olive box from my boat bag. Most of the size twenties I had in there were sparse little CDC duns, and they were not going to cut it in the windblown water. I hadn’t the patience by this point to redress my fly after every second cast. I found and tried one little parachute that was ignored, then grunted my frustration at those trout and tied on a fat, juicy Hendrickson. Let us say that the trout proved uninterested in a fly representative of the coming feast.

There was another fish though. I slipped the anchor, drifted thirty feet or so, and let it down again, leaving myself a long cast downstream. It was well into the portion of the afternoon to expect a Hendrickson hatch, so I stayed with that fly. Mr. Trout demurred. I got out a Hendrickson box and selected one of my P.E. (pink enhanced) Hendrickson 100-Year Duns. I let the T&T Paradigm load fully, powered the forward cast, then checked it hard as the line and leader unrolled. That allowed the rig to straighten out into the wind and then back up at the check to drop the fly with plenty of slack in the leader. The trout was working back and forth in a little pocket of quieter current, so I repeated that cast several times until the fly dropped in the exact line of drift he was headed to. A good take, a hookset, and there was a fine brown jumping a foot and a half into the air! He started shaking his head and pulling out into the main current as I smiled and enjoyed his vigor, at least until the fly pulled out. Sometimes it’s just not your day.

The next riser I spotted waited until I was fifteen feet above him before betraying his presence. I slipped the anchor as quickly and softly as possible, ending up right across from his location. He never rose again. Not a problem, as I had the consolation prize: the chance to row down a long straight stretch directly into the teeth of the wind. Every time I stopped rowing, the boat would quickly cease all forward progress and start to spin, the wind overpowering the current. The arthritis in my neck was really working by this point, seven miles into the float, adding a fine dose of pain to my frustration.

I had rowed through that pool and intervening riffle and two thirds of the way through the next long pool before I noticed the slightest little ring beneath a skinny little overhanging branch. Unfortunately, I was in the middle of the river, and too close to take a couple of strokes to drive the boat closer before passing the spot. I slipped the anchor immediately and rested directly opposite my target. The Hendrickson hatch was in full swing: I think I counted three.

I’ve worked hard at improving my distance casting during thirty years of fishing the Catskill rivers. Back in Southcentral Pennsylvania, stealth, accuracy and presentation were the keys to taking wild trout on the small limestone streams. These rivers require all of that and distance. I knew this delicate riseform indicated a trout that would be easily spooked if I powered a cast out to maximum range fighting the wind. Patience was required here, whether I had any left or not.

I was glad I had my Thomas & Thomas Paradigm in my hand, for it is a rod with grace that offers performance without wasted power. When the wind calmed momentarily, I cast, laying the fly out there gently a couple of feet upstream of the trout’s riseform. I relaxed my arm, eased my grip on the cork, and let the rod have its head. When the wind picked up, I stopped and waited.

I didn’t count the casts or check the time I spent fishing to that distant bank feeder. He was the only trout in the world to me, and I had time to wait for him. During the last line of gusts, I fluffed the fly a bit, blew the accumulated water from the wing and the hackle so it would sit just right on the surface. The wind finally eased just enough and I cast again, slowly and smoothly laying that fly down some ninety feet away.

I truly enjoyed that brownie, just let go of the frustrations of the day and played him joyously. He was broad flanked and beautifully colored as he laid there in the net, a trout worth waiting for: the only trout in the world.

On Monday I was preparing for another day on the river when a beep from my phone attracted my attention. It signaled a text from my friend Henry, letting me know he was in town for the day and wondering if I wanted to get together to fish. I messaged him right back and then answered his call a moment later. It turns out we had the same river in mind for the day and were both about ready to hit the road.

I was standing on the riverbank looking wistfully at the quiet pool when I heard the car door above and turned to see Henry’s smiling face looking over the guardrail. He joined me on the bank, and we talked about the flies and rises we both hoped to see within the hour. As it turned out, we would have plenty of time to catch up.

After grabbing his rod and vest from the car, Henry returned, and we found a couple of seats on the bank. I filled him in on the rather unimpressive fishing this spring. I waved my hand across the long reach of water in front of us, telling him that it had all been covered with Hendrickson duns on Friday afternoon, with not a single trout rising to take advantage of the bounty. I confessed that I had hoped for some returning spinners despite the dampness on this cloud covered morning, since calm periods have been quite rare this spring.

Henry was fresh off a float down the West Branch on Sunday. He showed me the photo of the best fish of his day, an impressive brown in the twenty inch plus category. He said they managed a couple of fish, though there wasn’t a lot of insect activity, but he was obviously pumped from battling that trophy brownie. Henry usually seems to be pumped up when it comes to fishing. He has one of the brightest personalities and best dispositions of anyone I know.

Henry was pretty upbeat for such a dreary morning, exceedingly happy that he didn’t have a five hour drive home anymore. He had moved since last season and was now within an easy hour and a half of Roscoe. I was glad to hear that, and told him I would let him know when the fishing improved, since he was now able to toss his gear in the car and go fishing without a lot of pre-trip time and planning. Talking about the long drives had me remembering just how much I hated having to drive all the way back to Chambersburg before I retired. During the Hendrickson hatch, I always had to leave the river and roll out by five o’clock to make the four and a half hour trip home. I always left wondering if the best hatch or spinnerfall of the week started just after I had left.

We fished a little and talked a lot this day, each of us briefly encountering a single sporadic riser that shunned our efforts. After the abundant hatches of Friday, there seemed to be very few bugs in the neighborhood on Monday. We stayed until five, finally agreeing that it simply wasn’t going to happen on this day, saying our goodbyes with smiles and wishes for good fishing.

I am pleased to hear that my friend is closer to the rivers we both love now and know that we can look forward to more times fishing together. Sooner or later our weather will start acting like its May, the rivers will warm, and the trout will suddenly realize it isn’t winter anymore. I hope there are still a few Hendricksons crawling around down there in the gravel, since I absolutely love that hatch!

For the third morning our temperature is below freezing as the day begins. Rivers are falling, and flies are hatching, but the chill can wreak havoc with the angler’s plans.

I visited two pools yesterday afternoon. I waded out slowly and set my feet hard into the cobble, yet the wind nearly knocked me over more than once. There was brilliant sunshine and flies upon the water: Blue Quills and Gordons, and later Hendricksons, seemingly a perfect spring day if I could stay upright. There was even perhaps a fifteen-minute lull in the gale when the usual lies could be clearly studied, but there was no hint of a rise to be seen. I felt the chill gripping my legs as I waited. My stream thermometer read 46 degrees.

I have chased the Hendrickson hatch for decades on these Catskill rivers, and this is not the first time I have felt water temperatures plummet once the hatch had begun. I recall one spring, witnessing blizzard hatches on the West Branch and then the Willowemoc, with neither reach of water betraying anything even remotely mistakable for a trout’s rise. I sought the counsel of the First Lady of the Willowemoc, Mary Dette Clark, in her front room of the Dette shop on Cottage Street. Mary related that there had been cold rains in the highlands that feed those classic miles of Catskill rivers and that she was not surprised to hear that trout disdained to rise for the hatch, so I base my low expectations on both Mary’s decades of experience as well as my own.

On the final pool of the afternoon, I found the river covered with hatching mayflies from bank to bank, the wind had calmed, that is to say that the gusts were no longer constant at 25 to 30 miles per hour, and I could scan a very long reach of water. Not a single rise was revealed to my searching eyes.

I walked half a mile of river in my search, from the churning foot of the long riffles, through the deep, boulder strewn run, and down through the fullness of the pool to the lip of the next major riff. Flies emerged, drifted and flew into the wind in search of the bankside trees along every foot of that flowage. It was a sight to behold. Fittingly I bowed my head for a moment, paying homage to the grandeur of Nature before I took my leave.

There is a sense of sadness in witnessing a troutless hatch, for anglers know that another year must pass before they have another chance to knot a Hendrickson dry fly to their tippet and stalk their favorite reach of trout water. Though the sheer abundance of fly life provides comfort in the health of the river, we never truly know if we are witnessing that spectacle for the last time. Many faithful anglers, like myself, have far fewer days ahead than lie behind, and that knowledge becomes somehow more acute at times like these.

May the winds lie down, and the trout rise to the wonderful mysteries of the hatches forever!

The sun is shining through my back window, but it is 38 degrees here in Crooked Eddy. The thermometer won’t have far to climb, with today’s high forecast at 43. I think back, to an April afternoon a year ago, and dream…

To be sure, there is no going back except in memory. On the twenty-sixth of April, 2022 I waded beneath those leaden skies with the mist wraiths watching. There was no hatch, just a small handful of assorted mayflies. The river failed to warm past the forties, and began to rise from the morning’s rain. As a final tease, the afternoon was beautifully calm, perfect for casting, had there been anything to cast to.

The day before I witnessed the first hatch of Hendricksons, the big mayflies fluttering on the rapid currents and blown about by the gusty winds for three quarters of an hour. One trout rose twice, and then the surface was silent. Monday was the second and last seventy-degree day of the week. The river warmed to 52 degrees, enough for the flies to awaken, insufficient for the trout to partake.

The warmer days came on the heels of strong south winds, so my boat is yet to drift along the Delaware. I did have to devote Monday morning to an unexpected repair, replacing the forward member that holds the trailer’s rollers. I recall the anticipation when I uncovered the boat in March, ready and willing to sally forth on the first sunny day. Floods, wind, rain and snow have kept me grounded for half of this fitful spring.

A few flies have sprung to life on the bench, though my boxes have long been filled past their capacities. Too many months of winter, with far too many frigid periods leaving very few days for fishing. I penned an article for the Fly Tyer’s Guild yesterday and tied a few of my Translucence Duns for photos. Their brethren are waiting for an opportunity to prove their mettle on some disdainful old brownie. My advanced case of winter brain caused me to miss my deadline. It may be time to consult Dr. Macallan and sit back with his counsel and watch Chasing The Taper one more time.

The last week of April is upon us and the early spring I had anticipated has vanished. It was barely in my grasp for a moment a week ago: Quill Gordons, rising trout, and the solitude of a quiet reach of river. Trout were played, landed and released, and the outlook was promising until winter swept back through these mountains.

The snow vanished as quickly as it came, and I fully expected to venture out, until snowmelt raised the flows, chilled the water and banished me from the rivers. There have been rumors of a few Hendricksons, but I hear no tales of fine brown trout brought to boat side. Streamers the reports are saying, endless hours of lobbing heavy flies to the banks in cold, muddy water. It is not the springtime of my dreams; and so, I wait.

I tried to fight the current and the chill yesterday, wading in as far as I dared. One stubborn trout was splashing the odd mayfly, coming from deep water amidst a boulder field. With the side wind, he remained just beyond the limit of my ability to make an adequate presentation. Ninety-foot casts require concentration, and a magical mix of power and delicacy, for the fly must alight softly. With the wind whipping, the cast must be low to the water, where the gusts may drive it into the surface. I was not surprised that I failed to garner the interest of this lone riser. I expect the few flies he vaulted to the surface for were moving excitedly, the strong attractant necessary to bring him up in such cold, heavy water.

Just now I thought about these difficulties. I have no reason to expect an end to windy days for they are common in a mountain spring, and the preponderance of high, cold water seems to be unending. With little hope for better conditions, I turned again to the bench.

This emerger uses a number of effective tricks to present itself as a vulnerable, struggling mayfly trapped both in and out of the surface film. The Antron shuck is ragged and long to add some motion to its brightness. Tied long, it can be trimmed on the water should I feel it necessary. The dyed wild turkey biot gives natural color and segmentation, and the ribbed fibers will collect air bubbles. The legs are partridge hackle, wrapped soft hackle style in the middle of the dubbed thorax, then swept back, again for maximum movement. Long casts require long retrieves, so my emerging wings are heavier than normal, using a pair of CDC puffs. The puff feathers will move with the wind above and move with the current where their fibers touch the surface. I wish I had had this fly yesterday, tied for those stray Gordon Quills. Just maybe…

At least working on a fly with a little boost helps me get through the long afternoons, for the rivers have been rising all day. I took my river walk this afternoon to find the East Branch high and muddy once more. It was clear just the other day. There is little snow visible on the slopes surrounding Hancock, yet there is still plenty in the high valleys it seems.

An act of defiance? Perhaps, though I consider it to be more of a practical approach to the ways of the seasons here in the Catskill Mountains. The storm was coming, the chance was there to grab a few moments of fishing, of light, before my world changed radically once again.

In the aftermath of the April 7th floods, I had searched for signs of the early spring once promised. On Friday afternoon, a lone brownie had granted me the grace of his rise to a brief handful of Gordon Quills, arching my rod and spinning my reel – the simple ritual that inaugurated my dry fly season, by far the most precious season of the year. Now, ten days after I surveyed the brown floodwaters, a serious April snowstorm loomed, offering to delay the hatches and the spring beauty along the rivers once again.

The afternoon was as gray as expected when I walked along the riverbank and found a seat to watch the flow for signs of life. Depending upon the forecast of choice, the storm might arrive as early as five, with wind and rain to cool the air temperature enough to welcome the heavy snowfall. It had been nearly half past four on Friday, when a few fluttering Gordons had awakened that riser from his winter slumber, so I sat and pondered whether a hatch might prelude the storm or be lost in it.

I saw the first duns around three, too far out to positively identify, though there appeared to be an occasional Gordon as well as some smaller fellows. A dun would pass by, followed by a long gap in my precious time. I rose and worked slowly out into the tail of the run. I took the smaller flies to be Blue Quills, though they could have been olives, but I banked upon the Gordon Quills being the choice du jour thanks to Friday’s appearance. Anglers have learned that trout often ignore the season’s first appearance of a species of mayfly.

The wind had begun to increase when the first rise winked white before me, and I sent a parachute Gordon on its way. The trout had risen once, and then another rose several feet upstream. Precious minutes ticked by as the wind interrupted my casts, and then one more rise, fifteen feet upstream and tight to the bank. Finally, there came one heavier boil on up into the run, then all would be quiet except the wind.

I began to think this was the work of a moving fish, restless to find a meal amid the urgency of the moment. At last, I saw a rise in the original location. A gust blew my CDC fly off target just as a dun bounced down the same line of drift, and the trout took – which one? I hesitated, succeeding only in putting him down.

More flies began to show, though by no means would this become a significant hatch. As a rise appeared I covered it first with a parachute Gordon that replaced the CDC and, when that was ignored, a parachute Blue Quill. I had changed back to the Gordon when I eased downstream a few steps to change the angle that I might better present my fly against the increasing side wind. The tactic resulted in a take, and a good brown hooked and landed.

A second, moving target materialized further below in that same line of drift, and I worked him with the impatience borne of the deteriorating conditions. Having no success, I was changing my fly, choosing one of my experimental Translucense 100-Year Duns, when I saw the ring of a rise well downstream. With the foe in front of me idle, I backed out and picked my way down.

The lie down river along the bank had welcomed a number of larger browns, raising my anticipation even more than the advancing storm front and ticking clock. I gained control, waited for the gusts to subside, and sent a long reach cast diagonally down to drift my fly close to that sheltering lie. The drift looked good, and with another six feet of line freed from the reel, I cast again, this time dropping the little dun at the top of that trout’s line of drift. It wasn’t that cast that took him, nor the next, but I adjusted my drift to fight the winds and had him at last!

Releasing that hefty brown from the net, my eyes searched upriver and down. There were few flies visible now, the hatch waning after an hour. I was about to accept that my window of opportunity had closed when my old nemesis rose again, still in the same line of slick current. I was below him now, and casting into the wind. That last opponent, the trout who had ignored every fly and every cast; found the Translucense Dun to his liking at the first presentation and took it solidly.

As this trout had occupied the same line of drift as the sixteen-inch brown that first came to hand, I suspected this fellow to be a recalcitrant twin, but he took all the pressure I could apply and held his ground against the strain. When I finally coaxed him to the net, I admired a golden hued brown of nineteen inches, already heavy through the shoulders so early in the season.

That trout signaled the end of my defiance to the coming storm, the little hatch now exhausted. No more rises would issue from either run or pool and, the adrenaline draining, I began to honestly feel the cold in my bones.

Standing there at the car to take down my rod, I savored the satisfaction of the moment with gratitude for that hour in the eye of the storm.

I beat the rain and the harshest of the winds home by enough time to hand my waders and take my boots inside where they wouldn’t freeze. Sitting back with a hot cup of coffee while the windows rattled, I watched as the rain gradually changed to wet snow.

Thirty years of angling Catskill rivers has given me a fair understanding of the seasons. Like most fly fishers, my definition of spring necessarily includes the year’s first mayfly hatches sufficient to produce a good rise of trout. Contrary to angling texts, the order may vary, though either Quill Gordons, the little Blue Quills or the Hendricksons, even a combination of any two or three at a time, will be featured. For the sake of discussion, a thing we anglers enjoy when we cannot fish, I have categorized spring in accordance with its appearance according to the calendar.

An early spring, that precious gem we all covet, brings one of the three named hatches of fly and a rise of trout during the second week of April. A normal spring sees that rise of trout during the third week of the month, and the late spring finds us searching and waiting for fulfillment until the last week of April, if not the beginnings of May.

If you have read this blog of late, you know that I felt we were firmly settled into the early category this year, until a flood got in the way. Nevertheless, braving high water in my search as soon as I was able, I finally encountered a ten-minute hatch of Quill Gordons late on Friday’s blustery afternoon and took the single rising trout that appeared. Success! An early spring indeed, and just under the wire; or not. The weekend was cold, damp and yes, windy, and it was twenty-six degrees at sunrise this morning in Crooked Eddy.

While enjoying the afterglow of yesterday’s ballgame, my phone interrupted my reverie with a chorus of beeps. I immediately thought of my dear friend JA, suffering the abomination of angling in Patagonia and no doubt catching dozens of large trout on whatever magnificent fly he chooses to throw at them, but it was not an international text alert. No, that devilish little annoying device reported nothing less than a Winter Storm Watch for Hancock and vicinity. The Weather Channel agreed this morning, upgrading that watch to a warning and promising us a foot of heavy, wet snow through the night and into midday tomorrow.

What type of spring might this become now?

I will happily fish in April snow squalls, and shiver in the penetrating dampness of April Showers, casting low to battle the winds. All I ask, all any of us ask is a modest hatch of flies and a handful of rising trout as salve to our winter weary souls. Alas there is nothing we can do. Take the snow shovels back out of storage my friends, and lay the fly rods aside.

I think back to the many late seasons when April’s promise was washed away. Tying flies half-a day’s drive to the south asking why. We had waited through all six months of winter, was it not our time, our due? The last years before retirement were the hardest, for though I prospected the streams of Southcentral Pennsylvania, those late rushes of winter weather in the Catskills had a way of bleeding through to those environs. We might not have gotten snow, but we got rain and cold, and high, cold, muddy streams down south are no more conducive to salving the dry fly madness we endured after six months of deprivation, to say nothing of the declining hatches in that region.

Pardon my lament, though I am certain that you feel it too! I will not retreat, and I will not surrender! Many of the fine old books I treasure have tales of fishing bounteous hatches of Gordons and Hendricksons during snowstorms and gales. Never one to doubt those sages, I wonder if memory contributed to a bit of artistic license, if all those miserable conditions endured spawned a false recall of a day when they stepped into angling Valhalla amid the storm? I have fished many such miserable days, wanting, expecting the hatch to come amidst the worst Mother Nature might throw at me. Never can I recall even one such day when the gates of Valhalla opened. Memory indeed contains countless impressions of wet, cold, tired and fishless days when not a single cast was made.

If you drive past a swollen river, gaze past the snowbanks and see a huddled figure lurched forward, braced against the roily current, it will be me; Dry Fly Madness adorning my shoulders like a badge.