Well, George Thorogood had a great hit under that title anyway: moanin’ the blues my brother! As far as fishing, I am wondering if I should change my habits. During my travelling years, I fished late every night, stalking the darkness in search of great trout and great moments. Retired and living the dream at last now, I tend to be a daytime fisherman.

Part of that is practical. I awake before dawn each morning and get started with my day, catching up on the baseball scores, tying flies, cleaning fly lines and ferrules, and generally getting ready for my fishing day. Depending upon conditions and destination, I am usually out by late morning to start my fishing. By five o’clock I am tired, as being at the end of a twelve-hour day is reason enough to hang up my waders and relax.

The other part of my daytime fishing regimen is the fact that I have spent many dark hours upon rivers, and for too many of them to count I was standing around and waiting for the big event. Yes, those classic evenings do happen, flies appearing, closely followed by the soft rings of rising trout as the direct rays of the sun leave the water, but a lot of those long nights on the river have resulted in a fifteen-minute flurry of activity just at dark. When it is dark enough that you can’t really see what you are doing, there is finally something to do.

Since we were blessed with some badly needed rainfall, followed by a cooler, cloudy day, I decided to spend an evening on the Upper Delaware on Thursday. I checked river gages upstream after three o’clock and decided the water temperature should be pretty good down as far as Stockport. The first thing I did when I got there around four was to wade in and dunk my thermometer. When I pulled it up and read sixty degrees, I figured it was going to be a great evening.

Indeed, standing around in a river as beautiful and impressive as the Delaware has the makings of a fine evening on its own, but my focus was to find some flies on the water, followed by those lovely soft rings in the surface. I did find some flies in the four hours I prowled up and down the river: one Green Drake and two Psilotreta caddisflies. Other than the occasional shad jumping, the surface remained unbroken. It was after eight and I asked myself whether I wanted to stand there another hour: the answer was no. Might I have missed an epic fifteen minutes, half of which can be spent trying to change the fly? That’s always possible, but after thirty years on these rivers I have my doubts.

Anglers have been talking about the lack of hatching insects. A couple mentioned a magazine article about some new corn seed with built in pesticide that, once washed into our rivers, never dissipates. I firmly believe that two straight winters of extreme, prolonged cold with ultra low river flows have been more than hard on the Delaware system. It could be both, and other factors we are not yet aware of. Nature is amazingly resilient, and I hope that, whatever the cause for this apparent downturn in insect life, she works her magic and fixes the problem. As anglers, we need to be vigilant, and do our best to give her a helping hand.

I may try to re-adjust my schedule and spend a few more nights on the river, just to prove to myself that I am not missing all of the usual daytime action because the trout and insects have decided to work the late shift. If I could only sleep until ten each morning, that would work out wonderfully, but that will remain an unfulfilled wish. I’m getting a little old for eighteen-hour days.

Welcome June, the next rung in the ladder of the season lies before us. It should be utter madness, with drakes green and brown, sulfurs, isonychia, cornutas… but it isn’t. Looking more like the doldrums, I have begun to approach this spring fishing like it is summer.

The first step was a positive one. Catching a popular pool unmolested the other day, I slipped into the quiet water and started my search. Stalking, watching, intent upon subtle clues along the recesses of the calm surface. There, a movement, subtle and constrained, though clearly a sign of life.

I stalked that sign, moving slowly and carefully, taking advantage of the breeze whenever it ruffled the water. Sure enough, there was a little dimple in that hidden lie. Other than the omnipresent couple of bouncing caddisflies, the river betrayed no insect activity. Consistent with my revamped thinking, I knotted a small beetle rather than a juicy March Brown.

The cane rod delivered it gently once I waited for a moment between gusts of wind. One cast, two, and then my fly met that dimple. He fought me with vigor, darting and stripping line from the Bougle`, the reel’s protests shrill and exciting there in that moment of solitude. The beauty of the river, the sheltering forest, the trout and I captured the moment.

He was a fine specimen that brownie, thick flanked and belligerent when his quiet brunch was interrupted, still vigorous and golden as he thrashed in the clear meshes of the net. The forceps proved handy to grasp the small fly before returning him to the quiet of the pool. A blessed gift! Summer conditions, summer tactics, yes… I felt quite smug when I had stalked the next little obscure disturbance, and perhaps that was my mistake.

There was another dimple you see, but I failed to convert my subterfuge to arching cane and the shrill music of the Hardy click and pawl. He was no more inclined to sample this summer fare than the next one, and so my theory collapsed.

Here and there for the next hour or so, and on another reach of water the next day, and another the day after that there was nothing but the occasional cruiser. Wiggling bug syndrome is my name for the phenomena, when the general paucity of insects causes idle trout to suddenly rise hard just once, never to come again in that location. WBS has been the character of the rivers I haunt during recent weeks.

There is hope for refreshment this week, rumors of tailwater releases, even good, honest rainfall, but will it change the character of the hatches? We are fortunate that Memorial Day’s interlude of hot weather has been brief, and yes, cooler water can bring about an increase in mayfly activity. Still, this season seems all too familiar.

The early hatches were wonderful in 2021, with each successive species of mayfly becoming increasingly sparse and fleeting. By summer, it was rare to see more than a museum sample of the typical drift. I looked back to winter, and the low flows during its coldest duration. Sadly, that scenario was repeated: low flows, and the weather even colder for longer durations.

Nature is resilient, though the magic of her rebirthing powers takes time. She works on her own clock, not ours, and aging dry fly fishers can only mourn the loss of another season of those precious moments. The grand hatches of April, May and June, those that simply astound us, are indeed magical moments in a fly fisher’s life, and they become more rare as man’s manipulations bring damage and disarray to Nature’s miraculous canvas.

Forgive us our trespasses Mother, and shine your light upon our beautiful rivers that we may witness your grandeur!

Catching my breath a bit this weekend. It doesn’t seem like it can possibly be Memorial Day already. Before this new season has even gotten properly underway, here we are at the peak.

There are a great many places I would like to be fishing today, though low flows and hot weather will impact most of them and keep me away. I feel for my brother the trout, for there will be masses of anglers too focused upon their wants and needs that will flog those waters despite the warm conditions. Our forecasts have been filled with stormy days and nights of late, yet little in the way of rain has fallen to recharge the rivers.

There are a few Translucense flies on my list to tie this morning, a couple of smaller March Browns I hope may find a chance to tempt a good trout come afternoon. I finally captured a hatching dun last week, snatched him from the air that I might confirm his size and color in this season of sparse emergences. Difficult fishing has at least given me the opportunities to pit my Translucense Series experiments against the wariest of our wild brown trout, and the results have been promising.

I am still waiting for that active day, the good steady hatch of flies with numbers of feeding fish, the kind of day at the heart of the fly fisher’s lust for springtime. There are usually any number of those days between mid-April and the end of May, for this indeed is our prime dry fly season. Nature has something else in store for me this year. The game will be determining just what it is!

Wednesday holds the only expectations for rainfall this week, and that hope is pinned to the whims of thunderstorms, just as it has been of late. Of course, there is still the question of the tailwaters and the City’s Aqueduct Project. Rumors seem to be the only information available. I talked with a friend who listened to the Zoom presentation the Catskill Fly Fishing Center and Museum sponsored earlier in the year. He said that City officials offered no details regarding their planned drawdown of the reservoir system. Something will happen, but exactly what and when they deem superfluous public information. If they need to drawdown their reservoirs, an extra hundred cfs or two of release flow per dam would do our rivers a world of good right now, in the traditional peak of the recreational fishing season.

I’ve been fishing more days and hours than usual these past few weeks and finding less action. The rest this holiday weekend has provided has been welcome. The Catskill Legends Dinner was a welcome respite, and I enjoyed saying hello to a few friends as we congratulated the honorees, Mike Canazon and John Hoeko. I had the chance to read the new book just released by another Catskill Legend: Ed Ostapczuk. His “Wanderings of A Mountain Fly Fisher” (Epigraph Books, Rhinebeck, New York) is warm and personal, and his tales will charm you! Ed’s passion for wild trout and Catskill waters touches all of us who angle for trout. I understand you can find it on Amazon and other outlets.

Perhaps a bit of breakfast and then time to get to those flies…

Ah the pitfalls of the frantic search for truth; or at least rising trout…

I passed a milestone this week, had it all planned: alone at my sanctuary, the river quite cool with enough cloud cover to bring on a variety of hatches, my favorite rod with an olde English reel and perfectly tied flies to cover all of the possibilities. As on so many days this spring, plans found a way of going awry.

The solitude did my soul some good, though it would have been a grand gesture had Mother Nature provided a bit of her more palpable magic. She saw fit however to limit her offerings rather severely in light of the occasion. Very few flies were about, just a couple of little caddisfles now and then, sparse pickings insufficient to interest the trout, at least the adult denizens of the area.

Reading riseforms can tell you a lot, and the few I witnessed told me that the young of the year were about. I proved it to myself with a few tentative casts, as well as my catch of the day: a beautifully formed and colored four-inch brown trout. In truth there was another brief display. Walking slowly amid the low water reaches of the river I spotted a quick slurp, audibly the work of a substantial trout. The occurrence was so brief, and my attempts to make good of it so hampered by the gusting wind that it is hard to categorize. There may have been a pair of fish, moving, and if I was pressed to pin down their targets, I would suggest a few stray March Brown nymphs.

The water was cooler than seasonally appropriate, and I had seen perhaps half a dozen duns at distance during the course of the afternoon, none of which had been eaten. The events had all the earmarks of a rapid-fire search and destroy mission on behalf of the advance guard of the Salmo Trutta brigade, and by the time the gusts calmed enough for me to make a cast, it was over, and not to be repeated.

My fishing luck seems to be in a down cycle this spring, perhaps Nature’s inevitable kharma after so magnificent a season in 2021. The day before this celebratory odyssey I had fished long and hard, managing to bring one of this season’s rare large brownies to hand on a Translucense Series spinner. A bit of fishing transpired with that afternoon spinner fall – who says they don’t happen on windy days?

During that sequence, my fly sunk and was apparently taken below, there being no motion in the shallow water to indicate the take until I noticed my tippet wasn’t following my leader downstream. I tightened, felt the heavy pull of a substantial trout, and got my fly back almost instantly. The next dimple to draw my attention sucked down my imitation in a classic sipping rise, with the same result. Two large trout that should have been taken and gently released, with neither of them having to expend the energy for a fight. Such is fishing.

A good friend has cancelled his plans for a visit due to the lack of mayflies and rising trout and a truly unfriendly weather forecast for this Memorial Day weekend. Another has had his doctor extend an already prolonged hands-off-the fly-rod period due to injury. A blessing perhaps in that the fishing they will be missing has been anything but remarkable. Too bad though, as the general lack of insects and rising trout create opportunities for memorable long bankside discussions as to why we aren’t catching trout. A third has decided that he will arrive next week for his typical four-day stand, despite my lackluster reports. I notice that hot weather will be returning to greet him, not the best indicator for enhanced trout activity.

Though our weather has had only one brief hot spell, and otherwise been rather pleasant if you don’t mind the wind, water conditions have reminded me more than once of summer. Perhaps it is time to ignore the calendar and shift my tactics to summer fishing. I believe I will spend some time here at the vise and see what I can come up with…

It was a busy week for we have come to the heart of May in the Catskills. This is the time of year I expect to spend time with visiting friends, drawn by our mutual expectations for the prime dry fly fishing of the season. My own fishing has been more urgent of late. With our long-awaited spring season coming so much later than anticipated, there is a sense of trying to catch up on opportunities missed, despite the inevitable understanding that hatches missed cannot be recaptured for another year.

Memory has a strong controlling interest during such times, for the urgency can increase the importance of favorite haunts in our plans and decisions. Even residing here in the mecca of my dreams, I find too little time for both exploration and satisfying the natural wish to return to the scenes of my fondest memories. My own search for solitude compounds this dilemma at times, for I have never been one comfortable fishing among crowds.

I learned recently that my friend Henry made a move that brought him much closer to the Catskills. Living within day trip striking distance of these rivers means we will have more opportunities to fish together throughout the season. I met Henry by chance, sometime around a decade ago. Both travelers hanging our waders at West Branch Angler’s Lodge, we struck up a conversation that turned into a lasting friendship. He has a gregarious personality and makes friends easily, welcoming the comradeship of fishing. Our approaches differ markedly.

While I have studied insects and currents, water temperatures and flow regimes, Henry seems to take things as they come. He pretends to be uncertain as to the names of the flies in his boxes, though he rarely makes the wrong choice in his selection. Calling me “the Professor”, his casual demeanor belies an accomplished angler, a fine fly caster with a knack for taking trout and a passion for the rivers. A New York City boy, he told me how his father brought him to the Catskills in his youth. The region and its rivers earned a permanent place in his heart.

We fished together a few weeks ago, a quiet day as it turned out, spending most of it sitting on a riverbank and talking of the fishing we had hoped to be doing. It was a good day, one we both enjoyed to the fullest, whether trout or insects played their roles or not.

I heard from Henry again a week ago. Feeling the pull of the season, he messaged me about coming down for a couple of days. I warned of the storms on our doorstep and suggested a meeting later in the week would offer better fishing. After a rainy night and morning, we agreed to try the West Branch with blue-winged olives in mind. It was barely 56 degrees when I left the house to pick him up and make the short drive to the river, expecting a damp, chilly afternoon.

Upon reaching the river, it wasn’t long before I shed my rain jacket as the sun burned through the cloud cover and brought its welcome glow to the riverscape. We waited a while and talked as we searched for evidence of a rise, which wasn’t too long in coming.

Noting the smaller than normal shad flies flitting here and there over the water, I tied a size 20 imitation to my tippet, handing Henry the same fly with the admonishment not to look at it but simply to fish it. That fly design is more than a decade old, yet Henry is one of four anglers that have ever seen it. A few things we keep close to our vests!

About that time a couple of risers invited us to wade in gently and do a little fishing. We separated, dividing the pair of trout and plied our trade. A third riser started up while I was working on my first, and then my attention was grabbed by the fine brownie that grabbed my tiny fly! He fought with splendid strength and vigor, using the current of the run to full advantage, and I was happy to bring him finally to net. Henry’s trout had not responded, nor risen again, thanks perhaps to the drift boat that was kind enough to pass right over the lies of his fish and that third one that had continued to rise throughout my battle with number one. The continuing lack of courtesy of so many of the overabundant guides on the river sadly continues to impress.

I called Henry down in the hope that fish number three, the most consistent of those we had spotted, might resume feeding after recovering from being bumped on the head by the boat’s keel. He did not, though another eventually decided it was safe to enjoy a caddisfly snack. Henry fed him my little size 20 secret deftly and enjoyed a spirited battle until the tiny hook pulled free close to the net.

In the meantime, trout number five took a quick dash for a skipping caddis, allowing me to get back to fishing as opposed to watching. This one also found my little dry to his liking. Bigger and heavier, an equally gorgeously colored brown of nineteen inches, he fought with a will and purpose to be admired. A bit more sunshine, and several more boats passing too close, brought an end to the sparse activity before long. Henry wandered a bit further down the run and fished to a couple of one-time risers, but neither of us would feel our rods arching again.

We waited and talked, scanning down river into the great pool receiving the run that had brought us good fortune, nearly taking the long walk down. It seemed that each time I decided to head there, another boat would row through the pool and put down what I thought might have been a sipping rise two hundred yards away.

As Henry continued easing downstream after those one-timers, I turned back up and stopped surprised to see a sipping rise quite close to my bank. He was in shallow, moving water, in a slot between small piles of rocks, and was happily and steadily sipping away. I accepted his challenge.

I worked close, my anticipation heightening as he stuck his nose out once or twice, confirming his size. He fed eagerly, whether gently sipping or popping that big head right out of the water. Reading riseforms is a time-honored art we use to help unravel the puzzle that leads us to the manna of the right fly. The tiny rings of gentle sips in shallow water speak to tiny duns or spinners, and it was a spinner I offered after a number of casts with the size twenty caddis of the day.

I worked close that I might cast delicately with the six-weight line, such that only my long leader would land near the trout. Neither caddis or spinner drew interest, though I was hampered by a poor angle of light and terrible glare. No matter the fly I chose, I could not see it in the drift, and guessing is doom when it comes to striking in such a scenario.

As usual, I studied the drift at the bottom of that little slot. There were tiny caddis now and then, a handful of Lady H mayflies both living and dead, and an occasional Hendrickson sized rusty spinner. I offered them all, as well as an olive T.P. Dun tied that morning just for the expected rainy day. I couldn’t clearly track any of them, so if any were taken I didn’t see it. I did lift a number of times when the amount of leader drifted back to me suggested that his sipping rise just might have enveloped my fly, never touching that trout, nor spooking him out of his shallow bankside haven.

Eventually I risked backing further out into the river to present my fly from the side. The light angle was much improved, and I could see my fly on most casts, though the results remained the same. I worked that old boy for an hour at least, until he finally seemed satisfied with his afternoon meal and simply ceased rising. If he moved back out into the more comfortable depth of the run, he did so gently and undetected, confident I suppose that he had successfully avoided another pesky angler intent upon leaving him with an unrequited appetite and bruised dignity.

I saluted his mastery of his domain with a tip of my cap and turned back to the run to check upon Henry’s progress.

We both cast for another hour or so in hopes of enticing one of the scattered one-timers, knowing in our hearts that the best part of our fishing was done for the day. At dinner that evening, Henry asked what I had in mind for the morrow. I replied simply that I would be awake at my usual five AM, get up and check the rivers, the winds and weather, and take my best guess at where we might find some unencumbered fishing. One dance with the boats was enough for the week.

On Friday Henry joined me at a quiet little pool where we waded in to await the news, which quickly arrived in the form of rising trout. Just a hint of caddis were to be seen, and indeed the fish ignored our copies. We were hoping for March Browns, and Henry was the first to try one of the big mayflies despite evidence of a hatch. I was hip deep when I heard his reel and turned to see him battling a heavy fish. I teased him after watching a bit, for his foe seemed rooted to the same spot on the bottom. “It’s a big fish”, he grunted, then “it’s a brookie” when he first had a glimpse of dark greenish color. His prize turned out to be a huge chub, bigger than the one that had fooled me there a few days earlier. We shared a laugh at our mutual deception.

It would be a day of mixed bag fishing to say the least. I stalked and battled a beautiful twenty-inch brown to the net, then landed surprise as the next two fish to reach my hand were smallmouth bass, while Henry redeemed himself with a fine brownie!

Henry had the best fun of the afternoon, when a powerhouse ate his March Brown Comparadun. I turned as I heard his exclamation, and the rattle of his Hardy St. George, watched the line streaking downstream and away until the great silver arch of a trout rose high into the air. I saw him follow as the reel continued its screams of protest. I silently cheered him on as I saw the end of his line so far away, nearing the boulder field on the far side of the river. I knew his favorite St. George Jr. stored little in the way of backing behind his four-weight fly line, all of which must surely have been extended as that trout failed to surrender.

Henry played that trout to a finish, just as I thought he would. Knowing his tackle, he used every inch of that line perfectly, and landed one terrific wild Delaware rainbow. To my question from a hundred yards upriver, he replied “eighteen inches” though I was convinced that bow looked even bigger in the air. A wonderful fish, and a wonderful memory between two friends. “I think that must be the angriest trout I ever hooked” said Henry as we waded toward the foot path in the afterglow of his battle. The excitement in his voice was still palpable.

Despite best laid plans, I found little fishing during the peak of the Hendrickson hatch. Sky high flows and cold water seemed to keep the trout from rising when the flies made an appearance. When conditions changed, they changed rapidly, and I enjoyed some interesting and very technical fishing as my favorite hatch waned. There are a lot of new patterns in my fly boxes that didn’t get a chance to tempt a trout, but my Translucense Series 100-Year Dun did get a few casts when I encountered a good fish cruising and very gingerly sampling the bugs in the film.

I have a special blend of silk dubbing to match Ephemera subvaria, and this was the one day I found them on the water with any trout rising. The fly was fished to that cruising brownie after he ignored a few standby patterns. He accepted it gently and confidently on that bright afternoon and enjoyed the opportunity to spin my little 3″ St. George reel and put a substantial bend in my T&T Hendrickson. He beat the coveted twenty-inch mark by a nose!

After a bit of rainfall with dinner this evening, I sat down at the vise to tie two variations of the Translucense 100-Year Dun for the impending March Brown hatch. My idea was to modify the scheme to incorporate the bleed-through principle to produce the desired tan and yellow color phases. As pictured above, I tied these flies with 6/0 Ephemera silk in primrose, as opposed to the pure white silk normally used for the Translucense Series. I am anxious to find an opportunity to test them on the water.

These special duns will be reserved for the most difficult trout, those that fail to respond to my Dyed Wild and fur dubbed flies. Last season’s turkey biot CDC emergers showed well on the Catskill rivers, and will be well represented in my boxes again this season.

I carry both yellow and brown/tan color phases of my primary patterns for the March Brown hatch as I have observed a wide variation in the natural’s coloration during three decades fishing Catskill rivers. I also carry specific patterns for the Gray Fox, a distinctly different mayfly the scientists now insist is just a yellow bodied March Brown. Sorry gentlemen, a DNA kit just won’t fit in my vest!

I plan to begin my search for hatching March Browns this week, as soon as the dangerous weather that is headed east gets away from these mountains. I would love to see one of the rare, epic emergences in 2022. The March Brown’s hatch intensity seems to vary more than any other. Some years we see hardly any of them, while others will be more productive. They are big flies, seemingly hard to miss, but they are also sporadic, daytime emergers.

If there are some around, the trout will find them, even if we anglers have a hard time doing so. I hope we get some much-needed rainfall from this weather system. It has been a long time since I floated the Delaware with good numbers of March Browns hatching. Mother Nature can kindly forget about the “large hail and even tornados” noted in our local forecast and use her miraculous energies to transform that mayhem into twenty-four hours of gentle, soaking rainfall!

Yesterday brought some clouds to the Catskill rivers, after four days of brilliant sunlight and truly azure skies. It was a breathtaking week, Nature reminding us of her grandeur amid a very reluctant spring. As anglers, we enjoy the warmth of the sunshine and appreciate its sparkling reveal of the clear rivers and sheltering mountainsides in that brief chartreuse first blush of spring. We know that those high skies can make our fishing even tougher, but there are days when it is quite worth the tradeoff.

Rather than enjoying the spring bonanza of heavy mayfly hatches with fine trout nearly jumping over one another to feed upon them, the long awaited first week of beautiful spring weather brought us straight into an arena prime for technical dry fly fishing, my favorite kind. The hatches of Hendricksons and Blue Quills were waning, and the Shad caddis made only a peripheral appearance, so the quality, difficult trout I seek were very selective in their feeding, exactly what I have come to expect under bright skies in low, clear water.

I walked the riverbanks under cloudy skies yesterday, with an upstream breeze that would add another challenge to my fishing. The wind would calm periodically, and the sun appear, though each freshening of that breeze seemed to be accompanied by a new passing cloud bank. I surveyed the changes winter’s flood had wrought on the river as I waited for, I hoped, some sort of hatch.

After a while, a few tiny Shadfly caddis were seen drifting along, and eventually they attracted the interest of a trout. I negotiated the “new” river to reach a good casting position and affixed a typical size 18 version of my favorite caddis pattern. I sought to fish the rise from distance, but that upstream wind had other ideas. I wrestled with it for a while in stubborn determination, and of course my presentations suffered. It seemed that, if I tried waiting on the wind to subside, it just kept blowing.

I finally accepted the challenge of making a closer approach on an untested stretch of river bottom. I had noticed that my fly looked somewhat larger than the naturals my trout sucked down every once in a while, and went to my fly box for one of the size 20 dries I had made sure to store within. It was just days more than a year ago when I encountered hundreds of tiny size 20 shadflies on a frosty West Branch while floating the river. I hadn’t brought my twenties that day, luckily making due by performing surgery on a couple of sparser eighteens. Lessons learned. Shad caddis are always size 18, unless they aren’t.

With my new position and dry fly, I renewed my patience with regards to that wind, and was rewarded for my efforts. Just as the wind laid momentarily, I gave the Paradigm a smooth, gentle stroke to unroll line and leader, dropping the tiny fly in the ideal line of drift with soft coils of tippet. Glup, said the trout and then the vintage Perfect was spinning with his rapid departure!

He fought like a champion, that brownie! The old Hardy is as old as I am, and time has turned its action quite silky, its music still sublime when it plays the tune of a hard running fish. The amber arc of the bamboo absorbed the head shakes and changes of direction, until I was finally able to lead him to the net. He was gorgeously colored and wide flanked from gill plate to the wrist of his tail, no doubt having weathered the long winter better than I.

I worked two others through the course of the afternoon. The second was even more sporadic in his feeding than the first, and he resisted the caddis as well as a couple versions of the Lady H mayflies that appeared in the drift for short intervals as the day advanced. I saw nothing else on the water, save a couple of expired duns, but that recalcitrant trout even refused to have a look at my impromptu corpse, its CDC wing twisted over to one side of the hook to mimic the dead naturals.

Six straight days of river cleanup, lawn work and long afternoons of fishing had taken their toll. I realized how much late in the afternoon, when that third riser appeared. I cast my fly automatically and stared it down current right into his mouth, pausing a bit too long to watch it. You do have to tighten up on them old man. Duh! Well, I could have been two for three. Technical dry fly fishing reminds me a bit of baseball, for I walked out all smiles after batting .300!

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!