There’s a chill here in Crooked Eddy and growing colder despite the glorious winter sunshine. Well covered up for my river walk, I felt the bite of the wind upon my bare countenance walking back homeward. I realized we have passed the first month of winter, a milestone for those of an angling persuasion who count the days until rising trout might accompany such a stroll along bright water. There are eighty remaining by my count.

The wind heralds the onset of another cold snap, the kind that brings us subzero dawns, a thing I never welcome. That contemplation put me in the mind to celebrate the cold snap with a chilled glass of my favorite brew, called coincidentally by the same name as that all too familiar meteorological phenomena. My gratitude to Mr. Koch and company.

Before my little snack and break I decided this was a good time to tie a few dries to salute the later turn of spring, that lovely May/June period when the larger mayflies whisper their hellos on balmy afternoons and calm, comfortable evenings.

I have had such wonderful results with my 100-Year Duns that I have continued to tie more of them, being sure to have some on hand for most every hatch. The varying shades of woodduck and brighter hackles caught my eye, and I spun some Light Cahills and a pair of March Browns.

I first tied this style of dry fly for the largest of hatches, our Eastern Green Drake. The pattern evolved gradually over a number of seasons, and all have proven to be the right medicine for trout which delight in ignoring or refusing my more conventional offerings. Old Gordon was onto something! I find a timeless grace in the long, canted wing. The fly sits the water provocatively, the canted hackle turns serving to support the offset weight of the fly. I love to watch them float down a quiet thread of current!

Eighty days is still a long time, and there is no promise that spring will warm the rivers in time for my personal opener. That is why there are flies to be tied and rods that wish for a gentle polish. I am well into my winter reading, with Harry Darbee’s Catskill Fly Tyer beside my big leather chair today. I can find it difficult to commit my attentions to one off-season activity for long periods, so on certain days I will jump from the tying desk to the reading chair and back. River walks help calm my spirit.

I find a perfectly serene state of calm with a river flowing around my legs, and there is really no long-term substitute for that. Bright water is its own state of perfection. It has a mystical ability to allow us entry for a time, a chance to become as the trout and the mayflies, part of the magic of the river!

Many anglers travel to the Upper Delaware River each spring, some just to witness her natural beauty, most to cast a fly and find out what all the excitement is about, and a few to measure themselves against the legendary difficulty of her grandest rewards.

The wild rainbows are the stuff these legends are made of, the moving wraiths of the great river. Even big fish can be curiously subtle when feeding in plain view. Hundreds of hopeful anglers walk right by those isolated little spurts of bubbles in the midst of a wide riffle, their eyes searching for some expected head and tail rise, some grand profile on display like an artist’s rendering.

A fifteen-inch Delaware rainbow can spool you if he has the inkling, and an eighteen-inch fish can send you running toward shore with your rod high in the air and leave you with visions of leviathan haunting your dreams. Life, survival is hard in this greatest of Catskill rivers, and those trout that succeed leave an impression of electricity and muscle to tease the angler who has enjoyed a taste of their energy.

The eighteen-inch bow is a big fish in the Delaware, for the difficult life in the river and long, seasonal migrations to avoid wide temperature swings do not foster a long lifespan. A few reach the coveted twenty-inch mark, and those of us who love them never forget the days when such very special fish are brought to hand.

Once I had tangled with my first mighty Delaware rainbows, I had a quest for one larger than the rest, a fish in excess of that twenty-inch size, a giant for the river. That quest lasted a decade, until the trout pictured above came to hand on a gray, early May afternoon. During those years I learned to spot those insignificant little spits amid the riffles, the kind my mind once believed were nothing but cast offs from the constantly rolling currents that bounced through the rocks of the riverbed. The great Haig-Brown wrote of the glory of the unexpected fish, and Delaware rainbows of this ilk truly deserve that moniker.

I shall never forget the monstrous, deeply hued fish that grabbed my Leadwing Coachman on a morning swing in another great Delaware riffle, then vaulted from the boiling water. I was left flyless and shaking when he rushed downstream, leaping again and again until the tippet parted on that final aerial display. Indeed, an unexpected fish as I idly swung that wet fly waiting for signs of a hatch.

One morning two seasons ago I stalked into a quiet bit of water. The gentle bubbles along one thread of current attracted my attention. I cast my caddis dry fly once, twice and then again, giving it consecutive drifts downstream. A mild spurt of bubbles greeted it on that third pass, and I raised the vintage bamboo rod in my hand to see the calm river explode! A great silver fish leaped five times in succession, rushing toward the opposite bank, and then the reel was spinning and screaming in my hand!

Fly line and backing vanished in the distance until the bow vaulted once more from deeper water, the spray caught in midair as a crescendo of light. This time though, that final, spectacular leap was not a goodbye. The ancient rod doubled fearfully, though it turned the fish out there a hundred and fifty feet away. I reeled furiously to recover my backing, then ceded it once more in a second blistering run.

Each run grew shorter after I regained my line, and at last I brought him to the net. I ached for a photo but dared not let him linger in the slack water at my feet. Holding him against the net, his length touched the old mark: twenty-two inches, but the depth of his flank and his girth exceeded the torpedo like proportions of my long-ago trophy. My hands shook as I walked him to faster current and cradled him in the flow. An unexpected fish, yes, and a memory I can brightly recall to bring a smile and a touch of excitement to a winter’s day.

I will not take my riverwalk this morning to confirm that the river looks the same as it did last year. I expect it is eerily similar, for the official temperature for Hancock this morning is four degrees below zero. Here in Crooked Eddy, we tend to be a couple of degrees colder than the “official” temperature, though with the wind chill at twenty-one below, I shall not go out to check my own thermometer. Our trade off comes on sunny afternoons, when we tend to warm a bit above the official temperature. Ah how gladly would I welcome a sunny afternoon!

I got out yesterday for a visit with my friend Dennis Menscer, rodmaker extraordinaire, over on the other side of Point Mountain. He took a few moments to take a breather from the pace he has been keeping for the past year, though still working while we talked. Checking the progress of freshly varnished rod sections and crafting a set of ferrules, he keeps busy even when taking a rest.

There are rod orders to fill, a goodly number of them, and everyone hopes to have theirs by spring. Some will find a home right here in the Catskills, others out West, like the wonderful eight and one half-foot four weight, hollowbuilt masterpiece he designed for a client intent upon angling Idaho’s Silver Creek (I immediately volunteered to take one out there and test it last summer). There are a few headed to Patagonia to tackle the muy grande trucha of the legendary rivers that Schwiebert wrote so beautifully of in earlier times. There’s another duty I would happily accept! Our visits have been few this past year, as I feel guilty keeping my friend from his craft, though I always enjoy our talks of rods and reels, rivers and anglers.

I took my leave at lunchtime and headed home to a meeting at my tying desk. Quill Gordons were waiting. The mail came early, and I received a few materials, including a stripped peacock eye dyed yellow. As I feared though, these cannot be tied with without a good deal of soaking. They will wait for another day.

If you look at the photos of an ancient, original Gordon Quill, you will note the stark banding of the fly body. Some say there used to be eyes from a different species of peacock readily available, whose lighter quills created that contrast. I have a jar full, from more than twenty years ago, and when stripped and wound, they result in an uninspiring brown body with a blackish stripe. That darker, low contrast banding seems common with any of the eyes I have acquired over thirty years of fly tying, so I long ago found a substitute.

Turkey biots have long been popular for fly bodies on a variety of flies. White domestic turkey feathers are dyed and sold in many insect-matching colors, but I like the wild bird’s plumage, specifically the black and white barred primary wing feathers. I have used them for years to tie my Quill Gordons and Blue Quills.

I have seen more Quill Gordons hatching on the storied Beaverkill than on any of the rivers I fish, and those flies are a very strong shade of yellow on the bottom; still banded, but with dark gray to black and yellow. More than twenty years ago, a good friend gave me a bunch of the stripped biots from wild turkey primaries he had dyed to make fletching for the custom arrows he crafted, and those yellow ones make deadly Quill Gordons.

Of course, being a color-oriented fly tyer, I have blended a dubbing to match those yellow Beaverkill Quill Gordon mayflies. I have found success with the dubbed bodies, though I confess to a particular fondness for the Dyed Wild biot quills. Difficult trout seem to like them too!

You can get varying color and effects depending upon which biot you pull from the quill to wrap your fly body. A distinct gray edge on some of these produces a very bronzy tone when wrapped over the brighter yellow, still with the prominent, dark segmentation effect from the black, thick edge of the biot feather. I like to tie some of each, always with my yellow/gray blend dubbing for the thorax on the comparaduns, as I have seen color variations in the naturals.

The undyed wild turkey biots are great for Blue Quills, and where you find the Quill Gordons lacking the heavy yellow coloration. I have always liked to design my own imitations, and I think that their uniqueness brings better responses from heavily pressured trout. If a fly is a good imitation of the natural and doesn’t look just like something that big old brownie has seen coming past his window day after day throughout the spring, I believe he is more likely to accept it. Fly fishermen, we all have our theories, right?

When I am not in a hurry to tie a few flies for the morning’s fishing, I like to put a coat of Hard as Hull head cement on the biot body. The fly is thus more durable, and the colors and segmentation really pop with that glossy topcoat. I tie tails and then the biot body and whip finish before adding the cement coating, setting aside the bodies to let the cement harden. When thoroughly dry, I reattach my thread and add the wings and hackle and finish the flies, a production tying technique Ed Shenk taught me decades ago.

The morning sun is lighting up the curtain above my tying desk, belying the frigid air outside. The little weather gremlin note at the bottom of my screen winks at me: -3F Sunny. Visual deception: kind of like what we try to accomplish with trout flies!

The television proclaimed that we are not too far below freezing this morning, and promised a warm day, defined as reaching perhaps 35, even 36 degrees. We will pay for Nature’s largesse come Friday night though! Another day that I will not wade bright water, another when the closest I may come is a walk along the ice laden river, followed by a drowsy dream of warmer times.

April is the target; not its beginning, but later near the middle of the month, such days hold the most hope for early mayflies, and rising trout. That week, that span of days when maybe becomes imminent, begins eighty-seven days from today.

Here in the Catskills, we never quite know what April will bring. Strong northwest winds are expected, blowing anything from moderately mild air to sleet and snow, but the sun will be closer and with us more hours each day. Warm southerly breezes can arrive at any time to make us feel giddy, as on the eighty-degree days that closed out last April; a preview of the perfection that is May.

May begins the finest time for the fly fisher, particularly those of my ilk who worship at the altar of the dry fly. It begins with the continuation of the Hendricksons, and progresses through the various spring caddisflies, March Browns, Gray Fox and at last the lovely sulfurs!

We are graced by many beautiful yellow mays, from those slender size twelves to the tiny size twenties of summer. There is always a bit of mystery as to which ones, and when might they appear. Some of my favorite surprises have come on warm, sunny days, first with a few of the smaller Dorotheas and then more; enough to bring the trout on the rise! Sometimes the larger flies will show between the little flurries of Dorotheas, and I will pick out the trout of the day and tempt him with a large, graceful CDC or 100-Year Dun. Each of these days is as different as it is special.

The sulfurs were my first hatch you see, decades ago on a bright afternoon on Gunpowder Falls. I was a novice then, proud owner of a single box for dry flies, and the pickings were slim. I knew enough to recognize the soft yellow flies as sulfurs, mayflies I had learned to expect in the dimness of evening; and I knew that, among my spare collection of flies at least, the Light Cahill was the matching fly. The trout disagreed, as they ravished the hatching duns greedily while ignoring both of my Cahills. They wanted that yellow. As a last resort, a 16 caddis, my sole yellow bodied fly brought success. Those wild Gunpowder browns taught me the lesson of color that afternoon, there where the little river’s clear water bubbled over bright gravel!

The evening emergences were my favorite times along the limestone springs of the Cumberland Valley. Often, we anglers would arrive after six and walk the banks with longing. It might be half past eight before the first fluttering duns would arise from the gentle currents. Half an hour of delight followed, made sweeter by its brevity and the sure, unwavering curtain of darkness.

On special evenings I might find an eager, early riser chasing the first few nymphs to struggle to the surface. An emerger was the crossover, the link between the trout’s world and the angler’s dry fly game. Oh, what joy to tempt one of those rare, early trout to peek into my world of air and light!

As I travelled early on to the wide waters of these Catskills, I found sulfurs on those first soft summer evenings. The wonder of that last light fishing was extended on the large rivers by taking advantage of every last wave of light in the sky, though it still had the old urgency. I shall never forget making long casts in twilight on the West Branch, tracking the bright orange dot of my my little parachute fly until the subtle wink of light that accompanied the bulge in the surface signaled a take! Darkness made the rod buck harder and the runs of those big-shouldered browns seemed like they would never end within the confines of the pool.

May becomes summer and the magic continues. It seems then to be forever until season’s end!

I took a short break from chipping the ice from the asphalt of my little two-car driveway to tie a few flies this afternoon. I have been gradually working into my winter tying, though I haven’t had one of those big rush days when I turned out a couple of dozen. There was a missing pattern for my planned assault on the Hendricksons next April, and I figured I might as well knock a few out while I was thinking of them.

As a dry fly angler, I always play the game to tempt a trout to rise and take my fly from the surface. Though I hate to admit it, there are some trout that will simply refuse to come up that last inch and eat anything sporting a wing, thus it makes sense to have a soft hackle nymph style of fly that can sit right down in the film or drift along in that first inch of water. I call my version the Hendrickson Grouse Hackle simply because well, that’s what it is.

Tied on a standard dry fly hook, the tails are woodduck, the dubbing my dark brown ephemerella blend, and the hackle is a soft, mottled feather from the wing of a Ruffed Grouse. I tie the thorax ball by spinning that dubbing in a thread loop, making it buggy and capable of holding a little bit of air within. It is the fly I hope I will never have to use, the one I would prefer remains in the fly box throughout the hatch.

In a perfect mayfly hatch scenario, the intrepid angler would fish the hatch by degrees. When the nymphs have risen close to the surface and are about to emerge, a fly like the Hendrickson Grouse Hackle provides an imitation of that pre-emergent nymph. The second degree is the actual emergence, when the nymph struggles through the film, splits it’s wingcase, and the dun begins crawling out of the nymphal shuck. At that point, the bug is neither wholly a nymph nor a dun, and an emerger is the fly of choice.

I have heard a lot of fly fishers call a soft hackle nymph an emerger. I have no quarrel with that way of looking at things, theirs is simply a different point of view, but I think of an emerger as a transitional fly, with partially unfolded wings breaking the surface. Once the dun crawls out of that shuck, anglers usually fish a dry fly pattern. Those of us who have fished for a number of years have learned that Nature and bugs and trout don’t always follow that nice little progression, thus we tie and fish duns with trailing shucks, as well as classic dun imitations like Mr. Steenrod’s noble Hendrickson, even cripples to imitate a fly that just can’t quite get itself airborne.

That selection of flies might be considered for degrees 2.5, 2.75 and 3 I guess, if we stick with my mathematical model. You might also think of them as good swings for Nature’s curve balls.

A few years ago I decided that there was another median stage in the Hendrickson hatch, and I designed a simple fly to imitate the drowned duns I sometimes found good trout keying on. Hundreds of perfect mayflies drifting down current, and Mr. Picky wants nothing save the dead ones plastered in the film with their soggy wings akimbo.

Yes, I will be carrying half a dozen very different patterns for the Hendrickson hatch with this system, and that won’t include the Art Flick inspired pinkish Catskill ties or his Red Quill, nor Sparkle Duns, emergers and cripples to match those smaller ruddy males of the species. In the past couple of years I have encountered two more Hendricksons, whether separate species or variations I cannot say. Obviously, there is no room in my Hendrickson box for a DNA kit, but there is for a couple of patterns to match those new duns.

It would be interesting to learn whether these mayflies are variations upon the same species or different related ephemerella mayflies, but I don’t need to answer those questions to fish them effectively. Maybe I should tie some more of those Grouse Hackles in a size 16 too…

Well into my winter reading, I found another bit of inspiration that lured me to my tying desk this morning. Yesterday I began working through Mike Valla’s wonderful “Tying Catskill-Style Dry Flies” (HeadWater Books, 2009) and enjoying the result of his passion and research. His treatment of an iconic old English pattern, the Tup’s Indispensable, included his own blend of dubbing materials to recreate the alchemy of the old fly’s secret ingredients. Considering Valla’s rendition got me thinking about one of my blends and how that might be the perfect platform to craft my own Tup’s.

Fresh off my read of Theodore Gordon’s writings, I recalled his fashioning the fly when provided with a sample of the originator’s mixture, which had got me to remembering the pattern’s inclusion in various writings from the Cumberland Valley sages: Fox, Shenk and Marinaro. All recommended the Tup’s as an excellent fly for the sulfur hatch, the predominate mayfly in the Valley’s limestone springs.

I once puzzled as to where I might find the revealed secret material, the highly translucent wool from the testicles of the male sheep (a tup in the British countryman’s vernacular), long ago abandoning any search for the stuff. Valla’s research led him to a creamy pink color with a touch of dark orange, and armed with that color I determined just what to do.

My Flick inspired pink Hendrickson dubbing is a blend of cream and light reddish fur from the skin of a Red Fox, enhanced with a special pink Antron dubbing. The Pink Enhanced Hendricksons I tied for the past two seasons have proven to be very attractive to our Catskill trout, and I was sure a bit of that blend could be easily modified to craft my own Tup’s with the addition of a touch of dark orange Antron and some more of the cream-colored fox fur.

My tie of the Tup’s Indispensable has borrowed from Mike Valla’s research. He credited the originator, Mr. R.S. Austin, with sometimes tying the fly with a tag of yellow silk. I also followed the teaching of my Cumberland Valley mentor, the late Ed Shenk, by wrapping the hackle over a dubbed thorax. Ed tied his Shenk Sulfur Dun wingless in this manor, and it is the first sulfur pattern I learned to tie more than thirty years ago.

I can picture the soft colors of May and feel the tingle of anticipation as I knot my little size 16 Tup’s to a 5X tippet. The lovely yellow mays are drifting quietly on the surface and, at intervals, a soft broad ring forms on the glassy surface where a trout has gently taken one of them. My old cane rod flexes smoothly, and my Tup’s is the next in that same line of drift…

There are times when it makes sense to fish a general-purpose dry fly, something that looks enough like several different mayflies that could be on the water but aren’t. A long time ago that guy in Michigan developed a “caddis” that was renamed The Adams and became a legendary general-purpose fly. There is no denying that the Adams is a great fly, and some fish the pattern almost to the exclusion of others, but it has never been a favorite of mine.

I have never been a fan of hackle tip wings. They look nice sitting there in the vise, but they are not particularly durable once you start squeezing on some floatant and fishing them. Opinions vary as to what type of hackle tips to use. I have an old non-genetic hen neck that has pretty good color and the nice, rounded feather tips most Adams tyers prefer. The downside of hen is that the stems are soft and thin, so the wings tend to get pushed and bent out of position when fished. Dry fly hackle tends to have sharper contrast in the barring and may have stiffer stems, but the current genetic dry fly hackles have sharp pointed tips.

My other complaint with the Adams is the plain gray body. I like some mottling and roughness in the body of a general-purpose fly, that quality fly tyers refer to as “bugginess”, and the gray muskrat fur doesn’t deliver. I am a fan of barred hackle, though grizzly isn’t my first choice when I reach into my hackle box for a cape. So, as I said, the Adams isn’t a favorite.

I was thinking about all of this and my own general-purpose fly, the pattern I call the Fox Squirrel. It’s buggy, close enough to most of our early season mayflies, and has the classic Catskill look to it. I tie it with natural Fox Squirrel fur dubbing and Cree hackle, winged with wood duck. As with a lot of wood duck winged flies, there are times when visibility isn’t perfect. On dark, cloudy days when fishing at a distance against a dark background, the fly can be a little hard to see. The black and white barred wings of the Adams show up better in such difficult conditions, and that gave me the idea for my Catskill Adams.

Wanting to avoid those hackle tip wings and preserve a Catskill style, I decided to wing the new pattern with teal flank to get the contrast of the black and white barred wing of the Adams. The body remains natural Fox Squirrel, a beautifully buggy tannish, grayish fur that helps the fly look alive in the water. Squirrel fur has short, barred guard hairs that produce a spiky, rough dubbed body that traps air bubbles. I wanted nice, stiff traditional tailing with speckling, so I chose the Grizzly Variant Coq-De-Leon hackle barbs that have become a favorite of mine.

I wanted the hackle to pop, to reinforce the impression of life and movement and, at the same time, I wanted my fly to be a little lighter in tone. My solution was to choose two barred hackles: a barred ginger and a dark, rusty toned dun barred with pale gray. I like the way the fly turned out. The only drawback I can see with my Catskill Adams is the three and a half months of winter remaining before I can expect to be able to fish it!

I greeted the new year in the company of friends. JA and Donna had already taken a two mile walk with Finley, but the Lab was still quivering with excitement as we loaded the guns and began our morning in the Catskill uplands. JA said she had flushed two grouse on their morning walk.

Our quarry were pheasants and chukar partridge, though always with an eye toward King Ruff should we find a few on this warm, damp winters’ day. Mostly we came to celebrate another year in these mountains and the friendship we enjoyed.

JA is a fine wingshooter, having enjoyed a lifetime of bird dogs and the waterfowl and upland birds that allow those dogs to shine. A bird hunter’s dogs are the most important figures in the painting of their lives in the wild. I have always appreciated this alchemy from afar, the special bond between hunters and their dogs, myself seemingly destined to remain a dogless hunter. This New Year’s Day I would be particularly fortunate, not simply to be invited into this world, but to enjoy the role of featured guest. You see, JA and Finley were committed to finding birds for me. I prayed my shooting would prove equal to the honor of their toil.

Though I have read the great books and walked miles through these mountains with a fine over and under across my arm these three seasons, I still cannot call myself a wingshooter. As a boy in Southern Maryland, I thrilled to the occasional September outing in search of the fleet winged mourning doves. There were quail there too all those seasons ago and walking up to the heart racing detonation of a covey flush is a memory that has stayed with me for more than half a century. These moments were uncommon, and as such few birds ever fell to my gun. It takes time, perseverance and practice to master the fluid swing right through a speeding blur of feathers, to become a skilled wing shot, and even as an elder gunner I am still learning.

We worked the cover with my heart rate climbing, both from the Lab’s enthusiasm and the terrain, but when that cock pheasant exploded from the brush just feet from Finn’s nose I shouldered the 101 smoothly, swung short and true, and felled the bird. She and her master were as jubilant as I!

The early snow having melted, and with rain still frequent in the Catskills, we found a lot of springy ground, covering three miles uphill and down behind Finn’s marvelous nose. On one wooded flat, she rousted a chukar from the edge of a deadfall, but the bird stayed low, too close to her to risk a shot. JA marked the bird, but despite two thorough passes through the area it eluded us, perhaps flying onward low and out of sight, rather than landing where we thought he did. There would be another partridge to test my swing.

Drawing quick, deep breaths of the cold, damp mountain air, my heart rate jumped again when Finn put that bird up, angling away. I shouldered and swung but his timely turn let my charge pass harmlessly by. I stayed on that bird though, swinging through a wide arc as the distance between increased with each wingbeat. When my barrels covered him and began to pass his flight line, I let loose the second barrel’s charge. The bird hitched suddenly and set his wings for a final glide.

God bless the Labrador Retriever, particularly the lovely blond girl that followed that broken winged bird as he ran and brought him back to my feet.

Walking back to the cabin, Finn had her bath in the brook, emerging rinsed and content, oblivious to the chill of the air. Resting our tired legs, we reminisced and dressed the birds, before retiring to the warmth beside the wood stove for steaming cups of coffee.

Roasted pheasant proved to be as fine a New Year’s dinner as I can recall; and now there are feathers drying here to be crafted into flies to tempt the trout lying deep in the rivers fed by these mountains. There is a magic in that too, as there is in friendship and the bond between a bird hunter and his dog. May that magic continue to bless us all in the coming year!

I have finally begun working on dry flies for next season, something I tend to shy away from during late autumn and early winter, once the current dry fly season has ended. I tie throughout the season, working up new patterns or even modifications to my usuals as observations on the rivers dictate. Since my Catskill residency began, I have added new hatches to my notes each season, and sizes and coloration of the well-known mayflies and caddis sometimes change from season to season and river to river.

Being anything but a trained entomologist, I cannot say whether some of these perceived changes are indicative of encountering different species, or changes due to Nature’s will, her variations in water temperatures and chemistry. I think that not knowing may be better for the serious fly fishermen, as expounding upon our own theories and observations gives life to many interesting conversations and much enjoyment both on and off the water.

That 100-Year Dun is a design I have been fooling with for something like fifteen years, its single wing tied from a wood duck flank feather inspired by my first studies of Theodore Gordon’s original flies in books and as displayed in the Catskill Fly Fishing Center & Museum. I have been reading Father Gordon again recently and have taken note of comments included in some of his notes and little talks on fly fishing. He wrote of the single wing that he seemed to prefer, though he admitted that he tied flies with split wings as well. In the British publication The Fishing Gazette, from October 13,1906 he writes: “The wings of a dun are really more natural when not split, and if the hackles are put on right the fly will be found to cock well.”

Examining a few of Gordon’s flies has revealed some variations in his hackling. The sparsest example I have seen exhibited no more than two turns of a relatively long fibered hackle wrapped in front of the canted wing. I surmise that fly was intended for very clear, flat water, where he wished for the most natural presentation. Other Gordon ties have had a few turns of hackle to the rear and an equal number of turns to the front of the wing, obviously a better pattern for fishing broken water. We must assume from his comments that both styles “cocked well” when presented with suitable sizes of gut.

I have grown partial to the canted parachute style hackle, wrapped about the very bottom, posted portion of the wing. I tend to wrap from five to seven turns of barred hackle depending upon the size of the fly. The fly sits serenely on the water with the tips of the first couple of turns of hackle fibers in touch with the surface in flat water, and the additional turns provide more support in faster, broken currents. The additional turns have not proven to be a deterrent to the natural appearance of the fly on clear, flat water, a fact I attribute to the properties of barred hackle. I believe they add to the impression of life and movement, and indeed help sell the imitation to selective trout.

My preference for adding Antron to my fur dubbing blends should not be taken as any sort of detraction from my respect and admiration for the classic Catskill patterns. My dubbing dispenser boxes contain traditional blends as well. My classic Hendrickson dubbing blends various shades from a Red Fox skin, including a touch of the gray underfur, as I have handled many freshly hatched Hendrickson duns with hints of gray on their tannish abdomens. The traditional flies have been proven over more than a century of angling.

I fondly recall the first afternoon of a past season, wading the Beaverkill. It was a rather raw day, and just a handful of Hendrickson duns appeared. I carried my 6 weight Thomas & Thomas Paradigm bamboo rod with an ancient Hardy Perfect. Knotted to my tippet to complete this classic, vintage outfit was a traditional Catskill Hendrickson in size 14. I found only two trout willing to rise, each for a short time. The ancient fly brought sucess, as I landed a remarkable pair of wild, twenty-inch browns with the tackle I had chosen to pay homage to a new Catskill season on the region’s most storied river.

Gordon wrote often of his belief in the importance of color, a facet of imitation still debated enthusiastically today. My own experiences convinced me of the trout’s abilities to discern color very early in my fly fishing, and subsequent decades on the water have reinforced the beliefs lying at the heart of my penchant for blending dubbing. Debate if you will, for certainly there are times when fish will pay little attention to the color of our flies. Be certain however that there are many times when they will respond well only to a fly matching the color of the natural.

I feel that color, size and form are all important factors in the imitation of aquatic insects with the priority of those attributes varying under different conditions. Most vital of all the characteristics that make a good trout fly is the essence of life! Real mayflies, caddisflies and what-have-you move, and dry flies that move and reflect light give the appearance of something alive.

My top producer is a messy fly, and it is intended to be that way. A vulnerable mayfly struggling to fully emerge and fly from the surface of the river is not a perfect little model of insect mimicry. The fly’s Antron shuck will be clustered with air bubbles, as will the rough blended fur dubbing with its trailing guard hairs and Antron filaments. Tying the CDC wing comparadun style places CDC feathers in touch with the surface of the water, where it moves with subtle undulations of current and also traps air bubbles. Does that combination remind you of a wiggling bug you might have seen? Think about it.

Theodore Gordon appreciated the importance of color and the image of life, as he wrote in his “Jottings of A Fly Fisher III” on April 4,1903: “I have, when not able to make a good imitation of the fly upon which the trout were feeding, contented myself with a body of the right color and a few turns of almost any feathers of the right shade.” “This will kill better than a well-formed fly of the wrong color, though greater accuracy is desirable.” He thus advocates matching the color of the natural and, in my understanding, adding a little feather for form and movement as the most important criteria.

As the photo of some of my favorite barred hackle capes suggests, I believe heartily in dry fly hackle’s ability to offer an impression of movement; and yes, I am a major fan of Charlie Collins’ hackle. Now if I could only find a goose with a barred bottom and naturally barred dun CDC! Years ago, I bought some CDC feathers that had been barred by dying or printing, but I found the feather quality to be rather poor. To provide both a visual and physical impression, I once tied CDC comparadun wings with a center strip of wood duck flank feather. The method makes an attractive fly, though at the cost of an extra step in tying.

I experiment throughout the season, though new patterns and designs generally require several years for proofing to determine if the new fly produces better than my current patterns. The last two seasons of working with silk dubbing are an example of the process. Flies like my blended silk sulfurs and Halo Isonychia have become staples, while others have had too few trials by fire for their fates to be decided.

It will be a long winter, and I have promised myself to better organize some of my experimental patterns to help with their trials next season. Of course, there are those ideas that seem instantly to be destined for regular use, and go straight into my hatch boxes.

A wish for all of the tyers out there: may your New Year bring inspiration that energizes your trout fishing next spring!

Two thousand twenty-one, I can hardly comprehend that, me being the guy who once considered the concept of turning forty unimaginable. More than halfway through my sixty-fifth year, I find that still quite difficult to grasp. It’s not that I don’t feel the age in my body, more that the pain has been there so long that it seems more a constant of my existence, rather than a changing state of growing older.

Our second significant winter storm is fast approaching, and I bade greeting to the first snowflakes on my river walk a short while ago. The snowfall is less the threat than the freezing rain they expect to follow it, but then again, I have nowhere I need to drive to. I managed two miles this morning, between errands and my river walk, some additional exercise I welcomed after the Holiday chill. This afternoon looks like the right time to think back over the events of the season as I put away the balance of the hunting clothing and get my tackle room settled for the winter’s fly tying. I don’t mind the snow if it falls then melts away in a day or so, for it adds a little something to my river walks.

I look forward to a grouse hunt, a little mountain exploring I touched on with my flintlock, and there is still the chance of a pheasant hunt with JA and Finn. Such days are better when any snow and ice melts away from the mountain trails, leaving good footing for our old boots.

At some point, I expect the thermometer may swing enough to get me out on the rivers, though it does not appear that day will come this last week of the year. My thirtieth season of fishing in these Catskills awaits.

Twenty-one began with a harsh winter, low river flows and the fear of anchor ice, to say nothing of the destruction of the Christmas flood that pushed out all the ice from Gale. There was no winter fishing for me, the rivers remaining for so long locked in ice. Spring however seemed destined to be early, with sudden warm days in March that drew me to the river early and often. But even when the early stoneflies and midges appeared on those balmy afternoons there was no sign of a trout. Nature’s teasing continued into April with gorgeous weather, and still the life of the rivers remained stilled.

The spring hatches arrived finally, though I had to suffer watching the mayflies flutter from a surface barren of the rings of promise I sought. Though trying, the wait was worth it when the trout finally came up to celebrate the Hendricksons: a glorious hatch, better than I had seen for more than a decade. The flies so carefully crafted over the winter brought thrashing behemoths to hand, when stealth and presentation combined!

Though the fishing was magical, perhaps the best of spring was the chance to enjoy the company of my best friends upon the rivers of my heart. With vaccines at last offering protection from the pandemic, we were freed to enjoy one another’s company astream. JA and I had many wonderful days, and Andy finally came to the Catskills after so many years of coaxing. Of course, Mike and I enjoyed a couple of pleasant visits, though fewer than I hoped. I don’t think he has quite accepted advantages of the freedom of retirement yet.

One beautiful afternoon stands out amid the magic of the Hendricksons. I had waded slowly along the riverbank, waiting and watching for that first flight of hatching duns. One moment there was only the glare of quiet water, and then there were dozens of mayflies pushing through the film and taking flight, until the pool teemed with fluttering wings! Soft rises began and multiplied, but here and there I searched and saw the special rises, the soft bulges of displaced water culminating in a smallish ring. Ignoring the multitudinous rings and splashes of smaller trout, I positioned myself to offer my CDC dun to one certain, bulging rise.

My Menscer Hollowbuilt reached out through the wind and laid the fly in place, then arched deeply at my reaction to the bulge and vanishing of the fly. There is no finer crystalized memory of springtime than that moment: warm wind in my face, a golden arc of cane, and a screaming reel! Twenty-three inches of wild, outrageous brown trout suddenly aloft, then running again, battling fiercely until our union at the net – the perfection of angling the Catskill rivers.

As always, the rivers and their trout presented unique challenges. The later hatches failed to equal the intensity of the Hendricksons, and I took to hunting my trout earlier than normal. Ah, what a season it became though!

The Catskill summers are my favorites, for there is so much glorious weather, and solitude on bright water becomes a reachable goal. Trophy trout require every bit of knowledge, stealth and skill, but that challenge is what makes the game sublime!

A personal record was reached then passed in the wonder that was summertime. In August I acquired a special rod from an old friend, the first bamboo rod that made my eyes light up twenty-five years ago. Casting it upon the bright waters of my favorite rivers I tested its grace against time and memory, finding that same light in my eyes once again; and a five-pound trophy brown in hand!

The magic of summer continued, one amazing and blissful day after another. Then at last it was September, and Tom Whittle and I would draw the Shenk Tribute Rod from his handmade curly maple rod case and wade the Willowemoc together; he casting the prototype made to test the new taper, and I paying homage to my departed friend with the Tribute rod and his classic reel.

I will remember this as a year of rainfall and records, a year when I was blessed to fish once more with cherished friends and some very special tackle. Like every season on every wild river there was wonder and change, new riddles to solve. There was fishing I expected that did not appear, as well as some quite unexpected that made me appreciate once more how grand the game can be. There is a song that once meant a great deal to me called Roll With The Changes. That quite simply is the path to angling our wonderful trout rivers.

No river, no matter how familiar, is ever the same from one moment to the next. Each challenge is new, uniquely miraculous, and deserving of its own solution. Many times, I have seen something that seemed familiar upon the water and smiled to myself as if I knew the solution. As often as not I found I had been deceived. Our best observation cannot disclose all there is to know about the trout and the fly – exactly why we adore the game for our lifetimes!