The white coverlet on the grass this morning tells the truth; that winter has come to the Catskills once again. No hope remains for a late autumn rush of southern air and sunshine, for rings upon the surface and trout on the rise! Autumn is often brief here, rarely reaching its end in accordance with the calendar. November tends to turn the tide in these mountains.

The wind had a deep bite as I walked to the Post Office this morning, making me nod in agreement with my earlier decision to forego a predawn trip to the deer woods. I am finding my tying desk more comfortable this day with a hot cup of coffee and my thoughts for companions. The thick leather cushions of my chair are more soothing to old bones than the cold metal seat of a tree stand.

Here I can dream the soft dreams of springtime, of Hendricksons and Blue Quills teasing fine trout to the top, all lit with the burnished tones of afternoon sunlight upon flamed bamboo and the soft, pewter patina of century old English reels. There’s a murmur along the bank there where a tiny dun flutters amid the chilled currents. It vanishes with a wink, subtly, though it brings a smile to my face much more than some splashy greeting would. My cast offers a replacement, a tiny dun made of feathers and fur, its hackles hiding the steel within. Will he take?

Those feathery duns are born of this place, more than 125 dozen of them this year alone. They proliferate in winter, though each must wait for spring or summer in its turn. Throughout the season more spin from the vise and find themselves stored in boxes to await their chance to meet the wary browns, the quicksilver flashing of the rainbows.

The hours pass slowly once winter calls, unlike the vanishing golden days upon bright water. Those are far too fleeting, the minutes washed away by the ceaseless current, never to be once more. Memory retains them as best it can; though memory is prone only to glimpses of these days, stills and shorts from the movie of life. For the angler, winter is the arena for memory.

They are in the forecast this morning, those snowflakes, a sixty percent chance they say. Here in Crooked Eddy the temperature hovers near freezing before the dawn. New York’s deer season opens tomorrow morning, and Thanksgiving comes around in another week. November is my prime non-fishing season.

Our rivers remained high this week and got another boost from last evening’s rain, and the forecast I just checked predicts Tuesday’s high to reach all of thirty-four degrees. November in these mountains, trying once again to tease us with winter.

Winter is a long proposition here in the Catskills, certainly from the dry fly man’s perspective.

I actually fished quite a lot last November. I had a fever it seemed, a need to fish on through such a crazy year as 2020. I found the solitude I crave, though little in the way of fish. I am no longer comfortable with pounding the bottom out of the rivers, that old weight chucking, high sticking, leader watching drill. The beauty and grace of the dry fly simply captivates my soul, and I no longer have the temperament to make such ugly work out of my fishing. I swing lightly weighted flies a bit in winter, searching for that one active trout, trading productivity for the peace of remaining along bright waters for these five long months.

Until snow and ice rule the mountains, I will wander there and hunt the whitetails and the grouse. The trout can rest until the seasons wane.

I whiled away many a cold and snowy winter’s day upon the limestone springs of the Cumberland Valley. The chance for a tiny hatch and a rise of trout seemed always close, and there was the Master’s art of “sculpinating” to fill the long hours with intrigue. There is an intense excitement in teasing leviathan from beneath an undercut bank at one’s feet, or watching same dart from invisibility beneath the waving water weeds as that black fly settles in a sandy pocket in between. Streamer fishing as practiced on the wide Catskill Rivers leaves me cold after so many heart stopping moments with monsters at arm’s length.

There’s a pale golden tinge above the mountains to the southeast as the day begins. None of those crystalline flakes are wandering with the wind. There are days here when icy squalls come from nowhere amid a clear blue sky, winter bluffing, promising it’s power for another day. I have seen them even in May!

I have spent little time at the vise these past few weeks. The urgency is quelled. I did tie six Hendricksons for April, my 100-Year Duns; a small act of hope. I took my river walk yesterday, just before midday. The sun shone and warmed the air to sixty degrees, and I walked in shirtsleeves. On my way back upstream I saw a single gentle ring out there upon the surface. I stood and watched then, waiting for a glimpse of the beauty I enjoyed for seven months. The moment fleeting, and not repeated, though it did not fail to touch my heart. Evidence of the river’s farewell until springtime?

A cold November morning, and I am sitting and thinking about the season just concluded. I slipped the little Thomas from it’s tube and caught the scent of varnish from the ancient bag. I turned it in my hand, admiring the delicate grip, the lovely amber of the vintage cane accented with bright red silks. There’s a touch of sorrow as I return the rod to it’s case; I didn’t fish it this season. I started to a dozen times, but then chose another foil for the day’s looked for skirmishes. That’s the way it goes sometimes with cherished things.

The rod is dear to me, foremost because I own it thanks to the kindness of a friend. Its history makes it important as well, for there is more than one hundred years of experience in that rod, just a handful of them mine. Daydreaming sometimes I can picture old Fred Thomas turning the finished rod in his hands, inspecting it to ensure it’s worth to bear his name, before sending it off to an impatient angler anxious to cast a Thomas rod. I wonder about that angler, and his days with the rod.

Was he local, fishing the wilds of Maine back in 1918 when the rod was new and the brook trout epically large? Was he perhaps a New York angler, headed off for spring here in the Catskills, eager to cast the new Hendrickson dry fly with this lithe yet powerful lance? I’ll never know the details of that history, and thus I dream…

My brief history with the rod began in it’s ninety-ninth year, wading the West Branch Delaware at a favorite haunt. The morning was glowing as I gazed from bright water to the sparkling red silks on amber cane. The old rod was beautiful, restored by my friend at his rod shop beside that same river: immaculate work! I cast to the rise I found and felt the energy of a large brown through each fiber of that century old bamboo; thus my time with the Thomas was charmed from those first moments.

It seemed the Thomas brought good fortune whenever I carried it astream, and each outing led me to cherish it more. Summer on the West Branch can be a heady time, and it was on such a summer afternoon that the good fortune of the old Dirigo reached a climax. In the motto of the great State of Maine, Dirigo, ” I direct”, refers to the North Star emblazoned upon the State Seal. Indeed the ancient Thomas directed me to that afternoon that lives brightly in this angler’s memory.

The sulfur hatch was slow to begin that day, as anglers gathered close to Noon. We waited, then eased along a favorite bank as the first dimpling rises showed. The wild browns have become their wariest by high summer, schooled by hordes of springtime anglers, many not so delicate with their delivery of fly. This day they proved particularly difficult, sipping irregularly during the early hours of a sparse hatch. I managed a pair as I recall, though the details are lost, my memories rewritten by the events of late afternoon.

The hatch had all but concluded, and most anglers had left the river, including a stalwart that I knew who was fishing nearby. I waited, still searching for some disturbance to the rhythm of the current in the dark places along the bank. As time and hope faltered, I eased ever downstream, hoping perseverance might bring a late flurry of the tiny yellow mayflies, and once again, a rise.

At last I saw the glassy surface sprinkled with a few tiny wings and hope returned. A movement caught my eye, a quick sweep in the current beside the submerged bulk of a fallen tree. Watching intently as that sweep ended out in a clear lane of current, I smiled broadly to see it punctuated by a bulging rise. I sensed my opportunity was brief and quickly stripped more line from my reel. I dared not invest precious time to stalk closer, trusting the charmed rod to deliver the fly seventy-five feet away. The cast unrolled with a timeless smoothness until my wrist kicked gently to shock slack into the leader. The glint of the tiny fly winked at me as it drifted down, until that bulge and dimple intercepted its progress.

I often wonder about the culm of Tonkin bamboo old Fred Thomas chose for that rod, for it celebrated the latter hours of its ninety-ninth season in grand style, bent nearly double while the reel screamed and the perspiration dripped from my furrowed brow. I cannot say how many times that trout bored toward the certain freedom of the downed tree, only that the little Dirigo turned him every time. It seemed hours passed as I struggled to lead him to the net, fearing for the delicate tip of the cherished rod, the gossamer tippet, and the tiny size twenty hook that joined us in battle. Each time I thought him ready he charged off into another run. When I finally managed to lift the meshes with that writhing slab of bronze and gold I was breathless!

I thought of the old stories I had read, joyful accounts of a two pound trout, subdued at last. I expect the Thomas had brought more than a few of those to hand in its century. Perhaps that is why it proved so capable and determined to best the twenty-five inch brownie I lifted in my own sagging net that day.

Indeed the old rod is cherished, though I do feel a sadness not to have taken it along this season. Old Fred Thomas’s ghost might disapprove, and my friend would tell me to enjoy the rod and fish it. I will. Such talismans as this are meant to be counted on for the magic within.

Enjoying my first cup of coffee this morning I found a rare fly fishing show on the television, watching a few minutes while I sipped myself fully awake. ‘Tis November and the off season for the dry fly angler, and a time that many are talking of and wishing for some dream fishing adventure.

The show I watched idly of course offered it’s own suggestion: Alaska on a budget! A measly $3,000 gets you a week with a bed to sleep in, a kitchen to cook in, and a small boat to fish out of. It doesn’t get you to Alaska, nor feed you, nor provide a guide; strictly a do it yourself adventure. There is an appeal to that idea I admit, though I expect that by the time you figure airfare, food, taxes, etc. you will double that figure. Though I am generally not an angler who fishes with guides, Alaska is the kind of place where a guide would make a great deal of sense, both for improved odds of success and personal safety. Though this particular destination mentioned that guides were available, the cost of the service wasn’t mentioned. My guess would be to triple that starting figure, then add another grand for gratuities and contingencies. Welcome to the ten thousand dollar dream trip category.

I have a few friends who take fishing trips like that, and once or twice one of them has truly had his angling dreams come true; at least for a week. I am not one of those guys who is inclined to gamble a small fortune upon the vagaries of an unknown climate, whimsically variable river conditions, and the devious delights the Red Gods seem to plan for fishermen. Yes, I would love to fish Montana, or Patagonia, and certainly Alaska, but such excursions are not within the realm of possibility for me and, even if they were, I am not inclined to take the big gamble. I plotted a surer course for living my dream.

When I was toiling in the trenches for more than forty years, I had one angling dream that stayed foremost in my mind. It was my hope to spend one full season angling the Catskill rivers I grew to love through twenty-five years of all too brief visits and gorgeous memories. I really didn’t dare to hope that I might retire in the shadows of these mountains. That too seemed out of reach.

When my health began a downward spiral a decade ago, I fought with everything I had to recover from each blow, just in time it often seemed to stand and take the next one. When life offered a chance to catch my breath, I often thought of my angling dream: a season in the Catskills.

I was lucky enough to weather the storms, and to find a way to survive and actually contemplate retirement near to the rivers of my heart. When it seemed to be nearly in my grasp, I found another battle and scratched out a small victory, emerging here, with a small house close to the rivers that feed my soul. We live simply in these quiet surroundings, and I am blessed to spend my days upon the rivers of my heart. I had dreamed of one season; I have enjoyed three, and hope there are many more upon the horizon.

At times I still feel that I live on borrowed time. I do my best to keep the enemies of my health and longevity at bay, but life is a gift that may be taken away at any moment. The past three seasons have been the best of my life. I have been blessed to share time on my rivers with my three best friends, to while away the quiet hours tying hundreds of dozens of dry flies and, best of all, to cast them upon the bright waters with the lithe bamboo rods and vintage reels that I love.

Moments in time define the seasons of the rivers of my heart. Each day offers promise: some, simple moments of quiet contemplation; others the thrill of arching rods and singing reels, or the heart stopping explosion of a grouse suddenly aloft, weaving effortlessly through the branches!

If I could crystallize one moment and suspend it in time, it might well be the five sequential leaps and startling run of a wild Delaware rainbow on a bright June morning last spring. My seventy year old Granger bamboo rod arched deeply, and the reel literally screamed with the energy of that great fish as it rocketed skyward over and over, and then away. Could that moment be etched more indelibly in my mind had it occurred in Patagonia or Alaska? No. It lives for me as I return to that place often each season. I stand and relive that incomparable thrill, just before I make the cast that might well provide the next one; right here at home!

Those words do not represent the odds of any particular success. In fact they refer to Nature’s prescription for this coming November day. Sixty degree temperatures, combined with a moderate breeze, invite the angler to an enjoyable day on the water, whatever the season. Forty degree water temperatures however, do not make me giddy with prospects for success.

But what is success in the outdoors? Is it only measured by fish caught or game bagged? I am not so callous, so jaded as to believe that is true. Life in the outdoors means much more, and after waking to a run of days with early sub-freezing temperatures, sixty degree sunshine sounds like a wonderful gift to me.

I would love to find a bit of magic this afternoon, to witness the glint of tiny wings above the surface of a bright pool and then to scan for the dimple of a trout’s rise… and smile. Experience convinces me that will not be the kind of magic I encounter, though magic lies beneath that sparkling surface to be revealed in Nature’s own time.

In practical terms, I am debating whether to carry my mini tip fly line, a little used tool to swing a bucktail or a hairwing streamer down among the boulders and crevices of the river – the places trout lie in forty degree water. I have owned that line for something like thirty years, and it is virtually brand new. You see I am a dry fly fisherman, and though long ago I fished all types of flies as conditions dictated, I choose over the course of these many years to fish the way I most enjoy.

There is a difference in my life now. Retirement has freed me from the encumbrances of daily life and offered the great gift of time to spend as I choose. No more do I click to another’s schedule, toiling indoors while the sun shines mockingly through a window. My time, however much of it remains to me, is now my own. For countless years I have chosen to spend my time along rivers.

I have walked many miles along these rivers of my heart in autumn and in winter, and I have yet to find the magic of the dry fly once fair October has passed into memory. My heart still urges me to carry a bamboo fly rod during these journeys, for there is always a chance, and so I find it easy to ignore the practical side of fishing deep by lobbing all manner of weight about those bright rivers. In low water a classic bucktail or streamer may be sunk enough to pass close to a trout hunkered among the boulders, but this is not a year for low water. Thus the mini tip continues to knock at the door of my consciousness.

As a fly designer, I am always experimenting and testing ideas and patterns and I do like to give them a fair opportunity to interest a trout. Swinging rapidly past several feet above a fish’s lie is not a fair test of a trout fly, not in forty degree water. Certainly I know that anything can happen on a trout river, but it would require much more disparate numbers than those titled above to express that likelihood.

Should I chose to carry that mini tip line, there will be an extra reel spool in my vest, one adorned with the floating line required to take advantage of those incomprehensibly rare moments when Nature’s special magic defies all logic and experience. Though my mind leads me to a state of confidence that I will not need that floating line, nor the box of dry flies tucked away in my vest, my heart still believes. May it always be so!

I enjoyed a surprise visit yesterday. My cousin Jeff was passing through the Catskills and had called the night before to ask if we might be around and interested in catching up. I was gladdened by his voice and anxious for his arrival on Saturday afternoon.

Back in my more formative years, my family would travel back to the New England my father grew up in. A highlight of those trips were the numerous visits with Jeff and his family. When I attended school in Massachusetts for a year, I spent most weekends at their household and we became closer. Jeff always had an adventurous side that I admired, and we enjoyed a few together. Whenever I would visit, there seemed to be something new in the planning or execution stages.

Perhaps the biggest event we shared was the time I arrived to hear about Jeff’s and his friend Tom’s new interest in sky diving. Their tales got me excited and soon we were driving to the jump center where I would undergo a day of training and make my first jump. It was a singular experience, and one I will never forget. Another time I found them into rock climbing, an adventure I did not partake in. We must all know our limitations, and climbing is high on my own list. Jeff however found it particularly exhilarating, so much so that he and Tommy took it to the stratosphere with an assault upon the fabled Matterhorn!

I remember the time I received a call telling me that Jeff was crewing a sailboat up from the south, and would be docking in Baltimore’s Inner Harbor for the night. I jumped into my Trans Am and headed to Charm City to meet him. We had a great night hanging around the Inner Harbor area and relaxing on the boat! My cousin seemed to always be enjoying a new adventure.

I missed that close relationship as time passed and we both became enmeshed in the twist and turns of life. Work, family, and distance made our meeting all too infrequent as life matured. When I moved to the Catskills, I got to thinking that I was closer to my old haunts in New England, close enough to get together. Sadly, by the time I got around to doing something about it, I learned that Jeff had moved south, and distance once again came into play.

Having the chance to sit down and catch up on some of what we had missed in each others’ lives was a treat, turning a quiet weekend into something special. We are young no longer, though we were both pleased to hear that our individual adventures continue. I shared the excitement when Jeff spoke of backpacking in the Sierra Nevada’s, and even doing a little fishing for wild mountain trout. He was truly pleased to find me right here where I wanted to be, retired in the Catskills and pursuing my own passion for bright water and the dry fly. He told me that he always appreciated that I had found my passion in the outdoors and had stayed true to it. That sentiment means a lot to me, for I have always admired and respected Jeff’s spirit of adventure and the commitments he made to enjoy life to the fullest.

Walking the mountainside the day before I received that call, I had marveled at the simple beauty of the sunlight playing upon the autumn landscape, and the glimmer of bright water cascading down the tiny rills that merge to form the brook, one of the headwaters of the legendary Beaverkill. I always feel particularly fortunate at such moments, thankful to be there and alive, and to be a part of the wild landscape.

Time catches all of us, but we may persevere and run the race to our best by keeping a sense of adventure, whether climbing a new mountain; or casting a fly to a gentle ring upon the surface of a river.

Much has changed in that fortnight, I realized that all too clearly as I shivered in the high cold flow of that same river yesterday. The sun was shining when I left Crooked Eddy, but by the time I waded into the elevated flow a squadron of dark storm clouds had gathered above the river and blotted out the sun I had hoped might warm the water and entice a trout to feed. Dawn this morning was below freezing, the first of several such days currently forecast. I am not ready for winter.

My mind still wanders bright water in search of the next rise, as I hunt the dappled sunlight and shade along the river banks. My body longs for the warmth upon my shoulders as I stalk the sunny flats, casting dry flies to pockets of shade and cover. Summer, why have you forsaken me? I feel cheated, robbed of innumerable summer days by high water and un-wadable rivers, and I want those days back to help ease the transition to the coming months of ice, wind and snow! But my pleas will not be answered; my desires shall remain unsatisfied.

Ah but who would not wish to remain wrapped in the glory and wonder of a Catskill summer? No finer season, nor more ideal locale exists for the sporting gentlemen of the dry fly!

I am used to thirty-one glorious days of October, gently transitioning my soul from the drug of summer into the subdued chill of autumn, yet three weeks of that time was stolen away by the sirens of storms. I angled but a week’s worth of days, and those with the scarcest few sightings of rising trout. Throughout I waited, telling myself that the golden days would come; lower flows and sunlit afternoons with heavy browns sipping tiny mayflies, breezy afternoons when terrestrials were cast into the fray and the trout took advantage of Nature’s last gifts of the season with relish. It was not to be, not this year.

Oh but it was a glorious summer! Interrupted by the vagaries of weather, there were adjustments required of this angler, adjustments I made and then reaped the rewards. Perhaps those summer days were too good. They led me to covet the beauty and glory of a Catskill summer more than ever, and now I am lost until spring!

As I write, snow is falling here in Crooked Eddy…

Rain fell again overnight, just enough to delay the rivers’ falling back to wadable flows a bit. It has been a strong water year, enough so that there is hope that some measure of our groundwater reserve has been replenished. I took my shotgun for a walk the other day, up along the headwaters of the Beaverkill, and marveled at all of the sparkling rivulets of water coursing down the mountainsides.

I have seen two such years during my full time residence in the Catskills: 2018 and 2021. We had flood flows on Tuesday along many of the regions rivers, but they receded quickly from dangerous levels. Flows are still strong, and carry the color of sediment. It is my hope that the rains brought only good things to the spawning tributaries, clean flows and oxygen, and the result of this ample water year is a full and healthy crop of trout fry wriggling in the gravel come spring. I hope fervently that the streams retain good flows throughout the coming winter, a boon to all stream life!

The weather forecasters are speaking of a warmer, wet winter, and I pray all our rivers and streams will remain free of deadly anchor ice. Much of that is Nature’s will, though the great city to our southeast must play it’s part too. May they use the extra rainfall wisely to maintain strong winter flows in the tailwater rivers of the Delaware, unlike last year.

Driving through the mountains I was blessed to find much of autumn’s fire still aloft on the slopes. Though this last nor`easter brought the heavy rains, we did not get the damaging winds that would have stripped the trees of their beauty. So indeed we have a little more time to enjoy the season as November comes knocking.

November! It doesn’t seem possible, though indeed the angler’s season has vanished once again. The dry fly rods have been wiped down and put away until spring, or at least until the interminable ache of winter drives me to take them out, wiggle and polish them, and remember…

The rain is falling hard here in Crooked Eddy. They call it Invest 94L, this first nor`easter of the season. I know it as the end of our spare autumn dry fly season, my most solemn day of the year. The Catskills can expect two to three inches of rain today, and enough wind to strip the color from the mountainsides, leaving a soaked and sullen landscape. More rain will follow as the week progresses.

I have made the best of this bright October. The weather was pleasant, the panorama of the mountains as gorgeous as ever, but wadable days upon the rivers were fewer than hoped for. I longed for the low, cool flows of Octobers past, and fine brown trout sipping small ants and tiny mayflies and caddis, finding little of that. I never expect heavy hatches come autumn, but there was very little available this year.

I enjoyed a record year, despite long periods of high, roily water, and I am thankful; though the end inevitably comes and leaves me longing for one more golden afternoon!

Stormy days are often fly tying days, but there is no reason to tie the dry flies that inspire me today. There is a bag in the corner holding feathers from a chukar partridge, my first bird with the 101, my first bird ably flushed and retrieved by JA’s wonderful Lab Finley. I thank them both for their work, their friendship and companionship. JA and I enjoyed many good days upon the rivers this year, a shot in the arm freeing us from the fear of doom. I look back upon those days and smile; may there be many more!

There are some interesting soft hackle feathers in that little bag, and soft hackles figure prominently in my winter fishing. They say La Nina can be expected to bring us a wet, mild winter, and there will be more water open to fishing for the off season now, so perhaps I will open that bag and tie a few soft hackles as my acceptance of the change of seasons.

We sat around a campfire on a warm, bright morning just yesterday, sipping coffee and talking of trout and cane rods and flies; four of us enchanted by the rivers and the wild. Our host spoke of finding dry fly fishing in November and December, while I confessed to having no such luck over my three winters in the Catskills. Perhaps I simply want it too much, crave it too deeply in my soul! It can be that way sometimes. We crave something too fervently and it continues to elude us.

It is high time to spend more of my days in the mountains. The vanishing leaves will make the birds more visible, though they will adapt their tactics and perhaps be even more difficult for the hunter. As if those gray ghosts of the forest have anything to fear from a solo hunter! Not this one anyway. I am still looking for my first Catskill Ruffed grouse!

I did not grow up as a wingshooter. The men in our family were deer hunters, and the magic and mystery of archery captured my soul in my early teens. As a boy there were infrequent coveys of quail. We would look for them, once a covey startled us in a particular field corner, but they rarely showed up in those same places on future hunting days. My primary bird hunting involved the fast flying mourning doves, legally game birds in southern climes, and a supreme challenge for the shotgunner.

These days my archery tackle hangs on a rack beneath the window to my right. When I hunt deer now I walk with rifle in hand, as I walk the shotgun during bird season. I was not dealt a full serving of the hunter’s luck, a fact I long ago accepted, but I do enjoy my walks in the woods.

The same force drives me to walk the rivers in winter. I do swing some soft hackles, though I do not stand for hours in the chilled current making hundreds of casts. A few casual casts are enough to soothe my want. Should I at last encounter that holy grail, the rising trout in winter, I can guarantee my attitude will change abruptly. The leader will be instantly remade, and that little box of dry flies that always hides within my vest will magically appear. Just as it was decades ago on the limestone springs, where the grail was often a reality.

I fondly recall the great Ed Shenk telling me that he had encountered sulfur mayflies hatching on the LeTort in every month of the year, and I always carried a few, just in case I happened upon so magic an event.

The rain is pounding the metal roof now, and I can almost hear the flow down the gravel drive. The rivers rose yesterday from half an inch of overnight rain. Three inches at this rate will likely bring a few to flood stage. I am guessing it will be at least a week into November before I can walk a river bank. The drift boat sits idle, and it will remain so until spring, for there is no dry fly fishing to make it worth the pain of rowing. I won’t cover it just yet, for one never knows if Nature has a bit of magic left, one moment more before winter. Wishful thinking? Yes, very much so, but it helps in the realization of what lies before me. April is five months away.

I was perusing my Catskill recreation map in search of possible grouse covers that I might discover, when my eyes fell upon a small notation along the Beaverkill not far above the junction. There in tiny letters I read the name: “Pig Pen Pool”. Those few small words brought an instant connection to the past, the Golden Age, where my heart permanently resides along bright waters.

The late Dana Lamb is one of my favorite writers, and I instantly recalled his story of the Pig Pen Pool, knowing that I had to visit the place. Lamb lived the Golden Age as an angler and sportsman, and one of the finest most heartfelt writers who has graced us with his memories. Lamb authored nine little books, most in small, limited editions. In them he shared experiences from classic trout streams and the great Atlantic Salmon rivers, grouse coverts and salt marshes.

We are three weeks into October. The winds and rains have inevitably battered our formerly glorious autumn colors, and our Catskill brown trout are more involved with spawning than with the pursuit of the fly, yet I was drawn to Roscoe on Monday afternoon, cane rod in hand, to pay homage to the past, and the words of a fellow gentleman angler. Though the pig pen itself has been replaced by a large grassy field, I found the relentless currents still “bubbling down between the stones”, meandering between sunlight and shadow on down into the boulder shrouded heart of the Pig Pen Pool.

I had fished the riffles and runs through the upstream reach Lamb so vividly described, probing the deep, shaded pockets along the mountain’s bank in a relentless wind. It was a warm day, at least for the moments suspended between the autumn gusts, and I felt that any trout interested in a meal would take up station among those pockets, either in sunlight or shade. I made each cast with a special thrill, and enjoyed great success, though no trout betrayed their presence. My reward was a walk back in time.

Walking down to the pool itself, I watched Lamb’s words come alive, watching in reverence as the bright waters “joined in joyous union”, and picturing the nearly two-foot trout his companion battled in it’s depths. I wished to fish this special place, but somehow I could not bring myself to cast my line there, not at least on this first visit to the shrine. Instead I stood entranced for a while, then finally remembered the camera at my side and snapped a few photos for the memory.

Reading through his books, it is clear that Dana Lamb enjoyed a long association with the Beaverkill, and though this book, his seventh, was published late in life, I feel certain the images the story conveys share a lifetime’s worth of beauty and memory. He could easily have fished this pool a century ago, as a young man just coming of age, returning often as change raced through the Catskills. As he wished fervently, The Pig Pen Pool continues. May it always be so!