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!

In deference to the bustle of the Holidays, and the still lurking specter of Covid-19, the Catskill Fly Tyers Guild held an online Zoom meeting for our December gathering yesterday. Our discussions this month revolved around a nice presentation by member Fred Klein, a tyer and historian of classic wet flies from the 1800’s and early 1900’s. Fred exhibits a true passion not only for tying these traditional patterns, but for fishing them regularly as well.

Mr. Klein, who makes his home in Pennsylvania’s Appalachian Mountain region, admitted to his fondness for hunting large brown trout with big, classic wet flies – something I can easily understand. He talked of the clear mountain waters in winter, and how he finds success with big natural looking flies like the Cochy Bonduu that push water and thus attract predatory browns in their more passive moods. Though my recent forays have been rewarded with a couple of flashy streamers that beckoned to trout in a more aggressive mood, I decided to tie a few of these subtle classics and give them a swing.

As we discussed the Cochy Bonduu, I thought of another long-time favorite of mine tied with peacock herl and furnace hackle, a fly I dubbed the Peac-A-Bugger. I have habitually used the dubbing loop technique when tying peacock herl fly bodies, whether for tiny Griffith’s Gnats or steelhead size buggers. Spinning the peacock herl in a loop produces a full herl chenille that I find more beautiful and much more durable than wrapped herl. Over the past 25 years, the Peac-A-Bugger has accounted for numerous trout up to five pounds or so, and several steelhead between eight and ten pounds, whether swung, dead drifted or stripped.

Our wild trout have many moods, and it makes sense to try offering both flashy, high motion patterns to attract aggressive fish and smaller, subtler natural patterns to appeal to those in more passive moods.

I enjoy the serenity of the classic wet fly swing, but winter isn’t the time to fish these flies shallow. Swinging them down along the bottom with a sinktip line has its own little bit of excitement built in. You may fish out your afternoon without a strike, but if you do feel a tug, experience promises that a take is likely to be a larger trout.

Winter has returned a week before Christmas, and there aren’t any more record high 64-degree afternoons in the ten-day forecast. The upper thirties will have to do as it stands right now. I can deal with that, at least if the winds are fairly calm.

During my years in the Cumberland Valley, I would often venture out in search of a Christmas fish. The beautiful wild rainbows that once proliferated in the Falling Spring seemed perfectly hued to celebrate the season. I wonder if there is a Delaware bow out there that I might convince to dance a Christmas waltz with me?

The day itself was a gift from from the river. The forecasters expected a high of 57 degrees, very pleasant for mid-December, so I set out earlier than usual for this season of the year. I chose a pool I knew would be in full sun, figuring I might as well make the most of the unseasonable warmth. The gamble involved the amount of flow in the river.

I was aware that my usual route to the fishing would be blocked, too much depth and current for the crossing required, so I chanced an alternative I had never explored. The path was easily trod, and the edge of the riffle it brought me to was certainly shallow enough to wade, so I journeyed on. As that edge grew deeper, I began to cast and swing my fly through the ever-slowing body of that riffle, working my way to the quieter sanctuary water downstream.

The late morning sun felt delicious on my back and shoulders, enough so that I began to regret the insulated jacket chosen for my top layer. I waded down the edge and cast, enjoying every toasty moment of the experience.

Eventually I reached the deeper spot I remembered from my summer explorations, accepting the verdict of the current. There was no safe way to reach to portion of the pool I believed most likely to harbor a winter leviathan. Walking the riverbank back to the car I quickly got that hot humid feeling and unzipped the light jacket, December indeed!

The dashboard thermometer read 61 and I assured myself that was the result of parking in the sun, but as I readied myself for the walk to the next pool, I felt the warmth of that sun deeply. I folded the jacket and packed it in the back of my fishing vest for insurance, then set off down the trail in shirtsleeves.

Only the near edge of the river was bathed in that golden sunlight, and I languished there on my walk upstream. Even in the shade of the ridges the air was beautifully warm, reminding me more of April than December. I set to work swinging my streamer with high expectations. I had invited one take and landed one fine brownie there amid the heavy chill two days before. The beauty of this afternoon had me all but expecting a rise of trout!

Halfway down the pool I watched the bright orb shining through the evergreens on the mountaintop and knew my time was drawing short. I paused in my casting as a warm breeze wafted into my face, a brief embrace from the summer I had left behind, and longed to wrap myself in once more.

I walked back to the sunlit river’s edge and waded down, wishing to spend my last casts in the water that had produced so glowingly for me in summer. Once there I eased back toward mid-river and resumed my rhythm: cast, swing, step down, and repeat.

I was concentrating on the fly when I heard the great splash behind me in the distance. My swing completed, I turned and looked. The other fisher was coming downstream toward me now, high enough that the sun lit his white head so it sparkled against the blue sky. No fish for you either, my friend? He gave no answer, save the air between his talons, and soared on into the warmth of that breeze.

Nearly noon as I step into the river, fully in shadow. The sun doesn’t get a lot of time on the water in December, at least not on this pool. I wade slowly upstream, thinking and watching as I go, trying to decide just where I will begin.

I don’t expect a great deal of activity in faster water, so I situate myself in more moderate flow, where depth and cover lie before the thread of the current. Seems like a place a good trout might lie, I tell myself, if he feels the stirrings of hunger.

There is enough depth here that my unweighted fly fails to tick the rocks as it swings, and I decide I need a bit of weight there. Clipping it off I paw through the box and ponder. A one-off streamer catches my eye, flashy with trailing strands of copper and UV highlights and a foxtail wing. The small copper cone at its head should be just enough to help the mini tip line swing it in the taking zone.

I take a few steps back upstream before I cast again, to be certain my swing covers the area at the lower depths. The seventy-year-old bamboo flexes and the fly falls short. I must change my casting rhythm for the weighted fly, allow the old rod to load a split second longer, then slow my delivery slightly. The adjustment sends the fly further and drops it on the surface just beyond the traces of the bubble line marking the river’s thread. There is enough weight now for the fly to dance among the rocks of the bottom, not enough to hang up, just enough to keep it ticking over their tops.

Fishing slowly, I work the water with the timeless rhythm passed down through generations of anglers: cast, swing, then two steps down. I smile as I feel the fly bouncing along down there, in my mind’s eye I can see the copper tendrils moving and flashing in concert with the pulsing of the soft fur wing; alive and vulnerable. The solitude of a winter afternoon envelops me.

The strike comes suddenly and forcefully, not the soft tap of a near dormant trout, but the wallop of a substantial fish that’s intent upon his meal. I allow the loop of slack between my hand and the reel to absorb the shock, and then slowly and smoothly raise the rod into a heavy bow. Head shakes and short surges bring welcome warmth to my fingers as I grip the cork harder and set the nickel silver knob of the reel seat against my vest. He’s not giving up so easily.

The arc of vintage cane triumphs in the end and I slide the net beneath him, backing toward the sunlit bank with the net low in the water. I slip the fly from the corner of his mouth easily and submerge the net fully as I grab my camera for a quick shot. Nice brownie! Winter trout are special for me. As I release him, he scoots back to the shade and deep water as I smile and whisper my gratitude.

The swing is perfect for a cold, quiet river, and it makes me think about steelhead. Fishing the Great Lakes tributaries demands mostly a nymphing presentation. It can be quite productive when fresh fish are in, but I miss the charm and tradition of the swung fly. My best steelhead intercepted my swing though. The fly swung deep along the bottom of the pool, yes, ticking the rocks! I felt the take, then two or three head shakes, and raised the rod in that slow, smooth arc.

That Michigan buck was tremendous, twenty-one pounds, the only strike between Mike and I on that frigid February day.

I think about that fish sometimes, as my little streamer swings and ticks the rocks on a Catskill trout river. I wonder just what might be down there. Regional history has recorded a number of brown trout of 8, 9, even 10 pounds or more taken from these rivers. Tackle breakers. As much as I love to dream about one of those sipping my dry fly, such a fish is probably much more likely to take a meaty looking swung fly bouncing along the bottom of a winter river. The thought helps me ignore the cold in my legs and feet, at least for a while.

The heavy frost belied the broadcast temperature of 34 degrees so that, upon my second perusal of the thick white coating on the grass, I grabbed a jacket and took my own stock of the situation. The chill proved genuine, my porch thermometer revealing a much more believable 25 degrees here in Crooked Eddy. Nearly midway through December already, I applauded the sunshine glaring over the mountains to the southwest. It is not uncommon for our actual morning temperatures here to be colder than the TV reporting for Hancock. To offset that, our afternoon highs tend to exceed the forecasts whenever we are graced with sunshine.

I smiled at the frost and the telling thermometer, for this is a fishing day. We won’t see the heady fifty-degree sundrenched afternoon that visited us yesterday, but with enough of that sunlight the predicted mid forty-degree day at hand will do nicely for a handful of hours along a favorite river.

We had more than our share of frigid days during November, but December seems more kind thus far, at least to those of us who crave the magic of rivers. I am leaning toward bamboo today, dabbing a touch of varnish on a wild thread to keep my old Water Seal Wright & McGill rod whole late yesterday, in anticipation of the rod’s first foray of 2021. I like impregnated rods for winter fishing, finding less risk to their considerable longevity than the varnished rod I first acquired for an off-season rod. You can never be sure you won’t find an icy overcoat on a delicate rod tip when fishing winter days.

The mountains that bear their bright water to us have a wonderful capacity to trap rogue air currents, particularly along rivers. Way back in my youth, riding motorcycles more than proved to be good for me, I learned this little rule of Nature down in the lowlands where no more than a gentle undulation in the flat topography could shepherd a pocket of chilled air. Mid-summer surprises were discovered riding in shirtsleeves through the countryside, with sudden goosebumps. I have fished happily in winter ice-free, only to round a river bend and suddenly feel the chill, finding ice forming in the rod guides that had remained clear all day.

It has been three seasons since I cast my mini-tip line with the Water Seal, having tried it out during the incessant high water my first autumn in Crooked Eddy. Long enough that my memory fades as to the details of its casting characteristics. Prior to packing it up for the afternoon I will likely give her a go in the yard, just to be sure of my choice.

The Water Seal was the last new innovation in the Granger line of fly rods before the bamboo embargo put the Wright & McGill company and many others out of the bamboo rod making business in the early 1950’s. Mine is basically an 8642 Granger, usually a five weight eight-and-a-half footer in my hand. Impregnation however did more than protect the cane, it turned a perfect five weight fly rod into a more powerful six. That suits me fine, for a number six rod is better suited to the kind of fishing left to me once the magic season of the dry fly has passed.

Such stouter rods work perfectly for the somewhat inglorious casting of weighted soft hackle wets and small streamers and yet, being bamboo, they are still adept at delivering a small dry fly delicately should I ever encounter the Holy Grail on the rivers of my heart. Ah, the winter rise! I still dream of it, encountered along the limestone springs of my former home, and a few freestones and tailwaters.

Enough dreaming! Time to prepare for the day, and those brief, glorious hours wading the river. The sun is battling with the clouds, the winner yet undetermined. I will fish whichever way the contest is decided, though I am cheering for the orb, the giver of light and warmth.

My winter reading has taken me back to my roots of late, just this morning dreaming again through the works of The Master. Ed Shenk wrote with the same friendly tone he conversed with, and I treasure the memories of our talks. I still catch myself wishing I could sit down with him in the comfort of my little fly shop as I once did.

I had learned of Ed early on, as my fascination with difficult trout and difficult waters drew me north to Pennsylvania from my Maryland home, finally meeting him in September 1991. It was after our meeting that I first ventured to the shrine of his Letort, the most famous trout stream in fly fishing. I recall creeping through the meadow at Bonny Brook, Ed’s favorite reach of stream, marveling at the mystifying combination of hanging willow branches, head high grasses, submerged logs, the bright green leaves of watercress, and the dark waving tendrils of elodea. My mind was ablaze: How in God’s name do you fish this?

Reading Ed’s words in his “Fly Rod Trouting” and haunting the meadows at his side the following spring, I began to learn the answers to that question. Thirty years later I remain captivated by difficult trout and the lessons of the Master.

I fished the Letort often in those early years, driving two hours before dawn to haunt the meadows at first light in summer, hoping to catch one of it’s legendary monster browns out foraging over the weed beds on the edge of darkness. I learned of the ESP exhibited by those trout; crouching in the grass and searching with my eyes, only to have leviathan streak downstream from somewhere far above my hide!

I began to realize in those days that wild, old, trophy trout were a gift from the river. As an angler I worked hard to improve my stealth and casting, to tie better flies, but it was clear that all of that was not enough. Such work was how one earned the fleeting opportunities to receive those gifts the river gods might bestow. More often than not, the hard work was rewarded only by another harsh lesson, and not by a spinning reel!

Progressing over time, we learn to appreciate all that the rivers bestow. Eventually perhaps, we begin to earn opportunities for the ultimate elation.

I have learned to gratefully receive all the gifts that the rivers of my heart bestow, whether a simple moment of sunlight streaming down the valley to light a distant riffle, or the rise of a coveted wild trout. The Master taught these lessons not just by his words, but by actions; the way that Nature teaches them.

With light snow blowing around on as many mornings as not, I am still in that very early phase of playing with my winter fly tying. My activity slows down after early October and the end of our dry fly season. If nothing else that is another symptom of my withdrawal from the bliss of a full season with the floating fly. I decided to tie one of the flies I call my “Beaverkill Hendrickson” yesterday afternoon for a touch of therapy, a Catskill tie, then followed it quickly with a pair of the same in my 100-Year Dun style.

That Beaverkill Hendrickson is one of those mayfly imitations one shouldn’t have to tie. It is contrary to the established facts of our Catskill entomology. The learned have long ago set down the rules for the mayfly we commonly call the Hendrickson, that magical bug that brings the first enthralling bliss of spring. The females are the larger of the species, imitated with a light tannish body, tied on either a size 12 or size 14 hook. The males are smaller, hued in that darker reddish tone that inspired the much darker Red Quill. We all know to tie our red quills in sizes 14 and 16.

Fishing the Beaverkill early in my first spring as a resident angler, I plucked a large, active dun from the chilly air with some surprise. This certainly looked like a Hendrickson, but it was a touch large for a size 12 imitation, and it clearly wasn’t tan. The bug was the ruddy shade that brings to mind old, worn bricks. Far more red than pinkish, the fly appeared to be an undeniably huge Red Quill.

Back at my tying bench that evening, I set to work upon a solution. A darker blend of fox fur, colored and enlivened with the sparkle of Antron fibers in a lovely brick red shade. The blend proved a near perfect match on the water, and I have taken a number of fine large brown trout with the flies I have tied with it, whether CDC patterns, Catskill ties or my homage to Gordon’s legacy. I encounter the flies each spring on that river, along with the accepted tan size 14 Hendricksons. Having not found the big red duns anywhere else, I labeled my initial baggie of blended dubbing “Beaverkill Hendrickson”.

I do not entertain any notions that this is a “new” mayfly. I feel confident that it is a Hendrickson, and accept that Nature doesn’t read the collected works of either fly fishermen or professional entomologists, and has her own way with all wild things as she sees fit.

I do tend to tie more of them in the 100-Year Dun configuration than the historic Catskill style. Having tied and fished this style of dry fly during a variety of hatches, I am confident in its ability to deceive the more difficult and selective trout I encounter during a hatch. A riser in the fast, broken current will likely take the Catskill tie, as will some where the flow calms. The 100-Year Dun rides all speeds of water well, and excels in the flat, clear flows where trout enjoy the luxury of more detailed inspection.

The accounts of Mr. Gordon agree as to his secretiveness and skills of observation as concerns his fly tying and fishing. Indeed, his solitary lifestyle would have lent itself toward quiet observation and contemplation, particularly while seeking to adapt English dry fly techniques to the wild American waters. Working from Frederick Halford’s English patterns he chose the single canted wing as opposed to the divided pairs of his predecessors. Likewise, he chose the beautiful, barred feathers of the male wood duck’s flank for that wing rather than a gray feather more closely matching the primary color of most spring mayflies. An experiment? Perhaps one undertaken in recognition of the mottled feather’s greater impression of life when lit by sunlight?

As my winter reading broadens, I will most certainly revisit his notes and letters as collected in John McDonald’s classic “The Complete Fly Fisherman”. I will search those pages for some mention of Gordon’s inspiration in this regard. Whether I find it or not, l feel certain his choice was more a product of his thought and observation than of the simple practicality of easy availability.

In the pair of flies photographed at the beginning of this post, you will note my own preference for barred hackles. The tailing is taken from a speckled grizzly variant Coq-De-Leon saddle, and the wrapped hackle from one of Charlie Collins’ spectacular barred dun dry fly capes, one with a rusty tinge to the darker dun shade. When I tie them, I picture the light sparking and reflecting from the surface of the river to the fly, and the myriad reflections those barred and speckled materials offer to the eye of the trout, a vivid impression of life!

December seventh, and it is twenty-six degrees as dawn comes to Crooked Eddy. There is snow in the forecast for tomorrow, and a walk outside today would convince anyone that winter has taken control.

But ah the vagaries of weather! Yesterday dawned much warmer at forty-one, and though the sun was not promised, the afternoon would see temperatures above fifty before the winds howled to the forefront. A window through the pall of this early winter, and I saw it clearly! I layered well before donning my waders, heading out to steal a few hours upon bright water.

No, the sun wasn’t promised, and that promise was kept. Heavy cloud cover and damp air seem to be constants this time of year, and with them the warmer air still doesn’t feel quite warm, but the river gravel beneath my feet brought a comfort. In December I fish for one bite.

The sculpin I had chosen proved too eager to find its niche among the rocks, so I tried a little fox hair streamer for a while, eventually deciding the conditions required just a touch less than neutral buoyancy. An unweighted tie, a reduced version of my Hen & Hare’s Ear fit the bill. Swung over the deeper places in the pool it just bounced over the tops of the larger rocks, flitting and flirting with my hope for an active trout.

Suddenly, one of those bumps over the rocks gave way to a vibration, and the old electricity travelled along the rod shaft straight to my heart. I was fast to a fish! This was no sluggish, cold-water sleeper, this was a trout with shoulders and a song in his heart.

He charged about in search of a sharp edge on one of those rocks, as I did my best to keep him from finding one. I turned him hard one time and he responded with a leap, a fine fish and energetic to the end. The rod was stout, as was my leader, but I gave him his head and enjoyed his vigor with a thankful smile.

Slipping the hook out gently, I held him against the length of the net, admiring the deep bronze and gold, his red spots twinkling even in the gloom of this winter day. Released he was off with a flourish, taking my gratitude and my salvation with him.

As morning blended into afternoon I noted the slightest lightening of the sky, a far-off glimmer behind the heavy gray of the clouds, before the wind and rain returned. Such are Nature’s golden moments, subtle, though precious reminders of the beauty and magic of wild rivers.

I know not when another window may open in the curtain of winter, when I might chance to wade bright water and seek the energy of its magic again. For now, I will savor the moment and pluck a few more feathers from the pheasant’s skin; craft another bit of magic of my own.