I was tying flies early this morning, trying to get my “work” in before it’s time to head to the river. I talked to my old friend Matt Supinski yesterday. He is taking his summer holiday away from the wilds of Michigan and we made plans to fish a bit this week. I wanted to tie a few of the patterns that have been productive recently to throw his way. I generally put together a pill bottle of dries for my friends when they visit, and I have known Matt for a long time.

We both have a long history in Pennsylvania’s Cumberland Valley, chasing difficult trout on those bright little spring creeks during the good old days. We’re both passionate about wild trout to the point of obsession, and that commonality of purpose has made it easy for us to get along over more than twenty-five years. I have enjoyed the hospitality of his Gray Drake Lodge, and we have fished a bit here in the Catskills.

Matt has been keeping busy as usual, channeling his creative energies into the publication of his wonderful online magazine, Hallowed Waters Journal. He and his lovely wife Laurie have worked tirelessly to produce an exceptional publication for fly anglers, and the most recent expansion of this venture is the Hallowed Waters Podcast. Matt tipped me to the second episode recently, as his guest was another old Central Pennsylvania stream prowler; former Catskill fly shop owner and guide Paul Weamer. Paul has authored a number of successful books during the past decade or so, and now lives, writes and guides in Montana. I first heard of Paul from the late Charlie Meck, a fine gentleman angler and one of our most prolific fly fishing authors, and talked with him during his years running Border Waters Outfitters when I visited Hancock, New York.

The subject of the podcast was near and dear to all of our hearts, dry fly fishing for trout. There’s some great information here for fly anglers, the kind of stuff anglers like Paul, Matt and myself have spent decades learning on the water. Here’s the link. I recommend that you check it out. https://anchor.fm/hallowedwaters

A rainy summer morning like this one just screams blue winged olives, and I am hoping to pick the right reach of river to find one of those nice, long midday hatches. A day like this is welcome after one of the hottest weeks of the summer.

I think I have a half dozen or so olive emergers left in my fingers, at least once I brew that second cup of coffee. It’s not that I don’t have boxes of them, but I have always found a little luck in flies tied the morning of a fishing trip. For me that’s just one of the little bits of magic I find in this game!

It has been a good week for trout hunting. There’s no secret that I enjoy the summer solitude and stalking trout in the quiet hours; such days are among the best a Catskill Summer has to offer. This week brought another heat wave, making sleep more fleeting. If sleep is restless, there is a simple solution: rise early and hunt, retreating once the blazing sun has melted the mists from the air!

The heat has passed this morning, after reaching a crescendo on Friday afternoon. I tossed a couple of hot dogs on the grill and squinted at the porch thermometer: 100 degrees. The direct sunlight of late afternoon and evening adds as much as eight degrees to the temperature on my porch. That boost in warmth is welcome on a still winter day, not so in August when the temperature is soaring into the nineties.

The morning had been good, Friday the thirteenth and all that. I stalked the heavy fog listening. Every once in awhile I could hear the little plop of a gentle rise, unseen, somewhere out there. The hidden sounds of the morning add to the anticipation; and then there are those explosions when a serious trout encounters a serious meal! Invisible, though close at hand, they’ll make you jump and put your heart right there in your throat.

I was armed with a special foil, a seven foot cane rod designed and built by my friend Tom Smithwick, the man I call The Taper Wizard. This rod was intended for this game, for stealthily placing a good size fly in the inaccessible places; the places where the big browns lurk, where they hunt unseen. Some would swear that a seven foot bamboo fly rod was not the tool for big flies and big fish, but they have never cast Tom’s rod. I had an old, vintage Hardy LRH snugged up in the reel seat, and a five double tapered line with suitable backing behind fourteen feet of leader as I stalked soundlessly through the mist. The Taper Wizard designed this rod to handle trout measured in pounds, to battle them in cover and win!

I first met Tom decades ago, and it was one of his remarkable rods that made the introduction. Guiding on the Falling Spring, I suggested clients bring a shorter rod, and one gentleman showed me Tom’s prototype one piece, five and a half foot masterpiece: the forerunner for what would evolve into a series of tapers, including the 705. I own three of these rods: that prototype, a six and one half foot one piece that seems happiest with a number four and a half line, and of course the 705. I begged Tom to add a ferrule when he made the last one. Though the lightness and response of one length of solid bamboo is amazing, housing and transporting a seven foot rod is a bit of a challenge. The six and a half footer barely misses the ceiling in my tying room. Tom masterfully made a Duronze ferrule to keep the rod as light as possible.

Tom loves rod making and fly fishing, and works tirelessly to help preserve both traditions. He is a long time supporter of the Catskill Fly Fishing Center and Museum as well as the Pennsylvania Fly Fishing Museum Association. He has been one of the architects of the Catskill Rod Makers Gathering for may years. When my friend JA was looking for just the right taper to build an eight foot four weight rod at the Catskill Rod Making School, I put him in touch with Tom, knowing that he enjoys freely sharing his store of knowledge. He provided JA with the taper specifications for “an old F.E. Thomas rod that I tweaked to make it a little better”. The results are astounding, a credit to both JA’s skill and Tom’s wizardry.

I was thinking of my friend as I stalked the quiet water; launching a cast to the bank and squinting to judge the distance in my fog shrouded world. The fly alighted perfectly, at least it seemed to, flitting in and out of my vision with each passing wisp of vapor… and then he was simply, there. I used the power of the throbbing bamboo, backing away from the cover, as I struggled with the wild thing at the end of my line. Finally he was out and running, the ratchetting pawl of the Hardy breaking the silence of the morning.

Most never realize that a shorter fly rod is the best choice for fighting fish, lessening the fish’s mechanical advantage (yes, a long rod gives the fish leverage, not the angler) and allowing faster response to the twists and turns of any finned adversary. The 705 handled this heavyweight perfectly, and the short, light wand really connected me to the energy of the brown, to enjoy every tense moment of the fight.

I wished I had carried the short cane rod earlier in the week. On another misty morning I had plenty of activity, though I landed only one of the three large trout I was able to entice. The longer, lighter rod I fished that morning was neither quick enough nor strong enough to get one out of submerged tree branches before he could wrap up and break my 5X tippet. The second managed to spit the hook while I worked feverishly to manage excess line when he ran toward me. The fast reaction time of the shorter rod might have made that encounter turn out differently.

During my days of trout hunting in the intimate Southcentral Pennsylvania limestoners, a seven foot rod was most often my tool of choice. On the wide open Catskill rivers, the eight to nine footers are typical, making distance casting easier. There is no question that a seven footer is a better fish fighting tool. A superb rod, like the Smithwick 705 will handle the distance casting demands of this environment, but it demands a bit more perfection in timing. The shorter lever means more casting strokes per fly delivery, something my well worn wrist and shoulder can do without. Guess I will have to bite the bullet more often as far as the muscle aches, for the Taper Wizard’s 705 is simply too effective and too much fun!

February 2014, and I sat huddled in front of the upstairs window tying flies for spring. In the corner sat a sleek black aluminum rod tube, housing a thing that dreams are made of. Earlier in the month I had purchased my first true vintage bamboo fly rod, the W&M Granger Victory rod pictured above. Eight and a half feet in the traditional three piece configuration, the rod was eminently fishable, though it was no collector’s piece. One ferrule had been replaced, and the original rod bag and tube had long ago vanished. I wasn’t too pleased with the ill-fitting old plastic tube the rod came in, so I ordered a new quality tube and rod bag to protect my little piece of angling history.

I was tying Hendricksons that morning, dreaming of that wonderful hatch that heralds the true beginning of spring, and I tied a hand full of CDC emergers to complement my selection. I admired one under the light as the weak winter sun shone through the frosty window; a tawny blend of fox fur and sparkle…

April began and then ran it’s course without the longed for trip north. It was May before the hatch was starting, but the Delaware’s were high with runoff. Only the Neversink, the legendary river of Theodore Gordon and the birth of dry fly fishing in America was wadable. From my base at West Branch Angler, I headed to the eastern side of the Catskills for my first day.

Walking along a remembered reach of the Neversink I found myself blissfully alone, with the warm May sunshine delighting my winter weary bones and my eyes as it lit the budding landscape. Coming to the tail of the little pool where my most exciting Neversink fishing had debuted, I found no sign of the big, tannish mayflies I sought. I waited, fidgeted, and finally moved on upstream, passing all the familiar parts of that reach, and lamenting the lack of hatching flies on so perfect a day.

I settled down on a bright green, grassy piece of river bank, overlooking a promising looking glide. There was good rocky relief in the river bed, but the overriding feature was a peaked boulder centered in the deepest flow, it’s tip breaking the surface. The clear, cold water sparkled into a million tiny stars as the flow parted at that peak and spilled along both sides.

I am not certain how long I sat there, nearly dosing in the warmth of the sun, when I sat up suddenly with the hairs on the back of my neck tingling: there were mayflies on the water! Blue quills were bubbling along in the streamers of current broken by the boulder and, after a few minutes, one disappeared in a tiny dimple. I stretched, and pulled myself toward the edge of the bank, letting my legs dangle in the water as I pulled line from the Perfect and let it trail.

Soon a big tawny Hendrickson wiggled to the surface and skidded across the boulder’s parted current. I eased upright and slipped into the river to begin my stalk. I opened my fly box once I had worked into the proper casting position and selected one of those CDC emergers, tied months ago while dreaming of this moment! Two Hendricksons, three, and at last the fourth vanished in a bulge on the far side of the rocky peak. Two steps were necessary to adjust my position, upstream and away from the boulder, and they were made stealthily at such close quarters.

Another Hendrickson was taken and I waited, visibly shaking with anticipation, until lofting my first cast after the trout’s next rise. The fly alighted and drifted, then bobbed down my side of the rock. I pulled four feet of line from the reel and made my second pitch, upstream a foot and over two, dropping the rod tip quickly to put additional slack in the tippet. The fly alighted, danced on the quivering current of the brink, and slid down beside the peak on the other side.

That trout took with that confident bulge and dimple, and the old rod sprang smoothly to life! It was a battle to match the dream sequence preceding it: the ratchety growl of the Hardy, the deep arch of sixty-five year old cane, the tense moments when all was stressed to its limit to keep the big fish away from his favorite boulder. What could be more perfect than to land a gorgeous twenty inch brown as the first fish of my Catskill season, my first big trout on my first vintage rod?

It would be a fine season, and the Victory would prove the equal to every challenge the rivers and I could offer. In the quiet times, I would ponder the unknown history of the rod: who first drew that Victory from it’s poplin bag, reaping the sweet aroma of spar varnish for the very first time? What rivers did he angle, what trout did they catch together?

That Victory was the beginning. By summer I had found another 8642, an older original Goodwin Granger Special, restored by Granger historian and author Michael Sinclair. I had devoured his book that winter, “Goodwin Granger: The Rod Man from Denver”, developing a special affinity for the historic Colorado rod maker and the small company he founded. The Granger Specials were working man’s fly rods, very high in quality, though priced so that the average angler could own and fish a fine bamboo rod. The distinctly American ideals that Goodwin Granger and his company embodied made me proud to own and fish vintage Granger rods.

There are many fond memories of fishing my Granger rods on the streams of Pennsylvania and the rivers of my heart here in the Catskills. Angling history brought me first to Pennsylvania’s Cumberland Valley and finally here to the birthplace, the Catskill Mountains. Each season I am fortunate to add to that store of memories.

Last summer I was daydreaming in the aftermath of a stormy night, the rivers high and off color for the day. I slipped my 8040 Granger from it’s tube and mounted a reel with a four weight line. Granger catalogs always recommended a number five double taper line for their eight footer, but I love to experiment with lines. That backyard casting session was a revelation, as I found a “new” favorite four weight wand for my summer fishing!

The 8040 was my companion on many epic days, often wearing a bright Hardy Bougle` to match the patent nickel silver Granger reel seat. On one remarkable morning I fished in solitude on a particularly lovely reach of water. The river was gentle at summer flow, and there were no flies, no rises at this early hour. I knotted a small caddis fly, a new experimental pattern to my 5X tippet, and began to search the water. A brief spurt disrupted the drift of my fly and it disappeared from view. I raised the rod instinctively and the water opened up upon a scene of instant fury!

A massive trout rocketed out of the water, completing five consecutive leaps before I could react to it’s first, I tightened my grip on the vintage cork as the great trout turned down river and brought the Bougle` to full chorus. Fly line vanished and then more than half my backing, as the fine old rod bore the strain admirably. The fight went on and on as I grudgingly recovered line only to cede it once again, but the Granger proved itself once again, eventually leading one of my largest Delaware rainbows to the waiting net. At twenty-two inches in length with an unusually wide girth, that formidable bow easily exceeded five pounds.

My favorite river guide used to tell me that the Delaware bows rarely reached the twenty inch mark, for the trials of life in the great river were contrary to the long life span required. I often teased him about guiding me to within casting range of a twenty-five inch rainbow, and he maintained they simply didn’t grow that big. This entry into my log of Granger memories was one very spectacular trout!

Though I fish a number of capable bamboo rods, there will always be a special feeling in my heart for my Grangers. I am no collector, the rods I own are fishing rods, and I feel that is as it should be. Crafting bamboo fly rods has always been as much about the magic of bright water and wild trout as it has about the skills of cane and metalwork. The taper is the heart of a good rod and the tapers are where rod makers display their true genius and inspiration!

Great rod makers past and present have created their rods for fishermen, not for museum walls or collectors cabinets. Revere their rods, care for them, and display them if you wish, but give the rods and their makers the honor they are due and fish them. Their spirits come alive on bright water!

These days I expect the worst when I venture to the West Branch, though fond memories of my West Branch Angler years still draw me thence. I visited twice this week, and was surprised to see the crowds thinner than expected, though the Farm Pool itself always draws the elbow to elbow crowd. I simply don’t understand that in a fishing sense: standing in one of the country’s most productive wild trout rivers, glued to the same two boot prints on the bottom, and making the same cast over and over. That simply is not fly fishing in my vernacular.

I need to move! A large part of the game involves the approach to each rising trout we encounter. A few steps can make all the difference. Suddenly the fly line is no longer stalling in that little pocket of slower water, my fly drifts true, and a good trout accepts my fraud like he has been waiting for it. To me the classic fly fishing experience involves working a pool, a run or riffle; watching and observing not only where trout might be holding, but how best to approach and fish that water.

I see guys standing in one spot along the edge of the river all the time, simply making the same cast right in front of them over and over, not even looking to see where there may be some rises or other signs of activity. They do have the proximity of a dozen like minded souls I guess, but one can find that in a supermarket. Follow not the crowd! Follow the call of Nature!

I feel fortunate, as on my visit to the West, the little hoard of fishers that assembled remained tightly grouped and paid me no mind. I walked and found my own small reach of water, then began to dissect it. Waiting is a big part of fly fishing. Too many are impatient when they come to a river to fish a hatch. They wade out in the middle of their dry fly water and drag nymphs through it or cast blindly with dries, oblivious that their presence and movements will prevent the best trout from ever rising once the hatch has begun. Some will tell you they never see many trout rise to a hatch. That can indeed be Nature’s plan for the day, or it can be the impatient angler’s own doing.

On my first outing I didn’t need to wait very long for the hatch to begin, though day two was a different story. Thursday brought a nice hatch of tiny sulfurs, a handy occurrence as I had a dozen freshly tied size 20 imitations, and not a lot of choices for larger versions. As the trout began to rise, they tended to hold close to their lies and feed, for there were enough mayflies on the surface for them to do so. In the grand West Branch tradition, the majority of them paid no attention to my lovely little dun imitation.

Though it was early in the hatch, I changed to a simple little fly I call a CDC soft hackle, tied differently with the same materials as my ineffective little duns. The trout liked it, and I had an enjoyable afternoon. I brought half a dozen hard fighting brownies to hand, pricked a few that struck short, and had one that seemed solidly hooked simply pop back off as soon as he was on. There were no big fish in the mix, just nice quality fish from fifteen to seventeen inches. I carried my 7 1/2 foot Jim Downes Garrison 206, a very full working, slow, smooth casting stick of bamboo that made the entire experience extremely enjoyable. This classic Catskill rod wore a CFO III and DT3 line that perfectly matched the small dry fly fishing for the day.

Friday found me back in the same area, this time sporting Dennis Menscer’s 7 1/2′ four weight, another classic Catskill trout rod, crafted on a Payne Model 100 taper. I’d had so much fun with a little rod Thursday, I simply had to stay with the program. Friday though would prove to be a very different day.

Weather wise it was a few degrees warmer, and the warmer air got the wind blowing harder as the afternoon progressed. There were fewer anglers bunched in the Farm Pool, and I don’t think the absent ones missed a whole lot. Fridays hatch was later, more brief, and featured just a small number of larger size 18 flies. I don’t think I saw any of the little twenties I expected, and for that matter I didn’t see any for an hour and a half. Waiting as I said, is a big part of fly fishing.

The sulfurs were so sparse that the trout simply didn’t feed. An individual trout was good for one to three rises, and that would be it. By the time I approached within casting range, all that was left would be waiting, as that fish never rose again. I caught the first trout that rose within casting range, and the last one. In between I maneuvered and cast fruitlessly after the original fish targeted had moved on to other things.

That first fish was a true rod bender, a plump, fired up brownie in the seventeen to eighteen inch range, and he spun the drag on my old Hardy St. George many times. They like the 48 degree water in this upper reach of the tailwater! I fished diligently for better than two hours after that, covering places where fish had risen, and would not again.

The sparse hatch of mayflies was nearly exhausted, even the small crowd had vanished from the Farm Pool, but I saw a couple of quick slashing rises as I waded through the faster, wind whipped water. With my line ready on the water, I cast immediately to each little wink, knowing that a rapidly moving trout had taken a crippled or drowned dun from the film. I watched his zigzag path: one slash, two, then three; placing my fly ahead of each little wink as fast as I could. I pulled more line from the old reel for cast number four; the charm.

When the wink came where my half drowned fly had been I raised the rod sharply, and a big brown catapulted himself out of the water! The light rod bucked feverishly and the St. George began it’s chorus as the trout raced for a downed tree limb and weed balls near the bank. Did I mention that I had changed to 5X tippet earlier, figuring the 6X wasn’t the best choice when I tried a few larger terrestrials along some bank side cover. I was glad I had it when that brown headed for freedom, as the extra strength and the full arch of the Menscer cane turned him short of disaster.

It was quite a fight! The smooth power of bamboo absorbed all his rushes and rolls, kept his nose out of all the weeds, and finally brought him to hand, a very bright golden bronze brown of twenty inches. Just two fish this day, but two good ones! Perfect.

We are still blessed with cool nights and cold water releases, and as such are enjoying a very different kind of August. I have gone back to grabbing a sweatshirt and pants when I arise near five o’clock these recent mornings, and closing the bedroom window overnight. Hot weather is due to return though, and soon we may look back wistfully at these heady days and chilly nights of high summer.

I stalked a favorite summer reach of river yesterday morning, expecting to find some trout sipping tricos. There were none, in fact there seemed to be little or nothing drifting on the misty surface of the water. I took to casting a big terrestrial fly to cover, figuring if the trout weren’t cruising to sample the drift, they would be hunkered down in ambush. I didn’t move a fish.

I lingered half the day, figuring the cooler nights had delayed the trico spinnerfall. The science available tells us that the mating flights occur when the air temperature reaches 69 degrees, and when the sun burned through the haze nigh on eleven AM, I figured the next hour would reveal whether weeks of high flows had displaced the tiny silt dwellers and spoiled that phase of my summer fishing. No tricos appeared, nor anything to bring the trout up and accessible to the dry fly.

I stopped at another pool, planning to spend a couple of hours hunting, and got taken away. There were rises, not many, and nothing grand, just the soft little disturbances of cruising trout taking tiny flies. On occasion, a small mayfly could be seen at a distance, and eventually I was almost able to pluck one from the surface. The wings were typical of a blue winged olive, but the current whisked it from my tentative grasp before I could decipher the body color. Fishing gently with a three weight line, a rising trout seemed to be good for one cast, it’s rises ceasing once that first dry drifted overhead.

Uncatchable trout catch my interest, and there were one or two bulges encountered that led me to believe some larger fish were about, so I remained in the moment and played their game. Though the time slipped away, I wasn’t really cognizant of it, absorbed as I was in solving the riddle of these moving, sipping ghosts beneath the clear water. When a lighter fly or two was added to the drift, a size 20 sulfur was tried and ignored. There simply weren’t many bugs, and the trout I didn’t get a chance to cast to seemed to be good for only one or two rises.

Eventually, one fish broke the mold, rising perhaps half a dozen times while I tried for him. Observation suggested a change, and the 16 ant I replaced the tiny mayfly with was taken on the third drift. The foot long brownie went ballistic with the tug of the rod, and fought it for all he was worth. Still fighting as I brought him to hand, I admired his color and amazing spirit, testament to his wildness, as I picked him up by the fly and twisted it free.

I convinced myself to work the banks for a while after exhausting the opportunities for the ghosting risers in that long line of current, but there was no response to my efforts. I awoke from my reverie when a large creamy colored mayfly fluttered past my staring eyes. There were rises once again, though not to the big, juicy moving mayflies that attracted my attention. Tiny sulfurs had wiggled to the surface, too few to position the trout for methodical fishing, but enough to cause a few to cruise about looking for a light snack.

Immersed in the magic of difficult trout, I let the remainder of the afternoon slip away. The cruisers thwarted my best approach, for they held position for at best two rises, in a pool that demands the slowest, quietest movements. There was one that drew my attention for a while, moving within a table top area just beneath the canopy of a leaning tree, where shade disguised his form. Alternating the tiniest disturbances with more focused rises, I was convinced this was a significantly larger fish. I honestly don’t even recall the fly he finally accepted, captivated as I was by the fervor of the game. I tightened and he frothed the surface with a flurry of head shakes, coming toward me so I could feel only the vibration and not the weight. His performance reminded me of the way a big largemouth bass will poke his head out and shake violently to dislodge a surface plug, and it proved just as effective. Was this the big brown I hoped for? I will never know.

The sulfurs dwindled, and some of the riseforms took on the soft gentle appearance of trout sipping spent flies in the film. One last fly change I promised myself, noticing briefly how the sun lit the riverscape: beautiful. The well worn number twenty rusty spinner I plucked from my fly patch drew the honor.

One trout had held his lie, sipping something unseen from the film while the last of the sulfurs floated by. He had ignored an ant and a couple of different beetles, allowing three or four casts before ceasing, then rising again while my casts were directed elsewhere. The 6X tippet curled in a ball upon the faster current, the gentlest kick of the hand and wrist dropping the fly inches downstream, so the little spinner might drift along the slower seam while the current unraveled the ball of yarn. At the take, another foot long brownie came unglued, darting and twisting against the pull of the rod. I let him have his head, he had been as hard won as any trout twice his size, as tough as they come.

Twisting the fly free with the tip of my forceps, I sent him back to the soothing liquid flow. I looked around, captivated by the beauty and the solitude; the scene took my breath, with golden sunlight gracing everything around me.

Five o’clock, fathoming the significance of the number brought surprise, and I turned to walk slowly toward the river bank and home.

Time to catch up on the blog, a few moments while the sunrise warms the mountains: August 3rd, and it is forty-seven degrees this morning in Crooked Eddy.

Nature’s two greatest gifts to a summertime mountain trout river are rainfall and cold nights. We have been blessed with both. Of course I am under the opinion that a mountain trout river is one of Nature’s greatest gifts to man!

The Catskill watersheds received just over nine inches of rainfall for the month of July, so much of it that there was no fishing on my calendar for a couple of weeks. Flows are nice and wadable now, and water temperatures very nice on both freestone rivers and tailwaters. Summer is good.

I have been out hunting trout, my favorite activity at any time of year, though the winter months are largely spent dreaming about it.

Perhaps as a result of all the high water, though more likely I believe due to last winter’s low river flows and extended freezing periods, hatches have been as unpredictable as ever. The early mayflies were plentiful, while those from mid May forward have not been. My theory, and that is all any of us have, is that the nymphs had a lot more time in the gravel to grow and mature, and were thus better equipped to survive a difficult winter and the anchor ice I feel certain was a factor. Significant warm weather in March also gave them a chance to catch up on their growth and development before April’s hatching time.

I have seen a lot of fry this season, whether trout fry or baitfish fry I cannot say, and the high water introduces other food organisms into the drift. Nature’s compensations perhaps. The wild trout of our Catskill rivers are heavy and robust, so they have certainly eaten something. Not their own next generation, I hope.

As a dry fly fisherman, I missed the intensity of the hatches through May and June, and the abundance of the tiny sulfurs we associate with July on the tailwaters. High waters brought a great deal of pressure to our rivers. Have you noticed all the drift boats filled with guys with oversize fly rods, big game reels and fighting butts, heaving saltwater sized streamers at the river banks like metronomes?

I often fished streamers back in the Cumberland Valley, but I learned from a very different school of angling. We fished size 8 and 10 Shenk Sculpins and White Minnows with stealth, casting carefully to pinpoint targets with the same light trout rods we used for dry flies. We twitched and drifted those flies, letting the current carry them beneath undercut banks and weedy edges, quietly walking them right into leviathan’s living room. Finesse, and an understanding of how big trout hunted and ambushed prey brought the big boys to the net. I honestly don’t care for the brute force technique that seems to be the rage, driven by an industry that wants only to sell. I don’t like catching a big summer brownie and finding his mouth torn up from some two or three hook monstrosity yanked about with a heavy rod. To each his own I guess, but I wish they would consider the health of the resource.

All of that pressure seems to have made the trout scarce in some areas. They still reside there, but not in their favored lies and cover. You can only invade a man’s home so many times before he picks up and moves.

My style of fishing, of hunting trout, isn’t a numbers game. On any given day I am searching for a big brown or rainbow that I can entice with the dry fly. On a productive day I take one, sometimes two in that hallowed twenty inch and over class. You notice I didn’t say “on a good day”, for they are all good days when I get to be on bright waters fishing. There are certainly any number of good days when I don’t catch a trout.

Yesterday was an excellent day, for I spent it on bright water with my friend JA. We managed a few fish, and got some good laughs at some of their antics. I caught two, the first a sprightly fellow all of five inches long who decided that a terrestrial dragging downstream before my pickup was an interesting meal. That one got laughs throughout the day. I’ll get to the second one in a minute.

Both of us love to catch trout, but more importantly, both of us take the full measure of the day and enjoy it fully, whether trout are part of the equation or not. Simply spending time on these beautiful rivers is enough of a reward to keep us coming back. Yesterday was a wonderful day without trout number two.

As we scanned the river upon our arrival, I pointed out one heavy rise a hundred yards away. We headed in that direction and played with some mid-river sippers while a handful of trico spinners blew around in the stiffening breeze. When we got to the area where that one big, showy rise had been, we each fished the area in turn. All was quiet, and we moved along. As morning melted into afternoon, I caught that five incher. A while later JA tied into a trout, telling me he had his five incher on a dragging fly, or something like that, with a chuckle in his voice. That fish jumped out of the water and I could clearly see that it wasn’t five inches at all, so I hollered something like “wooo, that one’s nine or ten”, and we both enjoyed a laugh.

JA picked up a blue winged olive that came drifting by, and I waded over to take a look, just as a couple of rises appeared. We each waded back to our casting positions and a trout rose right in front of me. I tied on a size 16 olive that was handy and cast to him. The fly, which I knew was a size larger than the mayfly we had just examined, was ignored. I cut it off and dug out a size 18, which was also ignored, and then I saw one really nice rise way over in the shade: the white wink of a big mouth opening to sip something from the dark surface.

Olive to the rescue? Well, no. A few casts later there was another rise further over, so I lengthened my cast, letting the smooth arch of the old Thomas & Thomas bamboo lay that little olive down fifty feet out. The cast was repeated a couple of times with no response, so I reeled in my line and reached for the fly at the end of my tippet. We had been talking back and forth the whole time and I sort of narrated the events with the big mouth wink and my subsequent failure to interest it with an imitation of the fly that was on the water. JA said “time for the cricket” in a questioning tone, and I replied that I was tying it on now.

My first cast landed where that white wink rise had come, and my fly floated down unmolested. I pulled more line from the CFO and let the bamboo sing as it sent the larger fly over close to the bank. It was eaten heartily and the thrashing was audible as the lithe cane throbbed in a big, full arching bend!

JA heard the reel and the splashes and casually asked me if this one was “ten”. I answered just as matter-of- factly as I could in the heat of battle: “no, more like two times ten”. Finally vanquished several minutes later, I admired a gorgeously colored twenty-one inch Catskill brownie before slipping it back into the current.

I had been trying to get one of my best friends into the boat while the cool high flows were maintained, though life seems to make timing difficult some times. With a load of unexpected work dealing with storm damage, JA was able to come up on one of the last floatable days for a tour of the West Branch. Many river guides float daily at low water, under 600 cfs, but I find it less than enjoyable to drag a boat across gravel flats in an attempt to avoid other boats and waders. I don’t have their every day familiarity with the river bed, so I prefer to be out there when there is enough water to actually float.

Last week a near maximum cold water release and some spillway overflow found me floating high with the river at 2,200 cfs. The cold water got more mayflies hatching and the trout feeding further down river. We pulled anchor and set out yesterday on a vastly different West Branch. Flowing at only 785 cfs, there was a lot of shallow water demanding extra care in boat handling.

It was a beautiful day from start to finish: highs in the low seventies, plenty of sunshine, with a few passing clouds to give the sky some character. The company was as perfect as the weather.

We hadn’t gone far when we spotted a trout rising in a shallow flat, where none had shown themselves last week. The reduced flow made it easy for them to hold and feed happily. We were not too many miles from the dam, and it had been cool overnight, so the water was cold enough to encourage a few tiny sulfur mayflies to hatch by late morning. The fish were tough in bright sun and clear water, but we found some success. The day melted away much faster, as we enjoyed good conversation between productive stops.

We drifted and talked of flies and designs, kidding one another about our own approaches to solving Nature’s puzzle of the day. Come mid-afternoon, we found another group of risers, this time with no sulfurs, nor any other visible bug in sight. It was my turn at the rod and I did my best: a size 20 Rusty Spinner, an ant and beetles large and small, a size 20 summer Blue Quill and a 22 olive emerger that I could barely see. One fish nosed that one and didn’t eat, refusing to return after I struck and whisked the fly away, distracted at just the wrong moment. Generally, those trout fed happily and disdained everything I offered. I surrendered the rod to JA and he took the opportunity to show that his approach had considerable merit, taking the fish of the day on a foam, hair and rubber legged creation I thought reminiscent of a cricket.

John cast that fly to one of the risers along the bank, the same fish that had ignored my offerings, and was soon fast to a big, hard charging brown. He wasn’t coming to the boat easy, and JA played him perfectly on light tippet; nineteen inches of angry brownie that kept trying to jump out of the big boat net once I finally got him in it.

Evening overtook us before we were ready for it. No evening rise would appear, but the beauty of the sun dappled riverscape brought smiles from both of us as we passed those last few miles. It was indeed a perfect summer day: two friends sharing their passion for angling and the outdoors, catching a few nice trout and laughing at the ones that escaped our flies.

John will be the first to say he doesn’t really care if he catches a trout, for he loves the time on the river and the fishing for itself. For my own part I care, though I would much rather be out fishing bright water without catching trout, than I would not being out there fishing.

In my heart and soul, I am a wading angler. I crave that connection to the water and the trout I seek, the feel of current on my legs, the eye level view of the surface. I can analyze the drift much better when I am in it, identify the flies struggling in the film, track the drift of my imitation. True, a boat allows me to fish a great deal of water in a day, but wading allows me to fish it well, to know it and feel it in my soul.

I let my excitement rule me as I began my day, overreacting to a quick, hard popping take! I never felt the trout that took my tiny caddis imitation, the 6X tippet parting on my over exuberant hookset. After that first foray into the full spring flow of the river, I put away my wading staff and let myself get comfortable on my legs alone. The Red Gods granted me that much after missing thirteen of fourteen days of summer fishing outright, then either wading one severely limited reach of crowded water or floating for another week. They give, and then they take away.

With little in the way of insects in the drift, I knotted an experimental beetle imitation to my tippet. A murmer in flat current spoke trout to me and I laid a cast deep into the shade of an overhanging tree. The take was late in the drift, and he came to me immediately, while I tried in vain to get a solid hookset with too much slack between us. I saw him just as the hook pulled free. Yes, the Red Gods give, and they take away.

As morning melted into afternoon, I missed two more opportunities. The educated wild trout of summer love to follow a tiny dry fly, nipping and refusing only late in the drift, as inevitable drag begins. I switched back and forth as the sparse naturals came in brief, mixed bag flurries; sulfur to olive to caddis, then back. When the forecast calm winds turned blustery, that experimental beetle pattern found it’s way back onto my leader. There was one good trout that had risen a few times, and had ignored my tiny mayflies. The beetle proved to be mouthful enough to overcome his suspicions, and the battle was joined!

With spring like flows invigorating us both, he fought with remarkable vigor as the lithe wisp of golden cane arched and bucked in response to his energy! He ran hard, pulling backing through the guides and I worked my way carefully to shallower water while I gave line, reeled, and gave again as the great trout battled against the pull of the working rod. Thinking victory was at hand when the line returned to my reel spool, I relaxed a bit, only to hear the staccato music of the Trutta Perfetta come to a new crescendo as my foe took back what I had gained!

Finally I maneuvered for the netting, and the heavy body and deep, glimmering hues of a very wild twenty inch brown thrashed in the clear mesh.

Releasing my prize into the clear, shallow water brought another rush of gratitude and appreciation for the rivers of my heart. Thankful to return to the beauty of the Catskill summers I so cherish, I lingered in the moment, snapping another photo as the brown recovered at my feet.

The wind redoubled its efforts after that, with one mighty gust that gave me pause at its ferocity, and I scanned the skies to be sure some violent storm wasn’t headed up the river valley. A rouge wind, thankfully nothing more. I continued to cast the beetle along the tree-lined shore, but no more lurking browns revealed themselves. Walking out, I expressed my quiet gratitude for the moments of grace the river had granted.

At last, a break from the constant onslaught of storms! The past two days have offered the kind of Catskill summer I most enjoy. It was a pleasure to wade some freestone rivers and feel their full, cold flows against my legs once again!

I would like to think this weather will last, as we are indeed amidst high summer, with August on the doorstep. I want to get back to stalking trout in cool summer flows and reveling in the beauty of each day, each evening. The high flows have cooled the rivers, and that is a gift to be thankful for, but we would all prefer cool nights, moderate days and more regular, gentle evening rainfall to keep them cool, inviting and productive.

I waded the past two days, forgoing the boat as the West Branch was hammered again by Tuesday night’s storm. The flow had more than doubled by morning, and remained higher as the reservoir began to spill. I reasoned that these events would not improve the fishing, with respect to the quiet solo float I enjoyed on Tuesday.

It was refreshing to work my legs against the Beaverkill’s strong current. Running clear and cold at springtime water levels, I almost expected to see a Quill Gordon take wing. The scene took me back to April, getting my winter legs in shape with the toil of wading frigid water.

I did find some mayfly activity, but the trout seemed far more interested in chasing the emerging nymphs beneath the surface, a few splashing heavily as they caught them just below with a rush. I coaxed one up to my Cahill emerger Thursday evening, as I lingered to enjoy the river and the weather.

I returned yesterday afternoon, finding the reach deserted and a bit more tame current wise. I prospected a bit, waiting. Once again the splashes signaled the coming of the cream colored mays, and once again the trout were to focused on their subsurface chase to pay heed to a dry fly. There was one though…

He rose just two or three times, inches from the far bank, across all that rushing water. I worked my way carefully down river, until the bottom fanned into smaller cobble, and a more negotiable flow. Staff in hand, I picked my way across, knowing that one slip of a boot could take me away. Reaching a suitable casting position, I called upon the crisp three weight to take my fly the final sixty feet or so.

Light line rods are made for touch, adding reach makes them a perfect tool for summer rivers; even at springtime flows. The first cast laid the fly gently a foot and a half from the bank, from whence it drifted perfectly, though un-assailed. Cast number two floated along a foot out, gliding peacefully and likewise unmolested. Another foot of line pulled from the reel, half to close the distance just a bit more, and half to add additional slack to account for the infinitesimal slowing of the current so close to the shore. Perfect; and yes, ignored.

I felt confident that the Cahill emerger was the right fly, so I fluffed the CDC wing with a brush of Frog’s Fanny and blew the excess into the breeze. I’ll give him a moment, I told myself. He had not risen during my final approach, though I figured he remained in whatever little dip or slot he favored in the rocky bottom. I had not seen a natural drift through either.

Finally I made another pitch, right in there, half a foot from the waterline, gliding, gliding, and taken! The light rod throbbed when I raised it,. and the trout bulled into a deeper slot nearby, searching for a snag. He found one no doubt, for with my line pulling hard down toward the bottom, he rocketed out half a dozen feet upstream from the spot where my taught fly line disappeared. The jump managed to pull the line free, and I made the most of the direct connection to pressure him away from the bank and those hidden snags. He wasn’t content to come easily, fighting with everything he had to get back to the snags.

Tense moments, and nearly a standstill, each pulling hard as I wondered about my compromised tippet. If the snag had frayed it…

He showed me his flank and I increased the pressure, working him away from the bank inches at a time. He must have a tree limb down there, as rock would have cut the leader, and he wasn’t giving it up easily. Eventually, I began to win the tug of war, working him far enough from his sanctuary where I could see the bottom. Pulling with everything he had, my first glimpse of his length got me thinking he might be larger than the net would reveal. Strong trout will do that. As it was I admired a full bodied wild brown eighteen inches long, as I twisted the fly free and sent him back to his hideaway. A lovely soft evening indeed.

The Red Gods saw fit to grant a single night’s reprieve from the onslaught of storm systems, and the West Branch cleared enough for fishing yesterday morning. At 2,200 cfs of flow, the cold release water accounting for two thirds of that total, I had high hopes for some mayflies and rising trout. Easing the boat across the pool through the veil of morning mist, I found solitude and reflection.

Sticking with my plan, I had rigged my rod with a big, ugly cricket-like creation I hoped would draw the attention of a bankside brown. I rowed gently to the deeper bank and anchored a cast away from it and then fired that creature beneath an overhanging branch. I immediately questioned my choice of 5X tippet, as this wad of deer hair and hackle proved much more air resistant than my typical Baby Cricket, but I continued, fishing all the stretch of bank within range before pulling the anchor and sliding down.

At the second station I elicited a rise without a take, deciding to follow up with a beetle. That trout had said his good mornings, and proved he wasn’t interested in a more engaging chat.

I switched flies again, choosing the 2020 Cricket as a compromise between big and ugly enough and too much so as to be intimidating. Sure enough, a couple of stops down that bank I garnered another rise sans take, a clear “we ain’t buying any” that sent me back to the more subtle beetle for the next hour. No one was buying that either. Crickets, either my Baby or the Master’s venerable Letort Cricket original were a powerful morning weapon on the Cumberland Valley limestoners, but the West Branch bank feeders seemed too accustomed to a diet of tiny summer mayflies to sample this succulent fare today.

After eleven I noticed the first tiny sulfurs riding the surface, and anchored below the riffle feeding a productive flat. It was half an hour before I spotted a rise. I lifted the anchor with all due care and slid over and down just enough to make a perfect cast, but the sporadic flies proved insufficient to sustain any feeding. My trout ate a handful over a ten minute period, sliding up and down in the flat, and then went back to his repose. I waited until past Noon, expecting a good hatch that never came.

The next stop offered the potential for a hatch, so I lingered watching and thanking the sentinel eagle in his lone skeleton tree for tolerating my presence. His patience proved it’s longevity, as he remained when I finally lifted my anchor and drifted on.

I covered several miles of river during the next couple of hours, passing a single boat, and many spots where I expected flies, though the river remained quiet and serene as the sun warmed the air. A little bump in water temperature often triggers a hatch, so I covered the next mile with careful attention. Rounding a bend I saw them at last, two or three trout rising freely along the bank. I scanned the surface to find a few tiny sulfurs, before tying a new longer tippet and a size 20 parachute to my leader.

I slipped into position without alarming those trout, and went to work with the four weight.

The riffled water upstream seemingly funneled enough sulfurs down along that one reach of bank to keep at least three trout happy for a while, and they fed along in their usual picky style. One cut the surface with his dorsal after sipping a fly in the quieter current tight to a dip in the bank, bringing a knowing smile to my weathered face. My next cast put the fly close, clearing the tree branch between us and allowing enough slack to give the fly a few seconds of float time before the faster current ripped it out of that pocket. It was just enough time for six inches of drift.

The trout took quickly, and the rod bucked as I tightened and the big brown shot out into the current and away. That bank is steep, and the river deepens considerably where the full force of the flow comes through a constriction. That brownie knew just how to fight the rod on his terms. It was a long test for that tiny fly hook, for even after his long runs had subsided, he darted and twisted down into the rock strewn channel each time I tried to bring him to the boat. He had given me several good looks during my efforts, easily over twenty inches, and I wanted him. The hook held, the reason I tie the majority of my small flies on a special model, and I finally managed the scoop with the long handled boat net; a beauty, and happy to return to the ice cold river after our struggle.

The battle had pushed his partner further down the bank, so I repositioned before fishing to him. He had seen my little sulfur several times before his companion showed himself and garnered all of my attention, and he simply refused to give it a look now. I had seen one or two larger flies taken with relish, so I opted for one of the Light Cahill parachutes I had tied for the summer boat box. He couldn’t resist the bigger meal.

With two good trout in the boat my anticipation peaked. It was mid-afternoon and I expected to round a corner to find a hatch and pods of trout working at every bend. Flies remained scarce though as I floated through the rest of that pool, a gorgeous riffle, and on through a favorite run seeing nothing but scenery. Lingering again at the top of a pool, I smiled when I spotted a single rise along the bank downstream. My move was calculated and as stealthy as possible, and I was rewarded with another hard fighting brown.

The haze had thickened during the day, and here within the shadow of the mountain it was cooler. The afternoon continued to soften, and I knew evening would not be far behind. I reveled in the solitude and the simply beauty of the river while I waited.

I spotted the last rise from a distance, tight to the bank and soft, with wide spreading rings. A good fish. I left some distance between us, as this place is familiar and it’s trout particularly wary. The Cahill was still on my tippet, and I had seen a few taking wing from the faster water, where the run becomes the great pool. My casts were perfect, the drifts flawless, but this trout was not impressed. He continued to feed at intervals, sometimes sipping gently, and occasionally tipping his nose above the flat surface and giving me that white wink with his open mouth.

There were a few small flies about, but my size 20 olive was likewise ignored. The sulfur, not interested, not even for a dainty spinner imitation recommended by the softness of his initial rise. I could see a lighter colored fly once or twice, perhaps a natural Cahill, but these mayflies were clearly not on his menu either. I had offered all of the likely imitations without a glance, while he still moved about in his pocket among the rocks and fed happily.

My eyes fell upon the big Halo Isonychia stuck in the boat’s foam fly patch as I cut off the spinner. I knotted it securely and prepared to cast, still certain he was taking smaller flies. I cannot recall what distracted me, perhaps the loose fly line on the floor catching on my shoe or the anchor rope, but I looked down and then back at my fly, late to the take. I managed a rushed hookset, though not one that inspired confidence, and that trout bored away from the bank hard and fast. Deeper water was closest to me, so he closed upon me, while I stripped line as fast as possible. That was when the tangle occurred.

I found it when he charged downstream, taking line until that tangle was an inch from my stripping guide. Disaster an inch away, and a big trout fighting like leviathan! We went back and forth like that, the fish running back toward me so I stripped feverishly, then running hard away while I feathered the line, picking at the tangle whenever he stopped and thrashed the water.

Somehow I managed to stop that fish each time, the tangle a whisper from jamming the guide, and finally picked it free. With the fish on the reel my heart rate eased just a bit. All the while that trout felt like a true behemoth, and I expected I’d need at least a two foot ruler if I eventually brought him to the net. Sometimes their heart makes up for their size. In the boat at last, I wrestled the fly from deep in the mouth of my hard won brown. I didn’t measure him, estimating he might make nineteen inches, and not a thirty-second more.

I felt the tension in my shoulders relax after the release, though the fire in my neck wasn’t going anywhere. From that point on I floated freely, savoring the glow of a hazy summer evening as the mist rose all around. I stopped just once, finding nothing of consequence, and drifted on, calling home to tell Cathy she needn’t wait until eight to come collect me.