I had one of those far too rare chances to fish with my buddy the other day. It was a nice, misty morning that warmed into brilliant sunlight on bright water. I had high hopes for success, but of course realize that doesn’t come around whenever we want it to. It is enough to go fishing…

We fished on through the mist and into the brilliance of full sunlight without a hookup. Our plan was to fish a couple of pools, one early and one late, and JA was moving to the bank as I came slowly down river. I took a moment to make a couple of critical casts.

A long cast was sent on it’s way, the line mended judiciously to extend the drift, as I watched the Grizzly Beetle float down, down, down into the promised land. There was no take that I could discern, but a sudden soft bow in the line told me something was afoot, and I tightened into a state of nirvana.

The river was cold this early and this trout was feeling his oats, ripping the line in mad dashes so that my little Hardy Bougle` was screaming, shattering the morning silence as we danced. JA made haste in his photographer mode while I gave the old boy all of the muscle the eight feet of vintage Colorado cane could spare. Finally tired from those runs, I led him close enough to slip the net beneath.

There are not too many things more beautiful than a gorgeously colored wild brown trout in the glow of Catskill morning sunlight. I eased the fish into alignment with the measuring centerline of the net and smiled as all two feet of him splashed a bit of that cold water in my face; and then the bubble burst.

I spotted my reliable Grizzly Beetle right there in the top of his neb. Had he taken the fly and spit it out by the time I noticed the line movement and tightened? Or had he come up and bumped the fly once a hint of drag betrayed it as a fraud? I’ll never know the answers, just as this wonderful brownie will never grace my log as a fair catch.

This has been a difficult season to say the least. Such are the wages of angling, though I am thankful for every day, each hour that I am graced to wander these Catskill rivers. Perhaps Mr. Neb and I will meet again. A bit of leader adjustment, a modification of fly, or a change in casting angle may prove to be the key to success…

July is almost behind us; the second half of the season begins slipping away…

My thoughts are clearing slowly this morning, looking to focus on my trip to the Rodmaker’s Workshop in a few hours. More strong coffee will be required before I am ready to meet the challenges ahead.

July has been as consistently hot as advertised, it’s fishing up and down as has been the character of this 2025 season. But a couple of days have brought the pleasant weather I know and crave in the lovely images of memory: Catskill Summer.

Fishing has meant some long days, rising well before the sun and stalking the mist, then extending my search through the bright, steamy afternoons. The body feels the strain, as age is relentless. I feel what I have always considered to be a good tired, one borne of a fulfilling and noble pursuit, but the dues increase with each passing year. The work of angling though, has not been without it’s rewards!

On one long summer’s day I turned the tables, adapting to a new season of change. I fished an afternoon reach just after daybreak and found a worthy adversary. He charged from cover in a rush as the steel found it’s mark!

Long runs highlighted the battle, until the pull of the arching cane led him ultimately to hand. Just shy of two feet, he was beautiful there among the meshes, quickly returned that he might recover the great energy expended for my benefit. With turnabout working I migrated to a morning haunt come afternoon and was blessed to encounter his twin as the winds stirred the summer air!

There seem to be additional dues to be paid for such successes this year. I missed a fine trout at week’s end, changed the fly and cast again. Unbelievably he took, though our association ended just as quickly in a broken strand of fluorocarbon. Another hour of searching brought this days’ search to a bitter end, when a backcast collapsed, the rod broken summarily at the ferrule.

I have several rods out of commission it seems: one broken along with my heart, a loose ferrule here, chipped varnish there. Of course, the clock is ticking on my own rod making project, a call I must answer today.

Make no mistake, the joys of this Catskill life are many, but the dues paid have proved stiff this season. On my last visit to the Rodmaker’s Workshop, I found one glued up rod tip ready for finish work, the other though mysteriously uncured. Alcohol removed the gooey mess of the faulty epoxy, and the tip was reglued thanks to John’s persistence. Today’s trip will reveal whether this second effort brings success. Much work remains, as I wish to complete the Angler’s Rest Special for the 31st Catskill Gathering in early September.

When a big fish beats you, its pretty much expected that a return engagement is warranted. Ma Nature and her trout don’t always allow another opportunity of course, but some of us that remain impassioned by this grand game tend to seek them anyway. I have been guilty of carrying that to extreme, maybe even obsession.

With one day of fishing remaining last week, my thoughts were centered on that trout that didn’t rise, yet managed to keep my Grizzly Beetle at the early ending of our surprise encounter. The forecast was bleak: rain and thunderstorms, winds 15 to 20 miles per hour, with a side of hot and humid despite the overcast. Of course I was going fishing.

I made one concession, taking along my old Winston BIIX four weight, yes a plastic fly rod, as I didn’t wish to get my choice bamboo soaked when the deluge came. I know how the Red Gods think, and I figured I was due for another soaking.

The little Winston has mojo. It served as my everyday rod on the Cumberland Valley spring creeks for a good run of seasons. Winston even put my name on it. In my humble opinion, the mid-2000’s Boron II X rods were the best of the boron/graphite fly rods that Winston made. They had a really nice flexing medium action, particularly that little eight-footer that could do everything required on my spring creeks.

So, mojo in hand I set out that afternoon to find the forecast was about 180 degrees off course. Hazy, hot and humid ruled, with nary a drop of rainfall and a fair amount of sunshine. The trout seemed to be elsewhere as I worked the same plan of attack as I had the day before. The Red Gods did have something in store for me though.

I was getting close to the location of my non-rising, tippet breaking foe when my solitude was interrupted by a terrific splashing and rustling near the downstream shoreline. I quickened my wading to the limits of stealth, but I was going to come up short of my target. Three wader clad individuals emerged from the bushes with an electroshocking rig, fine meshed nets, buckets and assorted gear, courtesy of New York State. They were just far enough downstream that their sloshing about hadn’t immediately sent waves across the river toward the primary lies I had come to fish, seeking a rematch, but they began to move upstream.

I managed to get into position as the seconds ticked away toward disaster, wading deeper and with poorer footing than I had planned, and started casting the venerable Grizzly Beetle toward fate’s doorway.

I was watching my casts and my drifts, and looking over my shoulder to check the progress of disturbance, with my nerves getting frazzled. Turning back with my line retrieved for another cast, I caught a streak of motion beneath overhanging cover, and then a soft wide ring opened and radiated outward. My arm dropped and I sent a side armed cast low and gently beneath the lie’s ceiling, checking my wrist to drop the fly downstream of tippet, leader and line. I watched those little barbs of grizzly hackle catch the light, and tracked them right into the spreading rings of another soft, wide ring of the rise.

A pause, a solid strike, and then I was backing away and stripping line to draw the trout from the cover he had so effectively used to defeat me. Avoiding a dunking when the precarious footing sought to betray me, I managed to control the big fellow and get him headed downstream against the drag. No teeth would cut the tippet this time.

In the net at last, he was a gorgeous, heavy and uniquely colored brown taping 23 inches. I found no fly in his mouth save the one still attached to me and my little Winston. The same fish? I cannot know with certainty, but the chances are good. Caught just in time, before the Red Gods new little twist of fate could rob me of the chance!

Hot weather has dominated these Catskills for the first half of July, there is no question about that. There is a little relief in the forecast, but for the most part the heat will continue.

Usually, July’s hot weather brings good fishing, but this first half for 2025 has been hit or miss. The summer heat is good for my style of fishing, stalking trout out hunting for a good meal, but just when things started to pick up in that regard, those trout seemed to vanish. When the fish change habits, the old angler has to change his tactics. I did that yesterday, though I probably should have tried it a week ago.

I went deep into stealth mode, dressing for the afternoon heat, wading deep, and downsizing flies. I worked some water that looked more than simply inviting but offered no signs of life. I kept at it of course, moving with agonizing slowness and placing long, delicate casts where my instincts said they should go.

Wild trout play their part in tune with the Red Gods of course, and they couldn’t resist taking a few jabs at my psyche. Fifty yards into my deep-water creep, I heard a little plop back upstream. Ah, so there is life up there… This wasn’t the situation which allowed me to back track, so I kept working, sticking with my plan.

I was a couple of hours into my hunt and made several casts to an old favorite haunt. No sign of life once more. My mind wandered back to the early years of my retirement, when this place was red hot. I took some great fish during the hatch season and even more when summer arrived! There seemed to always be a big old brownie in this location. I didn’t always catch one there, but there was almost always one there to match wits with. The spot had gone cold a few years ago, and I mean ice cold. I had not seen any evidence of a trout using that hide for something like five seasons. I often wondered if there had been some bit of unseen cover that had washed away in high water, some way that Nature had changed that lie to make it unattractive to trout.

All of this history ran through my mind as I creeped along and worked my casts around the edges and then deep into the hole. Nothing. No surprise. One cast drifted my fly along the edge very tight to the bank as I squinted in the high sunshine to follow it’s drift. I never saw a take, but slowly saw the long leader start to bow as if the fly was no longer floating free. Tightening gently, I felt resistance and raised the rod to a boil in the calm surface.

This was a big fish, and I got him started toward me. When he bulled against my pressure, I made the fatal mistake. I held my ground and reeled up the slack line to get him on the reel, and he used that moment of stalemate to wrap me around something. I felt the tippet break and the line go slack.

I do like to play big fish from the reel. Loose fly line has a knack for tangling on anything available, even itself. Line management is one of the little difficulties of fishing fine and far off. Getting that slack line back onto the reel and out of trouble is important. Did I break a Cardinal rule? Well, everything in fishing has some flux depending upon the situation, but it usually pays to keep a fish coming away from any cover you hooked him in. I thought I had him in a safe spot, but I didn’t.

I have never given up on that particular trout lie, despite five seasons of wondering why the fish seemed to have abandoned it. Maybe time has let me take a few things for granted, and maybe I wasn’t giving my fishing the full concentration required in the moment. I will be looking for that cagey old fellow the next time I fish that reach of river though! You can bet on it.

The rod is called Trout Bum, and it has some history to it. Sweet Water rods were the creation of George Maurer, a Pennsylvania rodmaker who left this earth far too soon. He left a significant legacy though, for not only did he create many interesting rod tapers for his beautiful bamboo fly rods, he shared his genius by teaching others seeking to follow the craft of split bamboo. One of those seekers was an old friend of mine, a young man from Chambersburg, Pennsylvania by the name of Wyatt Dietrich. Wyatt made several hundred fine bamboo flyrods over some fifteen years, including honoring George’s legacy by making a memory series of some Sweet Water models in cooperation with the Maurer family. My Trout Bum is one of these memory rods, made in a classic three-piece configuration.

You may have heard of a guy from Colorado who was supposed to receive George’s first Trout Bum model. We lost John Gierach early too, just last October. His story “Lost Rod” speaks to the fate of Maurer’s gift, which had to be given twice after some culprit stole the original, leading to our writer friend receiving an empty shipping tube.

Mine was a 3-piece because I had planned to travel to Colorado and fish some of it’s Front Range waters, a plan derailed by a little unplanned visit to a heart surgeon. It’s a terrific rod, and thinking about that rod and it’s unique circumstances had me take it out, clean it’s ferrules and take it fishing late in June.

I mounted one of my favorite 3″ St. George reels which complemented the eight-footer nicely in balance and appearance. The line is what I think of as a five-and-a-half Cortland, a half a line size heavy five weight that matches perfectly with the Bum. Wyatt suggested this model was happy with either a number 5 or 6 fly line, depending upon caster’s preference, and this midsize Cortland was perfect!

I think that George Maurer’s original idea when he created the taper was to make a versatile trout rod that could fish most any kind of water, and he scored a direct hit. The Trout Bum has a great feel and boasts a smooth kind of power that easily reaches any distance you might require on larger rivers, and yet still will send a small dry fly somewhere close and tight and demanding with great delicacy. Can’t ask much more from a great fly rod than that.

The Trout Bum accompanied me on my first days of this Catskill summer, my favorite time of year, and it delivered a lot of smiles and remembrances, as well as a couple of big, powerful wild brown trout I hunted up in low, technical bright water. That kind of fly fishing requires what amounts to perfect casting: deadly accuracy, delicate presentation and the kind of control of line, leader and tippet that allows long, drag-free floats. My old friend’s Sweet Water delivered just what was needed!

I hope you are enjoying life out there Wyatt, and taking time to cast some of the many great rods you made over all those years. Remember there’s a friend here in the Catskills, and some great fishing…

There are a few constants when it comes to a particularly tough season, first that there are some high points that are absolutely spectacular, and second, that we have to keep on paying our dues for those high points.

In my mind, I think about the fact that Mother Nature rather severely disrupted the lives of the trout, to say nothing of the lives of the insects and baitfish and, of course, the anglers. Well, there is high water most years some say, and that is true, but for 2025 she brought down two very sustained events during the prime of the season, the time when the majority of our mayflies are either hatching or preparing to hatch, and all of the other baby organisms in their food chain are swimming out to investigate their new world. That flushed a lot of food away, and a lot of next year’s food too if you think about it. That means our trout have to find as much protein as they can during the summer.

I figure that our trout are going to have to move a lot, to work harder to get their shares of a diminished food base, to consider new options. My thoughts jump back to the snake I watched get devoured in one hell of a rise recently. I have already seen how that adjustment has affected my own fishing, changing patterns learned through decades of days on the water.

There’s another factor to consider too: dropping rivers. After all that rain in May and June, we seem to have returned to another drought cycle. Little of the rains predicted during these past few weeks has fallen. Lord, might you send us a three-day bundle of cooler air and gentle rain?

It was hot again yesterday, and the early morning hours and lack of sleep had caught up with me, so I did my best to sleep in. That didn’t work out so well, but I did at least try to rest a little, catch up on a blacked out ballgame, and save my fishing for a couple of hours in the afternoon.

It was another dues paying day. One decent trout insulted me by eating something a few minutes after I had thoroughly fished his location. It was a sizeable rise, and I changed the fly and worked that stretch over again, then once more with a third pattern. No rise, no movement, no nothing. Perhaps he was simply passing through and found a quick roadside stop for a sandwich. I’ll never know, but I have caught a lot of trout over the years in just that kind of situation. Once a hunter has betrayed his presence, there is a good chance that I will take him.

I kind of think he jumped right back in the car and chewed on that sandwich slowly after he hit the road again, looking for the next stop to catch his eye.

I took a moment myself, standing there alone and winding my line and leader onto my reel after clipping off my fly. I looked down river and couldn’t help but marvel at just how beautiful the scene before me was…

I felt pretty good for a guy who has been awakening at four in the morning. I do my best to ignore the aches and pains, though there are more of them this year. I allowed myself the full two mugs of coffee. The damp air and cold water should wake an angler up too, but somehow I just wasn’t at my best.

My casting was right there, accurate at distance with good presentations, my Sweetgrass pent laying the fly out there in the fog on it’s first day of use since 2024. Summer is in full swing so I figured it was about time to get one of my main summer fly rods out on the water. Last summer, I found a pretty good nick in the tip section, some sort of hook dig I guess. I had fished it on through the summer, then sent it on a long distance trip to Butte, Montana, where Glenn Brackett made me a brand new tip. This day would be the shakedown cruise, and the rod cast like it had never left my hand.

I was working along, and the fly settled perfectly on an edge, drifted maybe a foot, and then was plucked from the surface very, very gently. Somewhere during the few seconds required for that sequence, my mind wandered elsewhere. I stared at the water where the fly had been for an extra second and when I raised the rod there was nothing there.

Missing a fish on a summer morning is never a good thing. Summer is when I expect to be at my peak, having shaken off the long winter both physically and mentally. Perhaps those recurring four AM wakeups is taking a toll on my concentration.

After berating myself, I continued fishing, certain that I had awakened my concentration. An hour may have passed, more or less, and I saw a little sip, placed the fly perfectly, and tried to rip that fish out of the river! No hookup, and no fly this time. I overreacted so badly that I didn’t even feel any resistance, though I still managed to break the fly off.

Trashing two opportunities is simply disastrous, for this isn’t the kind of fishing which lets you make up for those mistakes. Our hatches have been generally light this season, and at this early point of summer, I have passed more days without seeing any mayflies than I have witnessed even a ghost of a hatch. That realization shook out the rest of the cobwebs in my head, and I vowed to fish at my best level for the rest of the trip.

I backed off a bit, taking advantage of the Sweetgrass rod’s ability to present the fly from a distance. Jerry Kustich had designed this taper for me during the Covid summer of 2020, based upon email conversations about what I wanted in an ideal summer four weight. I asked for 5-strip construction, something Jerry started experimenting with back before the Booboys left Winston. A good pent has a little something, a crisp feel, and the rods I have fished are accurate. My Sweetgrass has proven to be everything I hoped for when we began our discussions.

Working from greater distance makes you pay better attention to your casting, the timing and finesse required to make a perfect presentation. That helped me to get locked in and stay that way.

I made one of those long pitches to a bank where I had been teased a time or two, most recently by watching a little snake vanish in one Hell of a boil! The take came, I paused half a breath, and then I set the hook solidly with complete control. That new rod tip arched heavily as the trout bore down into cover!

I gave that fish everything my tackle could dish out, and I turned his head just enough to lead him out toward relatively open water. He put the test to the drag of my VR reel, and it sang proudly again and again. Every time I started to bring that fish close and reached for my net, he was off again. Finally though, the good mojo of that Sweetgrass pent urged all twenty-five inches of that brown trout into the net.

Gotta love a good rod with mojo!

Sunday July 6th, 5:35 PM and the official porch sitting temperature here in Crooked Eddy sits at 100 degrees Fahrenheit: a pleasant summer evening here in the Catskills. I am not sitting on my porch, though I am sitting here in front of the fan thinking about fishing. The fan is on high, so tying flies is impractical to say the least. One cannot tie a dry fly when the feathers and the dubbing keep blowing away across the room.

I tied the balance of this weekend’s two dozen dry flies this morning, with the air at a comfortable 60 degrees. They have been packed in the single fly box which is occupying my small chest pack, ready for the morning. Warm days and low water is upon us, New York City having decided to drop the releases from the Delaware system reservoirs despite the fact that they are nearly full (98.5% of capacity). Trout don’t count much in their world, and trout fishermen count even less.

I put the five weight Leonard back in the rod rack and drew my four weight Sweetgrass from the tube which harbored it since last September. Dennis Menscer’s three weight is on standby as the week progresses. I checked the line and leader on the Trutta Perfetta reel my Sweetgrass is comfortable with and rebuilt the business end of the leader. Good to go with the sunrise.

There’s no ballgame tonight, and no chance I would try any evening fishing in this heat, so I am here musing about long summer days. A lot of guys seem to want to fish the evening rise to exclusion, but the fact is the rivers are at their warmest point at that time of the day. Yes, even after sunset. I hope they carry a stream thermometer and use it. Earlier in the spring was the time for evening fishing, and even then I find myself spending my days on the water rather than my nights. I spent both out there when I was younger and dumber, but now I like to see what I’m doing, as well as the glorious places I get to do it.

It looks like this week will be all eighty and better degree days, though the early mornings will feature the more friendly sixties. I guess I won’t be getting too much sleep again, but I’ll be driving to the river with the windows open!

For many years, back before the Flexible Flow Management Plan altered Cannonsville’s cold water releases, the Fourth of July marked my final Catskill trip of the season. Those were the days of pulsing, and other questionable management practices, when late summer trips might mean fishing a warming river one day and a frigid one too high to wade the next. Early July seemed to be the last more or less stable period on the West Branch Delaware, and it was prime time for the ubiquitous sulfur hatches on the upper river. Those trips on and around the Fourth became known as the Summer Jam, and hold many fond memories.

Once the FFMP became effective, I ventured north throughout the summer, finding great, challenging dry fly fishing through July and August. There are memories there too, but the days of the Summer Jam remain special.

I rolled over yesterday morning, badly needing some rest after a week of four AM mornings and chasing trout before the sun burned away the early morning fog. It was the Fourth of July, and my thoughts ran back to seasons past once my morning coffee took effect. I decided to relax for a few hours and visit my old haunts along the West Branch.

I didn’t know if I would find a place to fish on a crowded holiday weekend, a fear that was reinforced when I pulled in early and had to wait for a parking spot. Plenty of anglers, armadas of kayaks and questionable watercraft on the river, yes, a holiday weekend to be sure. When I walked over to the river though, I didn’t see anyone fishing, and my smile brightened. I rigged my Leonard and knotted a little trailing shuck sulfur to the 6X tippet and waded in.

A young man had also entered the water and decided to shadow me as I crossed to search an old favorite reach of riverbank. He seemed not to know what he was supposed to do with that new fly rod with the bobber on the leader and, though he shadowed me all the way across the river, he quickly wandered back to midstream. I expected more fishermen to crowd in upon my little 60-yard stretch of water and was surprised when no one did.

Another old West Branch acquaintance joined me as I waited for more than an hour for some sign of a sulfur hatch though, a strong, gusty downstream wind. It had been calm and pleasant in Hancock, but something about Deposit seems to generate some serious summer winds. I figured the worst of those gusts were hitting 25 miles per hour, but I waited, hoping for some bugs and an occasional calmer spell to try to match mine with Mother Nature’s.

Eventually, a handful of sulfurs began to show, mostly the little guys matched with a size 20. I felt pretty good about my little shucked fly, tied on a 2XS size 18 hook, but when I finally spied a rise here and there, the trout showed no interest whatsoever. Now these weren’t feeding fish, just the kind that make one or two casual rises during a twenty-minute stare down, so that fly stayed knotted and I continued to play the patience game.

My patience was rewarded when a good fish began to rise downstream. It didn’t take more than ten steps to position myself to make the right cast in that wind, and I went to work on him between the strongest gusts. The drifts looked good, very good as a matter of fact, but he never gave me a look. Tying on small dry flies in high winds isn’t something I enjoy, particularly in the heat of the moment. My vision isn’t what it once was, and trying to slide the end of a wind-vibrated tippet through that tiny hook eye has become frustrating. Luckily, the Red Gods smiled upon me, perhaps granting special dispensation in deference to my calm demeanor and patience. Size 20 100-Year Dun ready to go!

My fish seemed to have gone quiet though. He failed to rise to the new fly despite repeating those lovely drifts. After several casts, I saw a heavy rise downstream, at the bottom of the small pocket of sunshine he had been rising in. I pulled a little more line from the LRH Lightweight and made a perfect pitch. One drift with that 100-Year Dun was magic!

We hooked up and there was the immediate sense of weight and power. The old Hardy wailed its music as he streaked back into the shade where the snags live, and I used the full arch of the bamboo and the pull of the wind-driven current to urge him back into the light. He ran down then, taking most of my fly line. With 6X tippet and that little dry fly hook, it was clear this wasn’t going to be easy.

Big trout often don’t like the vibrations going down the line when we reel them in. After a couple of turns followed by downstream runs, I stripped the line smoothly when I got him headed my way. That tactic got a lot of line back, and every time he stopped to shake his head, I reeled some slack back onto the Hardy. We played this game two or three times, and I realized that the wind-driven ripples on this normally quiet pool were oxygenating the water and giving him his second wind, maybe even his third.

You can do everything right playing a big trout on light tackle and still lose the game. Sometimes it comes down to exactly where that little fly hook digs in. If it doesn’t have a good bite, it pops out at the moment of truth. If it was down inside the mouth, the trout’s teeth will abrade the fragile tippet and break it. This time though, I found that tiny Sprite hook tucked tightly into the outside of his mouth, right where you want it to be.

Fourth of July, and an unmolested little reach of riverbank with a lot of memories despite a very crowded river. A fine vintage rod and reel that performed better in the wind and in handling the fish than all of the overhyped modern stuff does, and yea, my best fly. Nice new memory: a two-and-a-half-hour Summer Jam!

When the hatch finished and I waded back to the crowded parking lot, one of three guys parked next to me stopped eating his sandwich to say “that was a really nice fish you landed” with a smile. I told him thanks, that yes it was a good brown, twenty-one inches, and a hard fighter…really hard.

At last, we have enjoyed a few days of Catskill Summer! Cool, misty mornings, with some days steamy and hot while others flirt with that blissful realm of warmth and light. I caught up on some needed rest this holiday morning, as age seems to be catching up with me!

I love my morning hunts in summertime; they are all about my favorite way to fish at our loveliest time of year. The trout still come slowly this season. How could they not after two terrific onslaughts of fishing pressure and high water.

I wade slowly, keeping my presence unknown to the quarry as best I can. Perhaps non-threatening is a better word, for I do not believe even the stealthiest wader may pass without the trout’s awareness. Watch sometime as you simply stand in a quiet pool and cast. Body movements send gentle waves out, even when we may think only our arm is moving!

I stalked along looking for some clue to the sound of a subtle rise I had heard from a distance. I know that hunter may have moved many yards, either upstream or down, while this hunter made a careful approach. Listen, watch, and fish the cover selectively.

Motion caught my eye, it was not a neb that reflected the filtered sunlight though. A little water snake swam along the edge of the riverbank. I watched him for perhaps twenty feet, then a terrific, foamy bomb exploded in his path. Breakfast for hunter number two! I offered my fly anyway, a choice of two as a matter of fact, though they brought no interest. I feel confident his appetite was satisfied. Damn that snake!

Half a mile later I searched for hunter number three, chasing another sound. No serpents here I am thankful. Is hunter number three still haunting this edge? The vintage Leonard lays the Baby tight to the edge, working down in sections defined by the available lanes of drag-free drift. Plop!

His boil reminds me of the snake-eater, and then the LRH’s scream breaks the stillness of the morning! My rod and reel are fifty-five years old, and still young compared to hunter one who wields them. Tackle and angler outlast him, bringing him eventually to the shallows and the waiting mesh. Beautiful!

I keep stalking as the sun warms the last of the mist. It swirls away to join the bright air and vanishes on the way. Morning has passed on.

On some mornings, hunter one meets another. Battles ensue; some won, some lost. Some hunters are known by their movements, even a subtle rise at times, but refuse to play the game. The Red Gods decide the rules.