If you read a lot of fly fishing books, I expect you have noticed the common theme of meeting the hatches for great fishing. Some of those tomes make it seem quite a simple matter to consult a hatch chart for river X and then show up with a handful of the classic fly pattern to match the hatch du jour. I guess if you are really lucky it could happen that way for you, maybe once or twice in a lifetime.

In the real world, Mother Nature throws us curves. The hatch that’s supposed to be in full swing usually isn’t, either winding down because they were hot and heavy last week, or there’s nothing but a few advance scouts because the main hatch won’t really come off for another week or so. That is more like a typical spring on our Catskill rivers. And then there’s summer…

Hot weather and a lack of rain changes things, and usually most of the main mayfly hatches are finished for the season once summer rolls around. I love summer time in the Catskills, and it is not for the big hatches. What you usually get in the summer is a little of this, and a little of that.

This morning was lovely. We actually had what the weather man would call a shower, though let me be clear that I think “a dampening” is a more accurate description. It was brief, but the cloud cover and that smidgen of rainfall left a new freshness in the air. It was cooler, and it’s stayed a bit cooler throughout the day, though there was plenty of sunshine on the river when I sidled down her bank at a quarter to eight.

I watched a while, seeing very few tan caddis flying about, then eased into the river and tied one of my T.P. Caddis to the 5X. There were no rises, and I had no intention of fishing the water with that fly, but there was a lie close by that I have some history with. When I fished that reach last summer I had my fly taken away when not too much was happening.

I figured it wouldn’t hurt the rest of the pool if I made a couple of casts to that particular lie to see if my old nemesis was home and thinking about breakfast. I made three casts, starting above the lie, twitching the fly and picking it up before it ran out of slack and dragged. At least that’s what I did with the first two casts.

I shouldn’t have been as surprised when that big boy set my Hardy spinning and rocketed out of the water three times with the reel screaming all the way. The small spurt riseform should have told me that my old friend was a Delaware rainbow. I think the folks at Hardy ought to make a sizeable conservation donation to benefit the Delaware River and its wild rainbows, as there’s nothing like a bow to light up the atmosphere with that special kind of music that Hardy reels are known for!

He was something! My old Granger was bent dangerously then he was out of the water again, twice, before rushing downstream to make the clicker sizzle again. When he decided to come back upstream I was reeling frantically to try to keep up. I barely made it. A Delaware bow with shoulders, and a lot of piss and vinegar, he measured twenty-two inches in the net. Made my day with three casts!

The caddis I had seen didn’t stay around, and it was a while before I began to see a rise here and there. I had a different fly on by then, a smaller CDC caddis, at least until I saw a dark mayfly wriggle to the surface while I was trying to pinpoint one of those risers. Cornutas; I had seen a lone spinner last week so I knew a few had been around. I dug out the comparadun I had tried that morning and started working down to cover the rise.

The next “little rise” turned out to be a little fish, but that ten inch brownie put a bend in the Granger as best he could. After landing small fry, another good fish showed, but he wasn’t interested in that comparadun. The cornuta hatch lasted maybe ten minutes, then things went very quiet for half an hour.

I switched the deer hair comparadun for one of the T.P. Duns I had tied last week, hoping that more than the single spinner I had picked up would show up on this beautiful stretch of river. A spurt rise got me thinking bow again and I covered it with a long downstream cast, backing up the rod tip before dropping it quickly to put plenty of slack in the leader. He came for the fly and I got a look at his broad side as he turned and went down to the rock he had been holding on, confident I had him until he promptly unhooked himself.

The hatching duns subsided again, and I busied myself by wading carefully up and back down chasing a few one-time risers. I changed flies, and was changing back when a trout rose fairly close by. While I finished my knot he continued working my way, until my twenty foot cast put the T.P. Dun in his sights. Hookset, scream, backing! In one great rush he was 150 feet downstream, and there was no doubt in my mind that I had another tiger of a rainbow by the tail. Reeling, reeling, the 2 7/8″ diameter Hardy Perfect sounds wonderful and looks nice on the Granger, but man that’s a lot of turns to get all that line and backing back on the spool!

When I got my “rainbow” in close quarters, he displayed the gorgeous gold and bronze of a brown trout. Fooled again. He measured all of twenty inches when I finally coaxed him into the mesh. I let myself linger as the last here and there rises led me wandering about the pool some more, changing to 6X and a size 20 olive when I spied some tiny wings on the surface, but the sparse activity soon dwindled to nothing.

A great morning, and two very memorable trout that took my breath away! I tip my glass of single malt to salute them, giving thanks for a Granger Special that’s several years my senior, and three little ten minute hatches of cornutas. I think I’d better ties some more of those flies.

Saturday was the first day of summer and it certainly feels like it. Gone are those deliciously chilly mornings that graced the last days of springtime. A stream thermometer is as vital as your fly rod right now, for there is a lot of warm water flowing in our rivers, water too warm for trout and insects.

I visited a reach I enjoy this morning, wary of even the morning water temperature, though I found it close to perfect at 62 degrees. A few hours on, things will deteriorate as the sun bakes the stones on the river bottom and pushes the skinny flow to seventy degrees or more.

Putting my old Granger together I was treated to a bald eagle and her youngster sky dancing o’er the meadow. Quite a sight to behold. By the time I had the rod together and laid aside that I might retrieve my camera, they had glided away. The memory remains.

Where I found plenty of sipping brown trout last week, today there was very little activity. I spotted just a few tiny duns on the glassy surface, and knotted a size 22 olive T.P. Dun to my tippet. Every once in awhile a very soft dimple would appear, so soft I felt sure the trout were small ones. They didn’t seem to want that 22, nor the ant that was medicine last time, so I tried the same little dun in a size 20 and fooled a foot long brown with the larger fly.

The big fish that were active last week were no where to be found, and as the morning progressed the only other wiggle in my rod was a faint one, courtesy of a brown half the size of the first. I surmised that the weekend’s high temperatures had put the larger trout in a dormant mood and resigned myself to the fact that the fishing wasn’t going to meet my expectations this day.

I was walking the bank slowly, appreciating the beauty of the river as I ambled through the head high grass. Yes, it truly is summer now I thought, and there will be many quiet days like this. I was nearly lost in my reverie when I saw the bulge in the skinny water flat across the river.

It took me a few minutes to find a position, wading hopelessly slowly lest I push water across the flat and send my quarry to cover. Along the way I watched three or four more bulges, each in a different location. Multiple trout? No, it seemed clear that I had a cruiser to deal with. The rules of the game were simply laid: cast quickly and softly only when he rises, as he won’t stay there for more than a few seconds. After a number of attempts he began to try my patience.

I knew that a second cast to his riseform was the kiss of death, as it would be too likely to line him as he moved unseen. Rise, cast… and wait. Habit caused me to break the rules, rushing a second cast after a particularly heavy bulge, and the fish went quiet for a time. I was nearly convinced I had put him down when a bulge appeared just downstream, and my short reach cast brought the bulge to my fly!

He was a marvelous brownie, full of himself even in that skinny water, bringing the little Hardy to full song over and over as I let the deep bend in the Granger cushion my frail 6X tippet. I didn’t expect to find a twenty-one inch brown cruising in a calf deep flat sipping tiny olive duns, but I’m glad I did!

With that fine fellow revived and on his way, my attention turned to the fan of soft current upstream. My heart rate quickened as there were three or four good fish moving about and taking the olive duns.

If my first approach was tedious, this one was positively agonizing, as I had to cover forty yards upstream on an uneven bottom without pushing any water toward those trout. I could have sworn it took an hour, watching those big fish feeding happily and fighting the urge to throw a long, early cast their way.

There appeared to be four, but they were moving around enough to keep me guessing. I checked the tippet and the fly, dried it a bit, and made a quick, gentle cast when a riseform appeared nearby. I tightened easily, slowly, when the fly vanished in a ring but one quick jerk of his head and the tippet gave way. The last inch was roughened, raked across his teeth no doubt, so I cut it back and ran my fingers all the way up to be sure.

I dug in my shirt pocket for the little stash of this morning’s freshly tied flies and knotted another size 20 olive fast. I took a shot each time a rise appeared and finally connected once again. This fish had the fly in a better place and he rocketed out of the water at the bite of the steel, then ran hard downstream. When he turned I was reeling, the rod tip high with a wicked bend down through the mid-section. The Perfect protested loudly each time he streaked away, but the supple cane tired him and brought him to the mesh at last. I grinned at the measurement: twenty-one inches again!

The last of the group had moved upstream with the commotion, and he soon ceased making those exciting bulges and rings. He, or another, slid down and near to the far bank, where he sipped daintily in the slack water side of a seam. I could muster no float to deceive him.

The sparse hatch had ended, and I stopped for a moment to reflect upon the fine fishing I had enjoyed during the last weeks of spring. I scanned the mirror of the river upstream and down, and started out for home.

Ant patterns are extremely popular terrestrial flies, perhaps the most popular of all, since they occur most everywhere there are trout by the trillions. There aren’t that many fly patterns yet, but there are certainly a lot of them. The last thing fly fishers need is another fly box in their vests, one stuffed with a plethora of ant patterns. I give my nod to the simple CDC ant.

I have gotten to the point that I like to tie my ants a bit more anatomically correct. Ants have three bumps: the larger gaster, and two smaller bums at their midsection and head. Certainly a lot of trout have been caught on the good old two bump ant with a hackle at the middle. I tied and used them for years, but I have had them refused more often by truly picky fish than the three bump version.

The CDC ant I tie has a couple of advantages. The first is versatility. Adding CDC puff wings allows this fly to perform as a winged ant when there are flights of flying ants on the water. The CDC winged ant catches selective trout very effectively when the naturals are not winged adults as well. This cuts the number of patterns you have to carry in half. The second advantage is visibility on the water. One important note: keep the CDC dry to keep it visible! A drying patch and some brush-on powdered floatant are necessary accessories for fishing CDC trout flies.

Just yesterday I was treated to some fine and far off fishing where my little CDC ant was the ticket. Trying to see and follow a standard ant at 60 feet or more is a guessing game, but that little tuft of CDC gives even older eyes a clear target. Seeing my fly clearly always helps with my timing, particularly when I know I’m casting to a big fish. Poor visibility tends to make me strike too quickly when my anticipation is high, then hesitate too long, over compensating the next time I think a trout has my fly.

Delicate fishing with small, low profile flies requires patience and precise timing. The trout will tend to rise slowly to small bugs in flat, clear water. When you see the take, pause half a breath, then lift gently and smoothly. We all need to control the little boy deep inside, to reign in our excitement a bit when fishing is at its best. If we didn’t let him come out sometimes, we wouldn’t be fishing in the first place.

The river was quiet when I walked downstream to greet the day, though the birds offered their music to lighten the mood. The water of course is low and clear, and small riffles barely make enough ripples in the water to earn their name.

I carried my “new” four weight, a Granger 8040 that I have owned for several years. I took it out the other day and found that the rod and I are much happier when its matched with a four weight line! Most Granger fans consider the 8040 to be a five weight, and it may be the favorite model of a majority of Granger owners. It wasn’t my favorite with a five, that honor falls to the 8642, but as a four weight the rod is wonderful! It would be a morning for small flies and delicacy.

It wasn’t long before I spied a sipping rise across the river, and began my slow stalk into casting position. The trout was dimpling very delicately in flat water, yet there was nothing visible on the surface. I knotted a size 17 CDC ant to my tippet, checked the knot and tippet twice, then brought the old Granger into play.

My first cast passed him, as he seemed to have slid to the far side to intercept something. I pulled two feet more line from the little Hardy Perfect, then picked up soundlessly and false cast away from the fish, delivering the fly a touch closer while throwing the line in a big upstream reach. The white tuft of CDC let me track it until he dimpled beneath it and sucked it in.

Small flies and sipping rises require patience, a fraction of a moment’s pause before tightening. Too quick and too hard leaves the angler scowling and the trout put down. I paused just right. The gentle hookset unnerved the brown for a moment, and he shook his head slowly back and forth as if trying to determine just what was pulling on him. He figured it out quickly, taking line as the Hardy’s chorus joined the birds in salute to the morn.

After catching another half his size on the ant, I began to see a change in the riseforms. They were still soft sips, but just a bit of nose was visible. I watched and found wings in the drift, tiny upright wings. I figured the little fellows were either olives or tiny summer blue quills, and dug out a size 22 olive cripple: half biot and half dubbed body, with a comparadun style wing of Trigger Point fibers. My buddy John had mentioned that his hometown friends had tied comparaduns with this synthetic winging last summer. I had tied some small sulfurs to try it and they proved effective, and much easier to tie than the standard deer hair wing on small flies. Visibility and durability are a big plusses for the T.P. duns too.

I was seeing enough of a bulge on this fish’s gentle rise that I expected a good trout. He took some time, sliding from side to side out of his lane every time my fly was in it. We connected at last and I got a spirited fight from the best fish of the day: a fine 20 inch brownie. I smiled to myself and counted another 20-20 fish, the late Lee Wulff having proposed the mark for taking a trout 20″ or longer on a size 20 or smaller fly.

Being Lee Wulff he later expanded on the concept by landing a 20 pound Atlantic Salmon on an admittedly larger fly, though tied on a diminutive size 20 hook. My best, a 25″ West Branch brown, taken on a size 20 CDC ant pales in comparison to that.

The next several risers proved to be smaller fish, browns between ten inches and a foot long, all eager to show their stuff as they bucked against the slender tip of that classic cane rod. Eventually the sparse appearance of tiny duns subsided, and the riseforms changed back to the softer sips they started with. I went back to the ant of course, landing another good brownie of eighteen inches and a few in the foot long class.

By ten the action was pretty well over, though a couple of fish would vex me for another hour. They had seen my ant too many times by then, and they weren’t falling for it. For good measure they nixed a Griffith’s Gnat, a miniscule sulfur spinner, a larger ant and a beetle.

I nearly landed trout number ten, another good one, until my preoccupation with getting him on the reel caused me to lose tension during my frantic reeling. I was watching the slack in fear of a tangle when I heard him jump and looked up to see only his reentry splash and a limp line. Time for a break.

I hesitated in leaving the river, walking upstream then finally back down in hope of finding another soft rise. The breeze had risen, and that can signal more ants and other terrestrials on the water, but if they were there no trout rose to partake.

It had been an extremely pleasant morning, “pretty fishing” as Marinaro dubbed it in the Cumberland Valley, practiced far from his beloved Letort in the glory of the Catskills. Classic tackle on classic water, and the gift of solitude that allowed me to savor every moment.

Warm sunshine and high skies illuminating each pebble on the river bottom in low, gin clear water. Sounds like summer time. It feels like it and fishes like it too.

Fly hatches have become sparse again, and there is a terrestrial box tucked in a vest pocket. If you find a trout rising, it can be really tough to figure out what he’s rising to, as there hasn’t been much in evidence these past few days. When I reach for a rod to carry for the day’s fishing, I choose a four weight like my Cumberland Queen. And though there are still boxes of spring mayflies in my vest, I have started prowling my summer haunts.

The Queen and I took a walk to one of those haunts yesterday morning, only to find an angler in the pool I had planned to fish. I left him alone and tried my second choice. There were caddis in the air, the same black ones I found on the Delaware Monday night, and I hoped the pattern I had tied for a possible return engagement there would temp some low water browns in the bright sun of morning.

The first trout I put that fly over ate it readily, but that cursed spool of 5X tippet came back to haunt me again. The trout kept my fly as soon as I tightened; and he wasn’t a big one. I checked the tippet a few inches above the break and it broke on a gentle pull. Another try a few inches further down the line held, so I tied on another fly and hoped for better luck.

There was a trout at the edge of some shade where the fast water started to slow along the bank. My cast looked good, but drag was easy to come by casting across the fast current. The trout popped the fly and I tightened upon air. A miss, perhaps a splashy refusal, regardless the result was the same.

The rest of my morning centered upon a big fish tucked into a bank side hide, that seemed as interested in playing with me as I was with him. The missed fish on that caddis? Perhaps, but that take was his last out on the edge of fast water and slow. He spent the rest of the morning giving me fits back in the nearly motionless water tighter to the bank.

He would appear to follow every relatively long float I could muster until it began to drag, then refuse the fly. Just to keep me honest, he continued to sip various tidbits back in there, every once in awhile walloping something hard. I finally tipped my hat to him in early afternoon and headed out.

I made that walk early this morning, finding a touch of natural beauty sweetened with solitude. I waited a while until the caddis became active and I saw a small trout take a swipe at one of them, then eased into the river and cast my black caddis to known holding lies. Fishing the water may be a cure for impatience, but it’s never a cure for a fishless day, not on this river.

As the morning warmed I went looking for yesterday’s nemesis, and I may indeed have found him. If this was the same fish, he wasn’t in his shady lie this time, he was out in a deeper channel pounding something. The only visible insect life was the caddis, which he stoutly refused to touch. I don’t know just how long I worked on the trout, but the glimpse I got of him on his second rise made the time worthwhile. I tried every fly I thought might intertest him, everything that had been hatching lately or was due to show soon, and he ignored them all, eventually retiring from the game.

I waited, and sure enough there was a hard rise downstream. I put the caddis on him quickly and got a solid take from a good fish, who started the Hardy talking right away. He was a nice brown, a hard fighter, but he wasn’t the big boy I spent all that time on. He was a chunky 18 inch fish though, and I was glad to slip him into my net on this second tough morning.

My next conquest was half his size, and I had to wait a little while again before another fish showed on the surface. That one was a long poke downstream, but the Queen was more than equal to the task. The fish screamed away at my hookset and I was really impressed until I got that foot long brownie in the net and saw the fly stuck in the top of his head. I guess it hurt enough to make him fight like a fish twice his size.

With no more activity to the south, I walked back north and looked to see if Mr. Shady was back in his lie. No sign of him, or anyone else for that matter, until I heard a solid thunk from downstream. Fish were up, several of them, all of a sudden. I cast to the first ones in range as I eased down and they promptly stopped rising.

I was thinking a hatch must be getting started, though I didn’t see anything besides a caddis or two. I tried a sulfur. No. Then began to scan the water in the bubble line I was standing in. Nothing but bubbles there, no sign of an insect of any kind, but those fish were rising hard when they rose. I scratched my head and went through the litany of patterns as I had earlier in the morning, with the same result.

Whatever had those fish feeding, it didn’t last very long. My opportunity was nearly spent when I considered the lone fish that was making softer rises, and dug out my sulfur box. I had one spent dun imitation left, and I tied it on, checking that hateful tippet three times. I could have sworn I heard that familiar chorus of Hallelujah when that trout tipped up and sucked in my little CDC spent dun.

There was music, for the little Hardy Perfect was in full song as that trout blitzed downstream. This was not a foot long trout with the hook in his head, this was the kind of trout I was looking for. He turned and charged upstream and had me reeling as if my life depended on it. He dug for the bottom and I raised the rod high, the supple cane bowing heavily as he bucked and raced away again. It was a hell of a fight, and I was glad to be the victor when I finally led that grown up brown into the net. He measured twenty-one inches, a trout with shoulders, and was none the worse for wear, darting away as soon as I lowered him into the flow.

The battle seemed to have put all the remaining risers down for the count. The run and the pool below were quiet, the bright water twinkling in the high sun. I exhaled and gave it a moment before I started north.

Though I was up at first light, I honestly wasn’t on the river quite that early, certainly not on a thirty-eight degree morning in mid-June! The plan was to spend an early morning on the river, fishing apart once again with my friend John. We each brought along a special rod this morning, his particularly so as it is the new four weight bamboo, the second rod he has built.

John is one of the most accomplished and artistic craftsmen I have ever known. When he told me two years ago that he was taking the bamboo rodmaking class at the Catskill Fly Fishing Center, I knew immediately that he would emerge with a truly fine cane rod. His first effort was terrific, his rod better and more carefully made then several of the rods I have handled from professional builders.

For the second season, John wanted to build a four weight, preferably and eight footer, and he spent a lot of time deciding upon the taper. That can be tough when you don’t have access to all the various rods being considered, to cast and form an opinion of their tapers. I suggested he contact another friend, Tom Smithwick, a rodmaker I have known for many years; the man I call The Taper Wizard.

The rod I got to cast this morning is beautiful and very light in hand. Tom described it as an old F.E. Thomas taper that he had “tweaked as much as I thought might make it better”. I was casting leisurely after fishing this morning, and continuing to pull line from the reel. After unrolling a long, perfect loop and dropping the fly gently to the surface I looked down at the reel. Five turns of fly line remained on the arbor. I idly asked John if that was a full length fly line. It was. The four weight that felt like a feather in my hand had just laid out roughly 90 feet of line and leader: no double haul, no punch on the power stroke, just a very light touch and…wow! John has outdone himself with this one.

It was a gorgeous sunwashed morning, with the chill in the air diminishing enough to make it feel very comfortable. For two and a half hours we watched a myriad of solitary insects drift down the pool largely unmolested. Eventually, each of us had our patience rewarded by one good opportunity, and we both missed it. I saw my fish coming under the surface, squaring off under my fly and pointing straight toward me. I believe I pulled the fly off the water a microsecond before he actually was able to eat it.

I carried my Thomas & Thomas Hendrickson, a dream rod that serendipitously ended up in my hands. This was the fourth trip for me trying to initiate the rod with it’s first trout. I never saw a single trout rise during the first three. After loosing a luck fish that grabbed my sunken fly when I started to pick it up, and then missing my only true rise to my fly, I was beginning to think my lucky rod wasn’t.

I laughed it off with a grimace and turned to John “fishing still makes us little boys again”, I said. “Just can’t always control that excitement.” He acknowledged the thought with cheer.

It was nearing the time to go when my fish decided to try for breakfast again. I offered the same sulfur several times, but he wasn’t coming to that fly again. Not even after I added three and a half feet of brand new tippet to give it a better drift. Hardheaded sometimes, I admit, though I finally changed the pattern for a smaller sulfur cripple.

My first cast may have caught his eye, but the second actually brought him up to take the fly. This time I actually allowed him to eat it and turn back down before I tightened. He was a good brown, and put a nice bend in my bamboo. Standing in deeper water, I took my time with him, until I could bring him to the net.

A twenty inch brown trout is a fitting initiation for a bamboo fly rod; one any rod would be proud of. A special rod is a talisman, and its good magic when that rod’s first trout is a big one; even better if it takes some trials to secure. Serendipity put that longed for rod in my hands, just as it brought that brown up to feed again, giving me a second chance: good magic, strong magic!

It is forty-five degrees in Crooked Eddy this morning, as we enjoy a short break from a run of warmer weather. A crisp breath of mountain air is the perfect way to start the day!

The rivers have cooled a bit, and their flows have been replenished for a time. Sadly the benefits of thunderstorms are fleeting: a quick spike of muddy water, followed by a handful of days of clearing and more moderate flows can freshen the fishing, but soon we return to low water and fishing with our stream thermometers. An all day, all night gentle, soaking rain would be a blessed gift!

I have enjoyed some fabulous fishing so far this June, though yesterday I found the river as quiet as a grave. Mayflies were scarce, a few tokens to remind that this is still spring, but no where near enough to interest a fish. It was a gorgeous day, the introduction to the cold front with cobalt skies and small, isolated banks of threatening clouds blowing by in the winds, but my anticipation for good fishing after the storm’s refresher waned by evening. Still I marveled at the beauty around me as I walked out, the mountains lit with the shimmer of the retreating sun.

In the limestone country, dry fly fishing would just be getting started. The mayflies no longer populate those classic spring creeks in any abundance, and it is the terrestrial flies that provide the surface fishing. The dry fly man who looks for rising trout may look a long time though; unfulfilled.

The spring creek angler learns the lies that trout prefer under varying conditions. The time of day and season dictates the angle of the sun, and which lies are shaded and likely to hold an interested trout. Cover is always important, vital in small waters, and in June the grasses grow tall in the meadows. Where they overhang perhaps there will be just enough security to house one good brown!

It may be the peak time for hatches in Catskill waters, but pardon my wandering through thoughts of terrestrial fishing and summer days. That style of fishing can be great fun here too. Not one to rush the year, as they pass all too quickly, but I cannot help but look forward to the long days of summer. I won’t spend hours waiting for the hatch then, for I will haunt the rivers at certain times, different times for different reaches, brief forays to hunt the choice lies.

I have resorted to terrestrials already, with breezy conditions and scant hatching activity I have offered ants to sippers cruising for a snack, both of us impatient. My heart raced early this week, as I connected with a spectacular brown, only to have the little ant let go before the finale. Yesterday’s idle hours led me to knot the new cricket to my leader and toss it over some prime cover. All kinds of insects get washed down the rivers in spate I reasoned, why shouldn’t the trout be hunting new tidbits in the receding flows? I didn’t connect, not this time, though I am sure that fly won’t languish in my box too long.

The memories of a terrestrial summer got me going in December and early January. While winter winds rattled the windows I tied beetles, crickets, ants and hoppers, with thoughts of summer filling my mind. It will soon be time to bring those daydreams to fruition!

Abundant sunshine lifts the soul and spirit of this angler, though it is not the best condition for hatching mayflies and rising trout. Sunshine though is the heartbeat of terrestrial fishing, sunshine and wind!

Summer is a wonderful time here, with long runs of beautiful weather. The richness of the rivers provide varied diversions. There are still mayflies, the olives and isonychia most prevalent on the cloudy, misty days, and the bright little sulfurs cheerily bobbing atop the currents rain or shine! Summer screams for a light four weight rod: seven or seven and a half feet of slender Tonkin cane in a classic Catskill taper, fitted with a lightweight click pawl reel, double tapered line and a long, fine leader. Beware the heavy hand of spring! No 4X tippets here. Five X, 6X and a measured hand will bring the largest trout to net.

Still spring indeed, but we are upon summer’s doorstep. I believe spring’s hatches will linger, that we may have a few weeks to enjoy the best of both.

I am listening to it now, very gentle on the metal roof above my tying desk, and I can only hope it will be enough to sustain the rivers of my heart. Things are becoming dire in the watersheds.

The Beaverkill is unfishable this morning, hitting 73 degrees yesterday afternoon and cooling only down to 68 this morning, even with this gift of rainfall. Some anglers will argue that it is still safe to fish at those temperatures, but I diverge. I find that idea self-serving. Too many put their wants and needs above the resource they claim to love. Yes, it is the peak of the spring hatch season but the rivers cannot sustain the intense pressure and warm water without a price.

Evening hatches are the rule in June, but evening is the worst time to fish under these conditions.

We had a small reprieve this week, as cold nights bought us a couple more days of fishable temperatures, but the heat and sun have recovered their hold.

The rain is driving now, with a heavy downpour outside my window. The accumulation numbers will look better, but I pray instead for hours of gentle, soaking rain, not the kind that quickly becomes storm runoff. Feed the aquifers, feed the brooks, feed the trout.

We may have dodged a bullet, at least to an extent. Rain clouds have passed by without making a deposit to the river bank of late, and abundant sunshine and warmer weather has had water temperatures on the rise. Hancock’s forecast for highs of 87 degrees today and tomorrow was blunted slightly to 84 and 83, and a couple of cold nights have given the rivers some time to cool before the next bought of low water and sunshine. It was 42 degrees at Crooked Eddy on Monday morning, and a sprite 47 this morning.

Of course, as always seems to be the case, New York City decided to cut back reservoir releases just in time for the heat wave. I hope the cold nights persist, though they are not forecast. Mother Nature needs to give herself a brake since the politicians wont.

I tried something different yesterday that I called fishing apart. A good friend joined me for an afternoon and evening on a quiet reach of water and we kept our distance to protect each other’s health. While it would have been nice to stand side by side and compare fly patterns, we were able to pass the slow periods, and there were many, with friendly conversation fifty feet apart.

We managed a few trout, despite sparse insect activity and bright sun illuminating every pebble on the river bed in the ever lowering flow. My what a difference a quarter inch of rainfall would make overnight!

I had one epic encounter, an almost. With little mayfly presence the occasional sipping of the cruising browns led me to consider terrestrials. I had thought about this Sunday morning at my desk, and had quickly tied three silk bodied ants to stick in my vest. A touch of preparation in lieu of adding a terrestrial box to a vest already heavier then my arthritic neck prefers. I tried the ant on a particularly reticent cruiser.

That fish would have none of it, in fact, pushing the fly in the water then streaking away before I could even begin to react. When another trout sipped something on the edge of sunlight and shade moments later, I immediately delivered my fly just above his rise form. He tipped and sipped, and I was suddenly connected to a very angry brown noticeably in excess of 20 inches. He gave me a great sun lit profile to judge his size, then headed for deeper water and boulders to rid himself of my little black deceit.

Countering his bid for nearby cover, I was rewarded with a long bulldogging run well into my backing! He stayed downriver as John headed up to watch the show, alerted by the pleas from my Hardy. We jousted for a long while, and things seemed to be going my way, the trout grudgingly coming back upriver as I regained first my lost backing and then more than half of my fly line; but it was not to be. I felt a distinct ping and the trout was gone. The hook, still perfect, simply hadn’t been secured in anything but bone I expect, finally losing its hold.

As the shadows gathered our anticipation grew, but no hatch was forthcoming. That is fishing most certainly, with the joy of long missed company to allay thoughts of lost trophies or hatches that might have been, leaving memories of the beauty surrounding us and a pleasant dialog amid the quiet of evening astream.

I like to sit here at my tying desk and experience the quiet of the morning. Its even better out there, along the river, waders soaked from the dew in the tall grass. I have not been there often enough, and that is something I need to rectify.

When I travelled to fish the Catskills I would usually angle late at this point in the season, rush to the Troutskellar well after nine, arriving just before the kitchen closed to put in my dinner order. Dinner and a McCallan at ten thirty isn’t conducive to early morning fishing, except perhaps for the very young. There were times though, when the weather trounced my late evening fishing, when I had that unfulfilled urge that caused me to rise before daylight, shower quickly and haunt the river bank at first light.

There was a trout of my acquaintance that inhabited a certain run. Grown wise from the ways of anglers, particularly this one, he shunned all larger flies and savored minutia. His lie was a marvelously devilish mix of currents that defied my ability to repeat the perfect drift with a size 20 or 22 dry fly, unless I tied it to a long section of 6X tippet. I believe I could feel that old fish grinning every time I cut back the 5X and pulled a few feet of 6X from its spool.

Suffice to say that the trout had broken 6X more than once. Upon feeling the prick of my tiny hook he would twist his head at the moment I was tight and snap it. Other times he would charge from his lie full force, pull the tippet across his favorite rock and win his freedom that way. The old boy was good!

One morning I crept into the water and into casting position as the sun was rising. The Catskill mist hid its rays, enveloping land and water in moisture the color of smoke. I stood and waited, savoring the quiet of the morning, and the anticipation of an engagement with my old adversary. No size 22 adorned my leader, not at this hour; a size ten mahogany spinner was secured to my 5X tippet.

After a quarter of an hour a tiny ring appeared amid the swirling currents of the lie, dissipating almost immediately as if it was never there. Sampling the drift at dawn, eh? I smiled and made ready to cast. Memory fails to recall the exact number of drifts that spinner completed before it was replaced by one of those tiny, disappearing rings upon the surface. It wasn’t more than three.

I lifted, the pocket boiled, the head twist failed, and Mr. Brown charged out into the full force of the run and dug for that favorite rock. He came up just a hair short, thanks to the additional pressure brought to bear by my long rod and 5X tippet. He could have cut that too, had he reached his rock.

Another dawn, another river, waders again soaked with the morning dew. I had not been able to get near this favorite reach of water, besieged both day and evening, but solitude beckoned at dawn. Another size ten spinner knotted to my leader, but with no pre-arranged meeting this time. I walked, and stalked, hoping for an adversary.

I found one far upriver, sipping in a smallish pool of dark water to the side of the main current, ghosting about among the weeds and finding what morsels remained trapped from the night before. The fish was moving, as the water was nearly still, and I timed each cast to set my fly in front of him when he established a line of travel. A long cast, low light, but the twinkle of my big spinner helped me see when the ring replaced it on the dark surface. What a boil erupted in that quiet backwater when I arched the rod!

We battled in the weeds, his domain, and fortune prevailed as I led him through the fronds of water weeds and into the current at last! There he ran long and hard, finally surrendering to the pull of the rod: a fat, golden 22 inch brown, indignant to find his breakfast was a biting fraud.

Summer approaches, and rain is scarce. The rivers will warm this week with two days near ninety. So too will the crowds encumber many favored pools. Perhaps I’ll arise early, wash the sleep from my eyes and pull on waders, run the line through the guides of a cherished rapier of bamboo, and stalk the river banks at first light; waders drenched by the morning dew on the tall grass.