I have been waiting for this weather since last summer! Cool morning air with a hint of a freshening breeze at sunrise gave way to a pleasant overcast and calm conditions, as I stalked the still water of the river. The flow still carries the contributions of the tributaries that were recharged by the tropical storm and its aftermath. Best of all, this morning’s water temperature was perfect.

I spotted a few soft rises here and there, small fish cruising about and sipping… what? The ant was ignored. I saw a tiny bubble in the film with dark tones and a sparkle, and flying ants sprung to mind. I knotted a freshly tied size twenty only to have it ignored as well as its larger brethren. There usually isn’t much on the surface of the river at this season, just a couple of these and a couple of those. A Flick olive wasn’t the answer either.

I finally got one of those little bubbles to stick to my fingers and spied a crumpled trico dun inside. Not going to play that game I decided, too few of them anyway.

I was tying a size 22 olive T.P. Dun to my 6X tippet when I saw one good rise. Several perfect drifts brought no response. Was this fish moving too? When one of the mid-river sippers would rise I offered the fly, but no one was playing the game this morning. Fifteen, twenty minutes later and there was the good rise again, one time only, in a different spot near the bank. No reply to my overtures with the little olive.

I decided to work that area piece by piece, hoping to intercept the moving fish as he travelled his quiet little milk run. I’d selected a copy of my Grizzly Beetle in a size 17, thinking it might be enough of a morsel to interest the larger trout. I began my search where the last rise appeared, then extended my casts upstream, first a bit further out from the bank, and then working in toward it a little at a time. His rise wasn’t a big bulge this time, just a bubble when his nose broke the surface. My 7 1/2 foot bamboo rod arched deeply when the hook pulled tight and started throbbing with weight and energy!

There was no click music to break the silence this morning, as the reel I bought for that rod years ago is a silent little Galvan, with the smoothest drag in the world. He pulled, darted, then made a long run downstream, and all the while my smile was growing. The supple cane and that Galvan drag helped me protect the 6X tippet that the small flies and summer conditions dictated.

By the second long run I gained more confidence that this leviathan trout was coming to the net, as I stopped that run somewhat shorter than his first. There were tense moments each time I tried to draw him close; there’s only so much pressure you can apply with 6X, even when it is cushioned by the life in the magic bamboo. Every time I got a good look at him my excitement grew, and every time he turned and powered away once again.

It isn’t every day you lead a twenty-five inch brown trout into your net, particularly on light tackle, and I was truly shaking as I removed the fly and fumbled for my camera while keeping the net submerged. I thought I got a good shot of him in the net, that is until I downloaded my shots to find a beautifully focused picture of the front of my waders and my leader nipper. The underwater aftermath shot wasn’t bad, though I missed the tip of his nose. I can’t see the viewfinder once I submerge the camera, adding a new challenge to “point and shoot”.

That beetle stayed firmly attached to my tippet from that moment on, as I fished carefully on into afternoon. That fly was eaten once more, providing another thrill with a twenty-one plus brownie to bend my darkly flamed little stick. That trout ate the fly a microsecond before I pulled the slack out of the leader on my pickup for another cast, so that the pickup became the hookset. That kind of timing usually works the other way – against me. I guess, this time, it was just my day.

I was tired yesterday and slept too late. I guess I really needed the extra sleep, as even Ray the cat let me roll over and nap once or twice. Consequently I was a little slower than normal getting going and got to the river later than I planned. By the time I waded in and checked my watch, I figured I had three hours to fish.

The morning was beautiful, the sunlight cutting through the pockets of mist clinging to the mountainsides, with that lovely coolness to the air. One last day in the mid-eighties and then the weather is supposed to get better. There should be many more such mornings ahead.

As has generally been the case this summer, there was no insect activity, though I did spot a couple of single rises in the distance. There is always something on the surface of a Catskill trout river somewhere.

I carried my Dream Catcher four weight rigged with a Bougle reel and a long, long leader built out to 6X. My fishing has been fine and far off by necessity, even now that the rivers have received a little relief from the pitiful flows of this dry summer. I was prepared to fish very carefully and methodically. I admit that the push of the extra current felt good against my legs as I stalked the pool, and I hoped it had invigorated the fish, though my trips during the week had not shown much promise.

My style of Catskill terrestrial fishing is concentrated on particular areas, the various micro-habitats where there is a higher probability of finding a receptive trout that might just rise to sample some earthy looking bug. At the same time, I watch my surroundings to look for certain types of rises elsewhere. This summer, most of those have been little fish eager to smack a stray midge, ant or mayfly, so “other rises” have been drawing less of my attention.

I spent a lot of my brief fishing time working one of those micro-habitats to no avail. I was thorough, probing the edges and then easing my casts deeper into the tight spots, but there seemed to be no active fish that were interested in breakfast.

In the distance I had spotted another angler, and I sort of kept tabs on his downstream progress to adjust my own pace. When you suddenly have less water to fish than planned, you make the best use of the areas you do have. Slowing down to concentrate on half the areas I had expected to fish, instinct made me look favorably on a couple of small spots where I had never risen a trout.

If some piece of cover or shade, or a little lag in the current looks good to me, I expect it looks good to a trout as well. If I haven’t had any responses in my previous fishing there, I understand that my judgement might be wrong, or that its right and a big fish commands that spot. Big, wild old brown trout don’t rise at everything that floats nearby, and they are not always in the mood to take something, not even a live mayfly fluttering on the surface right above them. While guys may fish these kinds of places hard, trying a bunch of casts with different flies, in truth you usually only really get one cast. Make the right cast at the right time with a fly that’s likely to appeal to a big old brownie and you might get a rise out of him.

This one particular spot seemed like that kind of cover, so rather than deciding that no trout held there, I expected that a large trout did, and I worked into position very slowly and carefully to make that one cast for the current and conditions.

My fly had drifted about a foot before a very subtle ring appeared on the surface, and though I couldn’t clearly see the fly hunkered down there awash in the film, I knew he had taken it. I paused ever so slightly and tightened slowly but steadily into a good fish: bamboo bent into a full arch, big smile on face!

Mr. Brownie gave a good account of himself, flashing that big, long, buttery gold side of his in the morning sunshine as he tried to rub the offending bug from his jaw. You have to love the flex in a good bamboo rod when you have a trout like that on 6X tippet and he’s trying to snag every rock and stick on the bottom of the river to be free.

My grin was as wide as the sky when I measured him in the net. Twenty-two inches of gorgeous wild fish flesh, writhing as I dipped the net to keep him in the water while I twisted the fly free. As soon as I rolled him out of the mesh and into my hand he rocketed away.

Fishing has been slow of late, the oppressive heat and low flows don’t exactly prompt many fly hatches. The heavy rainfall we received from the tropical storm and recent thunderstorms certainly did the rivers a lot of good. Continued periodic rain fall and cooler temperatures should begin to work their magic if the forecasts prove correct, and we might just start to see a few flies.

If not, I guess I’ll have to spend more of my time fishing those spots that look good but never produce, trying to make that one perfect cast.

It looks like summer may finally arrive, not that terribly hot, dry, humid unfriendly thing that seems to have hung around here for the past couple of months, no, I mean Catskill Summer: highs rising into the seventies after a chilly dawn, pleasant sunshine and gentle breezes, and a nice flow in the cool rivers. We have all been waiting for it, wondering if perhaps it was in quarantine too.

It is 59 degrees here in Crooked Eddy this morning, and there is a nice flow of cool water in the rivers, and things are going to get better next week. A few cooler days and nights and who knows, we just might see a few bugs on the water once again. Olives, Hebe’s, some of the summer’s ubiquitous tan caddis…I am sure the trout would appreciate their appearance as much as we trout fishers would.

Flying ants, oh how I would love to wander around a bend in the river and witness a fall of flying ants! It was several years ago when that last occurred and the memory is bittersweet. I was fishing down on the Mainstem on one of those beautiful Catskill Summer days, but I wasn’t finding any rising trout. It was around four in the afternoon when I walked into the tail of Junction Pool to find the water literally alive with the rings of rising fish!

I waded into the tail of the pool excitedly, scanning the surface as I stealthily approached a pod of good trout sucking down something from the surface. I squinted enough until I finally saw them: ants! They were tiny, a size 22 black winged ant, and there were thousands upon thousands of them stuck in the surface film. I confidently dug out my terrestrial box and came up with a perfect little black size…twenty. It was close, but not close enough!

I remember standing chest deep in the main flow line of the tailout with a fine fish rising regularly a rod length upstream, casting nothing but leader and watching him glide up and pick off naturals all around my not quite right dry fly. He finally got close to it once and I thought he took it, but he wasn’t hooked when I raised my rod.

The action lasted more than an hour until the supply of ants ceased and I waded out and walked back to the truck for a break. It was quarter to seven when I noticed rings again, and grabbed my gear and headed back to the tailout. There was a second flight of ants on the water, size 22 of course, and the trout were just as selective, ignoring my size 20 once again. I waited this time when the rises ceased, waited until they started again in the lowering light of evening. I salvaged my confidence just a little when I took a fine nineteen inch brown trout on a small rusty spinner as the sun retreated below the Pennsylvania mountains.

There is a fly box somewhere in here that has size 22 winged ants, and size 20’s and eighteens, and sixteens, in back, black and red, cinnamon, brown… well one doesn’t want to relive the bittersweet portion of that memory. I had better dig out that box and put it in my vest while I’m thinking of it!

“The Delaware River Story: Water Wars, Trout Tales and a River Reborn” (Stackpole Books 2020) tells the tale of a great American river from its beginnings as life-giver and primitive water trail, through its period as a vital commercial highway and fishery, important to the growth of a new nation, and finally to its position today as a recreational mecca for thousands of urbanites seeking a touch of the wild. Author Lee Hartman relates the history of the river and its people, speaking as one who truly loves the Delaware River.

The book is well written and well researched, but its most remarkable achievement may be the chronicle of the conservation effort that still continues. Hartman has been deeply involved in these efforts as a founder of Friends of The Upper Delaware River (FUDR) and current co-chairman of the Delaware River Committee of the Pennsylvania Council of Trout Unlimited. All of us who enjoy the beauty, wildness and purity of these waters owe Hartman a debt of gratitude.

The book clears up a variety of misconceptions and sheds light on the tremendous ongoing effort to preserve the river’s wild trout fishery and its nationally ranked recreational value to the Catskill community.

As one of the early river guides and owner of the first fly fishing lodge on the banks of the Upper Delaware River, Lee Hartman feels the pulse of the river and its fishery, telling its story with enlightenment.

Everyone who enjoys the magic of a Delaware rainbow streaking for freedom, the sight of an eagle circling above the morning mist over the river, as well as everyone who questions the conservation movement in America should read this book.

Another fresh, cool morning in Crooked Eddy, and good news from Dennis Menscer’s rod shop for my wounded Granger. Dennis is crafting two new tips for my favorite vintage eight foot four weight, and let me know this morning that the cane work was done. Soon the new rod tips will be wrapped and varnished and the 8040 and I will once again stalk the Delaware’s wild trout!

There is something just right about an eight foot rod. It seems to be the perfect foil for this game of trout hunting, regardless of season. When I wander the rivers during winter, there’s an eight footer sharing the walk with me, and come spring its tough to pry one from my hand. It was summer’s low water that caused me to string a four weight line on my Granger, and that great old rod will never see another five weight.

Whether high water or low, eight feet of finely tapered bamboo easily provides the reach we often require on the wide Catskill tailwaters. When the battle with a great fish is close at hand, an eight isn’t ungainly and in its own way like the nine foot rods the graphite crowd prefers; its just the right tool to bring that fish to net!

The aftermath of this weeks storms still finds our rivers running high, the normally gin clear water stained with sediment. The trout get a slight reprieve, though I know many of the guides will be eager to pound the banks with streamers better suited to saltwater gamefish. This tactic doesn’t thrill me in the least. I have landed too many large trout to find their mouths torn from big hooks and rough tactics with heavy rods since this big meat, articulated streamer craze caught hold. Let the high water give the fish a rest!

During my years in the Cumberland Valley I landed many oversize trout on streamers. The size 8 and 10 Shenk Sculpins and White Minnows the Master taught me to tie brought most of them to hand. These flies were fished on relatively light tippets, 4X most often, as the limestone trout were too wary and well fed to fall for heavy handed tactics. My rod of choice: a seven foot one ounce four weight Orvis graphite. All trout were released un-mangled and unharmed.

Seducing a trout is more about finesse than anything else, and there’s no need to bring a bigger hammer. I would hope those guides that encourage this fad fishing will at least appreciate the resource enough to talk their clients out of the heavy rods and heavy handed tactics.

Had a surprise this morning with some heavy rainfall, enough to push the West Branch back up to floating country and beyond: she’s running 4,550 and still rising! My fishing day seems to have been washed away with my morning coffee. I’m not complaining, as I welcome the rain, even if it comes in bunches.

Buddy Guy is wailing the blues over my shoulder as I put a few flies in a shirt pocket box for next week. Sad to say that our little cool down will be short lived, with a high of 85 for Sunday and near 90 to start the week.

I did get out to fish yesterday, visiting some water I hadn’t seen in a month. I had hoped the cool down and high flows had freshened the water so that some of the stressed trout I had seen that day would be back to a comfortable normal. I found no evidence of that, despite sixty-one degree water after one in the afternoon, failing to so much as move a single fish. I am beginning to accept the fact that I’ll have to wait for fall to enjoy the quality of fishing I had last summer.

The extra water should help the Delaware, particularly with more hot sunny weather on the way. It won’t get to fishable temperatures, but hopefully the increased oxygenation will help relieve the stress on the fish hunkering in place. The water temperature at Lordville dropped steadily during Tuesday’s storm, reaching a welcome sixty-four degrees. The daily peaks have remained just below seventy since then. Yesterday morning’s lovely fifty-five degrees at sunrise didn’t hurt either!

The NYC reservoir page now shows 2.9″ of rainfall for August, 2.8″ more than it showed on August 3rd. I don’t know the origin of their numbers, whether averaged over various gages or measured at some central location, but perhaps the eastern Catskills didn’t get heavier rain than we got here in Hancock as I believed.

A report from my friend Mike in Western Maryland says that hopper season has arrived, as he’s taking a lot of browns, including some good ones, with the Letort Hoppers he’s been tying. I had hoped for a wet year, with good flows and temperatures that would find me floating the Mainstem now and trying my updated hopper pattern along every grassy bank I passed. Then again, wind really makes hopper fishing great, but it isn’t the rower’s nor the fly caster’s friend on the big river.

Daydreams of hopper fishing gets me thinking about the West. I have been telling Mike that we should make a real trip to Montana now that we’re both retired. No guides, no lodges, no set itinerary; and a couple of weeks to fish wherever the best conditions happened to be. I’ve only been out there twice, both times on someone else’s schedule, and though I enjoyed those trips, the fishing wasn’t anywhere near “as advertised”.

I was truly captivated by the beauty of the Henry’s Fork. I had read about that magical fishery since boyhood and desperately wanted to fish it. On my second trip west, Mike and I managed two days on the Railroad Ranch in seventy degree bluebird September weather. Mahogany Duns were hatching during the afternoons, and the wide flats of the ranch were littered with them, but very few trout rose to partake of the feast. Walking a couple of miles of the Ranch, I located two nice pods of feeding rainbows, each with its own pod of fly fishermen. I did find a couple of singles with a little extra effort, landing a pair of bright fifteen inch bows as I stood mesmerized by the landscape. Oh how I want to go back!

The rain and rumbling thunder have departed, and there’s blue sky smiling through the window over my tying desk. Time to see what I can find to do today…

I set my unofficial rain gage (okay, my carwash bucket) in my driveway at 11:05 AM yesterday. It had been raining lightly but steadily since five, and I was curious to capture the results of the big event that was on our doorstep. By the time the rain subsided around 4:30 PM, I measured about 3.75 inches of rain water in the bucket. With easily another quarter inch falling in the morning, I deduced that Hancock had received around four inches of rain from the fast moving tropical storm system.

The West Branch Delaware rose quickly and crested at about 1,750 cfs between seven or eight in the evening. The eastern side of the Delaware watershed was in the forecast path for heavier rainfall. The Beaverkill was bubbling along over its cobbles at a little more than 100 cfs yesterday morning, rising dramatically to a crest around 11,700 cfs shortly after 7:30 PM. The river crested roughly seven tenths of a foot above flood stage, measured at 10.0 feet at the Cooks Falls gage. All the rivers are dropping quickly, the Beaverkill running at a flow of 3,540 cfs at 5:45 AM.

Despite noodling around on weather sites this morning, I have not found any tallies for the region, but I expect the central and eastern portions of the Catskills may have received the five inches that was forecast, perhaps a bit more. That’s a substantial amount of rainfall over the course of about twelve hours, but only time will tell if it was enough to resurrect our summer fishing.

We were fortunate here in Hancock, as the heavy rain lasted for about two hours, and it wasn’t the type of monsoon downpour we often see in thunderstorms. I think a great deal of the rain we received had a chance to soak into the ground and do the region a lot of good, as opposed to falling in a quick burst that has little choice than to runoff rapidly and produce extreme flash flooding.

I haven’t looked at the West Branch yet today, but the 886 cfs flow I noted at 6:15 this morning is a very wadeable flow. I expect there is still a fair amount of color in the water now, but it might well be clear by evening.

The cooler weather looks like it will last until the weekend, when daily highs will get back into the eighties. If the overnight lows would get down into the fifties consistently, the receding freestone rivers could get back to fishable temperatures. The Beaverkill dropped from seventy-six degrees to sixty-two along with that rush of runoff, but it started to warm back up by early morning. Eighty degree sunshine will unfortunately get it back into the seventies before long. Where’s that May snowfall when you need it?

The NYC website hasn’t updated the reservoir levels to reflect the storm. It will be interesting to see if the capacities show a significant increase. Inflow from the mainstem rivers spiked from the rain, as did the various tributary streams, exceeding the release flows, so storage certainly increased, though I doubt the city will increase reservoir releases to improve tailwater conditions. That would take a lot more rainfall, a pattern of recurring cooler, wetter weather, and even then we cannot rely upon NYC to give our rivers their fair share.

I’m tempted to wipe the dust and cobwebs from my drift boat this morning and drop it in the West Branch, but I expect there will be an increase in traffic that would rob me of the exhilaration a float would provide. The river is still dropping too, and a day of floating could easily become an afternoon of dragging.

There is clear, blue sky outside my window as I write this, and that freshness in the air that rain and wind provides: storm washed. Perhaps I’ll simply enjoy it a bit, tie a few flies, poke around in the yard. I do need an archery backstop, a project I have been daydreaming about for the past two summers.

I was a dedicated bowhunter for more than forty years. My friend John keeps telling me about the whitetail bucks that have been frequenting his property this summer; and the new tree stands he has placed. I keep reminding him of my track record as the unluckiest deer hunter alive. I love the change of pace and the exercise I get from walking the Catskill mountains with my bird gun. I get a lot more out of that than I could sitting in a tree. You do learn a few things after forty years.

Grouse season and bow season both open on October first, and the afternoon fishing can be particularly fine at that time of year. I spent a lot of days last October hunting birds in mid-morning and stalking trout in the afternoons. Can’t say I would mind repeating that pattern.

I awoke to gentle rainfall this morning, hopeful that it will continue throughout the day as promised, and provide real relief to our parched groundwater, rivers and trout. Hancock still lies along the boundary between the bands on the television weather maps: one to two inches of rainfall or three to five inches. Should we be able to avoid torrential downpours, I am praying for at least three inches. We need rain soaking into the ground, not running wily nily over it.

I still long for the wonderful summer fishing of the past, The rain, and the seasonal temperatures forecast for the balance of this week, are a big step toward the realization of my wishes.

I was fortunate to steal a couple of hours Sunday afternoon, as John and I met up again to see if the sulfur hatch might bring a trout or two to the surface once the onslaught of canoes, kayaks and inner tubes subsided. The afternoon and early evening was beautiful, and we both found a fish or two to keep us occupied.

We enjoyed the game: fly pattern selection, tippet changes, short takes and refusals. As the afternoon waned I thought I had solved the puzzle, the seven foot bamboo in my hand throbbing with the struggles of a good fish. I slipped a fine, buttery golden brown into my net only to find the fly had pricked the skin of his belly, not his mouth. He had come up and refused the fake, my strike catching him on the way down. Victory this day to the trout, soundly!

The air, the sunshine and warm blustery winds, and most of all the company made it a good time, the kind that neither of us would trade.

It had been more than a month since I had the benefit of some company on the river. My friend John and I enjoyed a morning fishing apart, as dictated by the continuing threat of Coronavirus. Our time was short we knew, for it would not be long before the throngs arrived at this quiet stretch of river and chased us back to hot, dry land. We made the most of the time we had.

John is one of those rare friends who enjoys the day outdoors, whatever comes. If we catch fish he is smiling; the same if we don’t. If the grouse fly or the whitetails pass our stands, he enjoys the time spent whether a shot connects or not; and he finds equal joy and fulfillment from those days when game is scarce. Kindred spirits. I felt it more than twenty years ago when he walked into my fly shop for a chat.

John is beyond “handy” as well. His abilities reach the level of artistic and inspired. Fly tier, artist, and now bamboo rod maker. That last time we met along the river he brought his second rod, an 8 foot four weight built upon a taper devised by another friend, Tom Smithwick, the man I have called the Taper Wizard. Of course John didn’t just build an amazing cane flyrod. He made a beautiful walnut rod tube to complement it. Even before he heard my admiration, he insisted upon making a walnut case for me.

As we readied our gear for fishing yesterday morning, he placed the case on my car and stepped away, both of us mindful of our duty to protect our own health and that of our families. The morning light enflamed the figuring in the walnut as I turned the six sided case in my hands, the craftsmanship truly as beautiful as the wood, and the very special Thomas & Thomas fly rod it was destined for. I will cherish the gift as long as I continue.

Circumstances have kept us from spending time upon the rivers we both love this spring. There were float trips envisioned during the peak hatches, and afternoons reveling in the glory of the Green Drake hatch, dreams doused, if not by the threat of the growing public health crisis, then by the vagaries of Mother Nature’s whims. John found a different way to spend precious hours with his friend. I will share in those each time I take that rod case in hand and journey to the river.

There’s rain coming they say. Dare we believe them? Predicting the actions of hurricanes is chancy at best. The Catskills appears somewhere in limbo between the forecasts and models: perhaps one to two inches of rain, perhaps as much as five to eight inches. If I could place my order I would opt for something along the lines of three or four inches, spread out over two to three days and nights. Fill the groundwaters which feed the springs which feed the brooks… and on to the rivers. Fill the reservoirs too, so the releases may give new life to the embattled Mainstem of the Delaware, where this summer has been truly harsh.

If I get my wish, perhaps August will shine as last year, and my friend and I will find good fishing, maybe even take that float trip. And of course there is autumn…

Our weather forecast says to beware this morning, there will be thunderstorms! Rain in the Catskills? Preposterous! Don’t believe it!

I missed a morning’s fishing last week because I was foolish enough to believe such a forecast. Missed the afternoon too, as it would cloud up and tease us from time to time, even adding a roll of thunder or two for effect, but we received no rainfall. Not that I am advocating fishing when thunder calls, for I am not. A flash or a rumble is all that’s required to get me off the water as quickly as possible. I don’t mess with lightning.

Clouds and silence though are another matter, and that was the predominating condition for that day. I’ll be heading out to the river this morning. If Mark Luck intervenes, I could very well be chased off the river by some of those flashes and rumbles, but it won’t rain, at least not appreciably. I was thoroughly wetted one day last week, though a mile down the road from the riverside parking area I drove back into bright, hot sunshine and dry countryside.

I just checked the NYC Reservoir system status and totaled the rainfall for May, June and July at 9.16 inches, nearly three inches below the historic average. That is a 25% deficit, and the effects are compounded by the hotter than normal temperatures that continue unabated. I think back to a couple of glorious days in mid-June, shivering on a 38 degree Sunday morning as John and I both introduced some new bamboo to the river. What I wouldn’t give for August to begin with a week of mornings like that!

Right now I am debating the relative merits of fishing the four weight Cumberland Queen versus the shorter Garrison with the number three line. Minimizing disturbance to the water is paramount! The longer four weight will handle a longer leader, but the three weight certainly isn’t limited to a short one, and will land with more delicacy. Perhaps the pain in my wrist will dictate my choice. A morning’s fishing with the longer rod means fewer casting strokes, less wear and tear. It is nearly August, and that wrist has powered a lot of casts. If the cooler weather and rainfall I pray for arrives, my dry fly season will last into October.

John called last night, talking of grouse and whitetails and the hunting season that arrives as dry fly season wanes. He has been busy at his cabin this summer, setting stands and trimming trails, opening up bits of forest to foster the thickets favored by the grouse we both enjoy. We talked of fishing too of course, thinking ahead to a morning on the river, fishing apart, as we have come to call it in this year of the pandemic.

High summer, always a season when I pause and think of autumn leaves and crisp mornings. Perhaps my shot column will find a bird or two this year! I can picture myself late in winter, tying flies with feathers plucked from that first Catskill bird, feel the take of the trout to that same fly swung through a gentle run as steam rises from the river on another winter’s morn. But wait, no need to rush the season, for we know not how many remain.

Cold water and warm sunshine, a gentle cast and a quiver on the surface of the pool…cherish each moment.