With rain and snow threatening I headed to the river today with an old friend in the back of the Jeep. Dennis Menscer made the 8′ hollowbuilt bamboo rod for me four years ago. I paired it with a classic Hardy made Orvis CFO IV, 100 yards of backing and an Airflo WF5F line from the beginning and have stayed with that combo. We have many fine memories.

Between fishing from my drift boat and taking my life in my hands to wade a few spots at ridiculously high flows, my spring fishing has had to rely upon a couple of Thomas & Thomas graphite fly rods. Eventually I hope to devise a suitable rod holder so I can fish bamboo from the boat, but for now I have to stick with my old faithful T&T LPS 905. I was eager to fish this afternoon as the river had finally come down to a more tractable wading level and I was finally going to fish dry flies on a favorite bamboo rod.

Dennis’ hollowbuilt got the call as it is a unique rod that is suited to angling all the rivers in the Catskills. The taper is easy casting and has the subtle power for reaching out when needed. All I need do is relax and cast.

I arrived earlier than necessary due to my anticipation and the declining nature of the weather forecast. Leaving home near noon it was a comfortable 55 degrees. The rain was expected to begin near two and the forecasters did an enviable job. Thankfully, a handful of mayflies came out to greet the raindrops.

I didn’t get the heavy hatch that I did yesterday, when the sun managed to raise the water from the mid forties to nearly 52 degrees. A few sporadic Hendricksons floated downstream, but nothing rose to show interest. I knotted a 100-Year Dun to my 5X tippet and waited, feeling the chill deepen in my bones. I guess it was the second or third little flurry of flies that finally raised a trout, and I shot a cast that alighted just upstream of his lie. The old boy must have followed it down, as I was about to pick it up and cast again when he erupted in a burst of white water!

I stripped the line with the rod high until I got him on the reel, then lowered the tip to use the powerful middle and butt of the rod against him. There was plenty of give and take, as the fish bored for the boulders along the bottom of the pool, but the arc of bamboo finally bested him. Measured in the net at 20 inches, he was my first dry fly trout on cane for the season, and a fine omen for the months ahead.

That bronze flanked brownie would be the only trout I would fish to, as the hatch never materialized into something more than a few sparse handfuls of flies. The chill had penetrated by the time I waded to the bank, the air temperature having dropped 9 degrees in a couple of hours. Perhaps we will see that snow this evening.

Wild trout taken on dry flies and fine bamboo are special to me, as there is no other way I would rather fish. The history and traditions of dry fly fishing drew me to the Catskills, and my heart has never left!

The first week of May is behind us, and an inch of show is expected tonight. I guess I should be used to fishing in two jackets and a hoodie by now.

We did get two days that reached 60 degrees this week, and none were forecast, but the wind has been relentless at times. Yesterday they called for 10 -15 mph and I went wading, not expecting anything in the way of hatches unless the sun brought a few caddis to the surface. I was certain that the Hendricksons were finished where I was heading. They had started fully two weeks ago and then the high water and cold flushed the rest of them away right? Apparently not.

I pulled up a stream gage yesterday morning and the temperature field was stuck on early April when the site loaded. Water temperatures were in the low forties, with the better peaks near 44 or 45 degrees, the same thing I saw when I refreshed the page to get the current data. Basically the rivers have not changed significantly over the course of the past month.

I marveled at a heavy Hendrickson hatch yesterday afternoon as I stood waist deep in cold water and worked both of the rising trout I would encounter for the day. There were Blue Quills in abundance and some caddis too, and a new player. I was fortunate to fool the first fish, a stocky 19″ brownie, before the wind got worse. The velocity and frequency of the gusts seemed to increase with the intensity of the hatch. Not the first time I have lived that phenomena on a Catskill river.

I worked that second riser with various flies and adjusted tippets, but the winds refused to let me consistently make the perfect presentation. Too many casts, as the desire to grab a little of that trout’s energy for a moment and a dance around the river overcomes logic and reason. If the winds allow 15% of your presentations to be just right, there is no reason to make the other 85% of those casts. I know this and yet…

I am still seeing plenty of out of state license plates along the rivers, small groups of guys close together, without any masks or semblance of good judgement. I guess we as a people have taken the idea of American freedom too far. So many believe they can do whatever they want and nothing can touch them. More than 75,000 have learned they were wrong.

I am fortunate to be fishing, for that is what I retired to do. The idea was to spend the last few years of my life on the rivers of my heart, the one place where things seem right, where Nature’s energy and serenity envelop my weary mind. I resent the fear each time I hear a car door along the river bank. Fly fishing was once about courtesy, the pursuit of gentlemen, and each of us left his fellow angler to fish in peace when coming second to a pool. To hope that, under penalty of death at least, such courtesy and common sense might prevail again seems a foolish thought.

I will hope for better times.

Yesterday felt like a little daylight was peeking through after a long, dark night.

May had finally arrived, but I had been forced away from the rivers by dangerously high water. After months of tension with the virus lurking and weeks of colder than normal temperatures, May was supposed to be better. It was supposed to be spring: warm and sunny with mayflies in the air and trout rising; something to take the edge off. Instead, May had debuted with more of the same.

Yesterday I was finally able to hitch up the boat and get back on the river. The water was still high, though it finally came down to the point I felt it was safe to float. I expected the morning sunshine to disappear about the time I began my float, and I wasn’t too sure about finding many rising fish with all that cold water rushing down the channel, but I was out there.

Just before I headed out I checked the weather one more time to find the 10 to 15 mph wind forecast had been upgraded to 10 to 20 mph. Oh joy. I nearly called it off at that moment but hope kept me on course.

There were plenty of boats on the river, with plenty of social distancing violations, but the sun stayed with us and the wind stayed down. The fact is it was a beautiful day, an unexpected one and thus, appreciated all the more.

The high flow and lack of rising fish made for a quick float. You basically dip an oar tip now and then to correct your line and the current speeds you on your way. Sit back and enjoy the sunshine! Once early afternoon rolled around I stopped at a number of spots and anchored to look for flies and rises. A handful of Blue Quills started to show but there was no sign of a trout.

By prime time I had reached some great water for Hendricksons, and did my best to play leapfrog with the other driftboats and anchor where there was some softer water collecting insects. Still nothing working the top. The soft water wasn’t all that soft, and the bugs weren’t coming en masse. There were plenty of quills, but I guess the math wasn’t working for the fish: too much effort for too little return.

The magic hour passed with no more than an occasional Hendrickson drifting past and I figured my day was about done. Between the enhanced current speed and the need to pass other boats, I was further down river than expected with nothing to show for it. I hadn’t made a cast.

Finally I saw a little rise along the bank. Instinct told me it was only a youngster, but hey, at least it was a fish, and all wild trout are worthy. The edge was shallow so I anchored up a little further upstream, and the fish dropped down a bit and rose again. Long downstream casts can be tricky when it comes to getting the right float along the bank. I made several casts, extending my drift, but that fish just didn’t see anything he liked. I tried to lift the anchor and let the boat down a little closer; and put him down.

I sat there for a long while, enjoying the sunshine and staring downstream hoping for another rise. The flies were getting sparser as I sat there, but I finally saw one little ring. I repositioned, but that guy never rose again.

When I pulled the anchor and grabbed the oars I figured that my fishing was over for the day. I had just one stop ahead and I fully expected that another boat would be sitting there. When I floated into view, sure enough, I saw the flash of oars in the afternoon sunlight.

He passed, rowed right by, so I rowed across the river as quickly as possible without creating too much of a ruckus. Once upstream of the spot, I slipped the oars under my knees, picked up the anchor rope and drifted silently into position for a long cast to the first rise.

The fish looked big, pushing plenty of water as he foraged on the quills and odd Hendricksons scattered along that bank. I had tied three flies immediately before leaving that morning, and one of them was secured to my tippet, a sparkle dun with a Trigger Point wing. Four casts, five, still he kept eating, and no take. I pulled some more line from the reel, shocked the rod and twitched the tip back as the leader unrolled, putting more slack in the tippet to improve the drift. Nothing!

He pushed up another bulge of water and his little round nose came out, I saw the whiskers and the flipping tip of his tail: muskrat! I couldn’t help but laugh at my own intensity. Perfect casts to a rodent. It would have been quite a fight.

Wait, there’s something else there. Mama muskrat? No, a bulge and a sipping rise. Two casts and I had him! He pulled a deep bow in my old Thomas & Thomas and my mind flashed to the tip that had been savaged by a low hanging branch while I fought for control in standing waves and white water earlier in the day, but the rod held.

The fish bored away from the bank and into the stronger flow, pulling line from the reel and shaking his big head. Definitely not a rodent. He fought hard, as Delaware browns are wont to do, but I finally led him into my net. Twenty-one inches of wild energy, his sides heaving in the mesh as I slipped the Hendrickson from his jaw. I admired him for a moment then slipped him back over the side.

Funny how a day can brighten so suddenly, and now there were a pair of fish sipping the errant mayflies in the line of quiet water along that bank.

The fish were cruising, working their way upstream and weaving in and out as they found a morsel to their liking, then diving and re-surfacing back where they had started. At last my fly caught one’s attention and he tipped up and took it. The rod bowed, I felt his weight and then nothing. Should have checked the tippet better after landing that first big boy.

I clipped the rough end of the tippet and knotted the morning Hendrickson number 2 to the hook, then looked for another candidate. I guess the fish along that bank had seen too much of my comparadun, for I could draw no more interest. I changed to a Blue Quill parachute, for I could see more of the smaller flies in the drift. That too proved unwelcome. My eye caught the form of a spinner in the glare beside the boat, and brought a smile to my face.

I checked the tippet one more time, tied on a size 16 biot-bodied rusty spinner, and began to play the game with the cruisers once again. It took several casts before I guessed which way the trout would turn and laid the fly perfectly in his path. He sipped, I tightened, and the big trout boiled the water and headed out of town!

He ran hard toward a snag and I turned him just short of it. Coming my way, it was all I could do to reel fast enough to keep up with him, then it was down with the current, twists and head shakes. In the net he was a solid 20 inches, another lovely big, wild Delaware brown.

The drift of flies had lessened, and there were no more cruisers picking off the remaining strays, so I took a moment to reflect on how quickly the day had turned, let the warmth of the sun ease my tired shoulders, and floated on toward home.

Somewhere in the vicinity of thirty years ago I developed a series of emergers tied with CDC feathers. The premise was to tie a good match for a specific mayfly nymph, incorporating CDC feathers in the insect’s wing color. The CDC was tied in in a low loop to trap air bubbles that would hold the fly in the surface film, and the loose fibers that escaped the thread were allowed to trail and move in the current.

Since I was chasing the Hendrickson hatch on the Gunpowder back then, the first emerger I tied was the Hendrickson. It was followed by sulfur, blue-winged olive and white mayfly (Ephoron leukon) variations. All of these caught trout; difficult wild trout in clear heavily fished streams like the Gunpowder and the Pennysylvania limestoners.

When I began fishing the Catskills in 1993, I tied versions to match the March Brown and the Green Drake. While I missed those hatches in the Catskills that season, I got to try both flies on Penns Creek. Both were effective when the trout would key on emerging nymphs and refuse to take the duns.

After amassing a track record of success on different rivers matching different hatches, I finally published this style of fly in the Mid-Atlantic Fly Fishing Guide. I hadn’t published any of my original fly patterns previously but I ended up being thankful that I did decide to write the article on the CDC emerger series. Later the same year Fly Fisherman magazine carried an article by Rene Harrop where he offered several of his original CDC patterns, among them a loop winged emerger very similar to my tie. Neither of us was aware of the other’s experiments, yet we came to similar conclusions. Mr. Harrop certainly needs no introduction.

So there were at least two of us who were convinced that this style of emerger was a great idea, though I don’t doubt that there are other tiers that have had kindred ideas and tied similar flies. Such is the nature of fly tying.

My CDC emergers can be fished effectively as tied in most situations. When you encounter a trout who still isn’t convinced, there is a little trick that can turn the tide in your favor. Pinch the CDC loop as tightly as you can with your thumb and forefinger, then submerge the fly and squeeze the body to thoroughly wet it. If you get any water in the loop wing, blow it out and cast. The fly will hang deeper with nothing but the loop wing caught in the film, and that trout will probably take it.

I have chosen the March Brown pattern to tie for this video, since that should be the next mayfly to appear this month. It is May after all, even though our ten day forecast shows our high temperatures won’t get out of the forties and fifties here in the Catskills.

It has been a few years since I last witnessed one of the epic Catskill Hendrickson hatches. Every spring I look forward to the possibility. Considering that it is the first major hatch of the season, there is no doubt that the dry fly man’s anticipation is at its annual peak as the second week of April approaches.

Yes I have seen it that early, though I have endured the long wait on the brink of too many seasons when the flies did not come forth until May. This year had all the appearances of an early spring, one in which the hatch would appear during the third week of April, but a push of persistent colder air after a warm weekend to begin the month seemed to stall things; or did it?

The water temperatures rose to the magic 50 degree mark that first warm weekend, then plummeted back to the thirties as we were battered with snow squalls and frigid nights thereafter. The last blast brought us a 2 1/2 inch snowfall on April 18th. Though river temperatures were in the wrong half of the forties, I saw the big duns on the water the following day, April 19th. The flies have been here for nearly two weeks, but there hasn’t been a big showing of rising trout to greet them.

As I watched a handful of those beautiful ruddy duns blown with the gale two days ago, I feared that might be the last I will see of them for the season. The rain clouds have had their way and the rivers are all blown out once again; and more rain is coming. Anticipation unfulfilled and hopes dashed once again!

Memory assures that I have had great days fishing the Hendrickson hatch, though upon reflection there have been more that have been frustrating. Wind and high water have most often been the culprits to take the blame. I see visions of dark, cloudy days, the surface filled with flies as far as I could see, and pods of trout feeding furiously on them. Wading deeper than reason I still needed a long cast to reach those pods and the winds defied a presentation. Such is fishing, lest we forget.

I have grown as an angler passing those years that flood my memory, something we all do if we are dedicated to the sport and strive to improve. I can fish effectively under conditions I once considered hopeless, yet Nature is still the great equalizer. She reminded me, standing in the river just the other day, watching big trout pound those last few Hendricksons while I laughed out loud amid the rush of 35 mph winds that defied my casts.

So, another season begins, and though conditions do not suit the dreams that guided me through the winter I am thankful. I am here, alive and breathing despite my own health issues and the devastation of a global pandemic. There is still a tomorrow.

I had a reminder of that too, as I drifted through the tail of a pool early this week. Suddenly I saw a splashy rise and let the anchor as quickly and quietly as possible. Rises erupted toward midstream and below my position. The display seemed to coincide with the appearance of a few larger duns on the surface. I had just tied on a Hendrickson and thought myself ready for Nature’s little gift, but the fish were moving with each rise. I cast to each target immediately, only to drift my dry over vacant water. It lasted all of five minutes, and then the surface was still.

Teased, I sat down and let my heart rate slow a bit. That little flurry of fruitless activity brought a smile and a chuckle too. It was fun without feeling a tug.

I tried to fish today. Yes I knew the winds were forecast to be 15 to 25 mph, but I also know that there is an inch and a half of rain coming between tomorrow and tomorrow night. Rivers are already high, reservoirs a nearly full, so significant rainfall means there won’t be any fishing for a few days, perhaps more, so I took a chance that I could pick a reach of water that was protected from the strong southeast winds.

I ended up standing out in the middle of the river watching a couple of big fish smash the occasional bug and laughing, because the wind was blowing straight down the pipe at 30 to 35 mph every time I tried to cast. It became such a futile effort it was funny.

Walking along the road looking for activity the wind seemed manageable. Climbing in and waiting for one of those trout to rise again, still manageable. Spotting a rise, fixing my eye on the nearest rock on the bottom to mark the spot, trying to make an initial backcast and whoa; somebody turned on the fans! This isn’t the first time I have experienced this phenomena.

Its tough to finally have a few flies hatching and not be able to do anything about it. If we get the hard rain that is forecast there’s a chance the hatch will be over before its possible to get back on the water. Yes I have a boat but there are limits.

I made my second solo float on the West Branch yesterday. It was bright, warm and lovely to be out there. There were mayflies hatching in the afternoon and there were a few trout rising, but no where near what the weather would lead you to expect. I landed five browns and missed a couple. If you look at that in terms of miles covered I guess I found one rising trout per mile.

I shot a quick little video while I was anchored and looking for fish. I’ll share it, just because it was such a beautiful day. I think I will keep watching it myself; just to remember what that kind of day looks like.

Lets see if this fixes the problem wioth yesterday’s tying video…

It was thirty years ago when I wandered into my first fly shop. A gentleman by the name of Wally Vait was sharing space with another small sporting enterprise, the E&R Gunsmith, and he called his new business “On The Fly”. Wally helped me learn more about Maryland’s Big Gunpowder Falls, a growing new wild trout tailwater fishery in Baltimore County. It was there I found a few packets of Cul-de-canard or CDC feathers, and I have been tying CDC dry flies ever since. My very first truly original pattern used CDC to imitate the midges and microcaddis that trout ate readily in the upper reaches of the river, and it was an instant success. Pretty exciting stuff for a novice fly tier!

Even then the Gunpowder attracted a lot of fishing pressure. It was the home of a nice population of beautifully colored wild brown trout. It was a fairly small, clear water stream, and not often affected with high flows. Those wild browns and the few wild rainbows in that evolving fishery were difficult to catch, and I learned early on that CDC feathers offered movement and floatation. CDC flies caught fish better than standard flies on the river’s glassy pools.

When I moved to Pennsylvania to fish the limestone springs of the Cumberland Valley I encountered even more fishing pressure and difficult trout. Along the way I expanded my use of CDC in dry flies and used them to solve the puzzles of the legendary browns of the Letort and the wild Falling Spring Rainbows.

Fishing the Catskills for the past 27 years has exposed me to another world of challenging conditions. Our rivers are some of the most popular fisheries in the world. They are bug factories where trout thrive and grow to trophy size while feeding suspiciously and selectively on the multitude of natural insects. On all these rivers I have witnessed the effect of heavy fishing pressure, of trout exposed daily to great anglers and beginners, flawless presentations and extremely poor ones.

If you have ever watched closely as these wild trout feed on a good hatch of mayflies, you have seen them select only the naturals that were moving in their window. A good mayfly or caddis imitation that moves subtly in the microcurrents of the surface film is often the only way to catch these highly educated, selective fish.

Cul-de-canard feathers are easy to tie with and extremely effective for educated selective trout. They look natural, move to imitate life, and provide good floatation in the film. For the first video in this series I will show you how to tie a CDC comparadun with a turkey biot “quill” type body, one of my go to patterns for many years.

https:\\youtu.be/yjTSY3eMGxg

One note for biot bodies. If you want maximum durability for your flies I suggest coating the biot body with Hard as Hull acrylic polymer head cement as soon as the body has been wrapped. Tie a three turn whip finish, clip the thread, and set the hook aside until the cement is completely dry. Tie several flies to the same point then, when dry, add the wings and thoraxes one fly at a time. I usually don’t bother with this step, but it will make the biot body tougher.

Saturday provided another all too brief glimpse of spring in the Catskills, as I floated solo on the West Branch of the Delaware. Putting out just before noon, I quickly shed my jacket and drifted in my shirtsleeves, enjoying the midday sun. It was a beautiful day, but our forecast for tonite and tomorrow might revisit the scene captured above.

Five days remain in April and I can’t help but wonder what May will bring?

I saw a great many flies on the water during my sojourn downriver, the vast majority among the tiniest of mayflies, too small to trifle with considering the long downstream casting required for drift boat fishing.

I did find a few rising fish. Some where happy to take my Blue Quill imitations, and some seemed dedicated to the abundance of the minutia. I can still see size 22 and 24 dry flies when wading, but from the high angle of the boat I cannot, not even when I scoff at the traditions I love and tie tiny parachutes with fluorescent chartreuse wing posts.

My solution then is to feed them the 18’s and 20’s I can see. That tactic left them cold, so I stuck with the Blue Quill. There seemed to be a few on the water sporadically during the afternoon, though catching mayflies out of a drift boat for identification is not my forte either. I need to find my old bug net!

I managed to land five brown trout, between my poster and parachute Paralep ties and a Quill Gordon Comparadun I tied on toward late afternoon. There were four more that seemed to be well hooked but escaped; one due to an abundance of pressure on my part allowing him to open up the hook. At least one appeared to have eaten the fly immediately (I didn’t see it fall) and I lifted much too late in disbelief. Add in a couple other misses and foibles and, combined with the fish that simply wouldn’t look at anything big enough to see, I had plenty of action.

The shirtsleeve session was repeated later in the afternoon, when the light breezes calmed and the sun broke through full and bright again. Those moments alone were worth making the float, having some trout to play with just made it all the better.

There are times you seek a friendly reach of water simply to quiet the noise within. Yesterday was such a day, rainy with banks of dark, foreboding clouds, and still the wintery feel we have become accustomed to this wayward spring. I didn’t expect activity, I simply needed the time on the water.

I had chosen an old friend, my Thomas & Thomas Paradigm, a 9 foot two piece rod for a five. Remember two piece fly rods? There was a time when the majority were built that way; until the industry decided we needed to fly everywhere to go fishing. It is a gentle old rod, with a smoothness and supple feel that belies it synthetic heart, and I was in the mood for some gentle casting.

Standing in the edge of the flow I surveyed the pool in front of me, its surface still racing with the urgency wet weather brings. I was surprised and heartened to see a trout rise toward the far shore, so I began to make my way to him. It was early but I could see a few mayflies in the drift. Assuming Quill Gordons I chose a dubbed comparadun. The Paradigm lofted the line beautifully and sent the fly on its way, short that first time as is my habit, testing the drift before presenting the fly over the fish.

Wading into position, the trout had risen twice more, moving and restless. I had made half a dozen casts to the places he had risen, long down and across stream casts that let the fly drift throughout the alley he was frequenting. I was retrieving the excess line when I felt the tug of life and found a spirited trout that decided my dry fly made an acceptable streamer. A lucky trout can be a gift, and it was on this gloomy afternoon.

Releasing a plump 15 inch brown from my net, I pondered the realization that this could be a much better day than I had any reason to expect. The water was still cold, in the low forties, and the insect activity still sparse, but nature goes about her plan.

That first fish rose again, and I offered him the fly. He accepted with a flourish, somewhat larger than the first, but won his freedom well short of the net, bringing a shock at the suddenness of his departure; and a smile.

I had to move 50 yards upstream to work to another rise, forging through the fast thigh deep current, and working the muscles too long dormant through this interminable winter. Once in position, a second trout betrayed his presence, and I worked this closer fish first, then cast to the steadier feeder in the fast chute next to the far bank. There were few flies in this faster reach, some of those smaller than the Gordons, so I played the game.

Two Quill Gordons, different ties in 14 and 16, a proven Blue Quill parachute, and finally a size 20 Adams with a chartreuse post that I could easily track along the bank, these complete with a tippet change and various repositionings. No sale to either fish.

Back into the rush of current, I pushed further upstream where I had seen a white wink tight to the bank. The larger flies were back again, so I knotted a sparse, perfect Catskill Quill Gordon tied a day ago to my tippet. The trick was to place that fly an inch from the rocky bank, no more and no less, on a downstream cast with an upstream reach. My old friend was perfect for this game!

I had noticed that my nemesis downstream had not risen again, and was theorizing that the bank feeder I was now casting to might be the same trout moving up along that bank. Deep in thought, I reacted nearly too late when the little wink displaced my Gordon on the surface. The trout was hooked solidly though, and I felt his weight as he bulled his way into the heart of the river’s flow, and the Hardy sang.

The rod arched into a perfect bow, countering the thrusts and headshakes of the trout, finally overcoming both his strength and that of the rushing river. In the net he measured a respectable 19 inches, broad and deep in the chest.

The light rain had subsided by then, and I pulled down the hood of my jacket for the last time. There was another wink or two along that bank, though not with any regularity, and I whiled away some time fishing until I sensed the approach of evening.

Moving back downstream I saw a ring below the rock where the first of the earlier pair of risers had ignored my offerings. “So you’re back”, I thought.

I had changed to a CDC winged Quill Gordon, so I cast it down and across along the bubble line trailing that trace of current, the soft fibers of the wing dancing! My adversary simply couldn’t resist. Caught in the full force of the channel, this stocky 15 inch trout gave a good account of himself, coaxing a few notes from the Hardy, and resisting the net until the last. I found the fly in the hard side of his lip, twisted it free, and sent him on his way.

I eased my way downstream, knowing my fishing was completed, and noticing the sky was beginning grudgingly to clear. The air felt slightly warmer, though that could have been the exertion of my wading against the current. I stood for a while at the edge of the pool, giving thanks in my heart for a couple of hours of peace and joy.

Before I turned toward the car, I surveyed the water up and down one last time. There was a soft rise well down the pool which brought a smile; perhaps one last kiss? I waded down and across slowly, the river pushing at my heels. The CDC winged fly was still damp from the last trout, so I dug into my pocket for the floatant, and brushed the powdery crystals into the feather, bringing the fly back to life.

Another rise, and one last long cast, the loop unrolling slowly and laying the fly gently above my mark. The drift perfect, as was the moment, with the sun fighting through the breaking clouds for a brief twinkle on the water as the trout rose to take the fly. Lost in the bow of the soft rod, the music of both the Hardy and the river in my ears, I could stay that way forever.