I took an old friend along with me the other day and introduced him to a new one. My favorite graphite fly rods are a pair of Thomas & Thomas Paradigms that I have fished for twenty years or more. They boast a smooth, graceful action, something the major fly rod companies forgot long ago. The late Thomas Dorsey designed the taper to offer the closest action to a bamboo rod, the instrument that brought fame to him and his partner, the late Tom Maxwell back in 1969. He did a very fine job.

For many of those years, I dreamed of fishing the original, one of the first Paradigm models crafted by this duo from Tonkin cane. To say that these were out of my price range is most certainly understatement. Time passes and markets change, particularly an angler and collector driven market like that which trades in vintage bamboo rods. I looked, I wished, and time continued on.

I picked up another fine rod one spring, a beautiful thing whose owner was anxious to sell, and I got a major bargain in that deal. As happens sometimes, the rod turned out not to be a favorite, it’s action more suited to a different casting style. I was a little disappointed, but I held onto the rod and “banked” the value the deal had given me. Eventually I had a chance to trade that rod for the Holy Grail, an 8-foot six-weight Thomas & Thomas Paradigm, one made by Dorsey and Maxwell during their early years.

My Paradigm is a sweet casting fly rod if ever there was one, and it has that hidden power the marque is known for. I reserve it for special occasions, as it has a lot of meaning to me. Far across the ocean, there is another craftsman who has influenced my angling. Vlad Rachenko made his bones creating some of the most gorgeous fly reels in the world. He designed and machined these special reels from titanium in his workshop in the Ukraine, VR Design. Titanium is an expensive metal, difficult to machine, and his world class fly reels were likewise costly to own. A few years ago, he designed a beautiful and innovative trout reel, the Trutta Perfetta and decided to make a very affordable model in aluminum as well as titanium. I ordered a 3″ aluminum reel as soon as I became aware of it, and it has been a wonderful reel and a delight to fish.

Thankfully, Vlad and his family are safe today, after fleeing Ukraine under the clouds of war, and he has been able to get his business operating in Germany. He had promised a larger version of the Trutta Perfetta a year or more ago, and in mid-May I saw his announcement that the first small batch of the new 3-1/2″ reels were available. A little something for my birthday arrived in time to see the rivers rounding into fishable condition, and on Monday afternoon, I matched the beautiful new reel to my treasured old T&T Paradigm, and went fishing.

Now fishing has been kind of rare and difficult this season. Mother Nature healed the Catskills from the drought that spanned most of 2024 and the early months of 2025. Rivers have only been wadable for a small portion of May. With a favorite reach fishable at last, I looked upon the day as a celebration.

Nature agreed with my assessment it seems, for she sent a variety of mayflies to greet me. The weather was fair and the water sublime, though the Red Gods made certain the trout would not be easy. My new Trutta got along very well with my treasured old Paradigm, and at last I enjoyed the chance to really hear her sing!

I cringed somewhat when I observed today’s forecast. It is a day before Memorial Day Weekend begins, boasting it’s temperatures in the forties with a side of wind and rain. Cringe-worthy for a fly angler in the prime of the season, though it triggered a memory… and a smile.

It was very close to this date, and easily fifteen years ago. The word had gone out regarding the progression of the hatches so far that spring, and I had set my vacation and travelled North to West Branch Angler. The Drakes were due! I was then fully entranced by that spectacle, a card-carrying member of the Cult of the Green Drake, and I had arrived when the mystics predicted the miracle. An unseasonable cold, wet front then descended upon the Catskills, and tore my heart out!

I remember wading the river on a day that would barely touch forty-five degrees, sunless and damp, wishing for an extra layer of insulation. My friend stopped to check in on my progress, and I worked to muster a little cheer in my voice as I answered his greeting. Very little.

Sometime in mid-afternoon I blinked twice as I stared at one particular thread of upstream current, for there was a tall-winged creature riding through the mist – the first Green Drake! Mother Nature had commanded that it was their time, and the mayflies seemed powerless to refuse her orders, forty-five degrees and be damned.

That was a fine and amazing fishing day, the flies coming in sparse waves as they were wont to do in those years, on and off throughout the afternoon. There was no one save I on that reach of river, no one to witness the event. The great flies struggled to the surface to be quelled by the cold, damp air, so they drifted a few hundred feet when not interrupted.

The wild brown trout likewise ignored the dour day and stationed themselves throughout the river, each in it’s favorite subtle thread of current, and partook of the feast. More than a few found their menu interrupted by a tasty looking mayfly with a bite of it’s own!

I do not recall the minute details of that day, nor those of the next, quite similar day of cold, clammy angling perfection. Both brought a number of trophy size brownies to hand. They ran long and jumped high those trout, giving more than just reward for suffering the cold through my dreams of May sunshine. The weather improved later in that trip; the fishing could not have.

Of course, my memory recalls any number of cold, wet days upon the water, days when my perseverance received only the reward of solitude, of playing the game well. Such is the nature of angling, for it is always a challenge, not the least of which tends to be proffered by weather!

One of the curses added to a season like this one, where the weather takes away many fishing days during the peak of the season, is the crowds which result from anglers’ desperation. Bad behavior abounds.

I usually try to fish those reaches of our rivers that are neglected by the majority of the thousands of fly fishers who flock to the Catskills. These are places with fewer, more difficult fish, the pools where stocking trucks are unknown. Weather is the equalizer though. When wadable water is at a premium, the crowds spread out across the landscape.

I have never really grasped the crowd mentality when it pertains to solitary pursuits like hunting and fishing. All that is required is one car at a pull off, one fisherman in a pool, and the crowd can materialize like magic. Do people think that occupied pool or run is the only one harboring a trout? Do they need the group experience?

I was fishing one of those secondary pools the other day when a pair of eyes began burning a hole in the back of my neck. There were two guys crouched on the bank watching me fish slowly downstream. No trout were rising and there hadn’t been throughout the day, so I was simply fishing cover to pass the time. Unfortunately, I caught a couple of small trout while they were watching, and that did it. Both guys piled in and started wading across right in front of me and closer than the length of my casts, intent upon cutting off my downstream course. The river there is easily better than 200 feet wide, and there was no one else there, but they had to move right in on the only angler in sight. Sportsmen, no doubt about it.

There are miles of rivers and streams here in the Catskills, a lot of good water, so there is no reason to act like that, though every season there are those that behave this way as a matter of course. Fly fishing used to be a game for gentlemen, those who showed courtesy to one another, offered help or a productive fly to a newcomer. Today a lot of that has been replaced by what those of us who remember those days recognize as combat fishing.

Back thirty years ago the sport of flyfishing was experiencing a period of large-scale growth. Thousands came into the sport, many attracted by the beauty and solitude of the natural environment. The mass mindset seemed to say that growth was good, more people to protect our rivers and streams, to advocate for clean water and wild trout. To some extent we got that, but at a cost. Though many were attracted by the beauty and solitude, they made it their mission to destroy it, crowding on top of other anglers wherever they went.

When I started out, there was a learning curve. When you encountered another angler on the stream you kept your distance and left him to his water in peace. If he looked like he was pretty good, it was okay to watch quietly from the bank for a few minutes and then pass on. No shouting a greeting, no sloshing in the water nearby. Speak only if spoken to. Treat others as you would wish to be treated. Remember those ideas?

I tend to get angry when combat fishing intrudes upon my experience, I am human, and angling and my time on the river means a great deal to me. When I think about these events, I also feel some regret for those who fish that way. They are depriving themselves of the best that angling has to offer by their actions, either because they don’t know any better, or simply don’t care.

May is the epicenter of spring flyfishing, the climax of all of the hopes and dreams we shepherd through winter. Called to the outdoors since a very early age, it has always been one of my two favorite months of the year.

Well, it is May indeed, and more than half of this pivotal month has passed without fishing. Like most anglers, I waited, struggled with the loss of one quarter of the year’s perfection while doing my best to keep hope alive for the month’s legendarily glorious last half. But what truly lies ahead?

The week ahead boasts another grand helping of chilly, damp, rain-soaked weather in a season that has already raised questions as to the health of our rivers’ insect populations. So what indeed lies ahead?

Though I confess a particular joy in spending a warm, sun-kissed day on the river, I have sought to always remember a few of the factual precepts of angling for trout: Fish are already wet; Chilly weather begets cold water where trout thrive; and mayflies often hatch best on damp, cloudy days. While these truths are not always correct, they have been written and recited since the first fly was cast because untold generations of anglers have suffered the less than perfect weather days to reap their rewards of the creel. In a month and a season like this one, it is best that we keep that in mind.

The first members of the group of pale-winged yellow mayflies we fondly call sulfurs should arrive upon the rivers’ surface this week. We shall hope to find their numbers impressive and the trout as excited as we are. In the back of my memory, I have stored any number of days when chilly, damp May afternoons held me shivering in my waders, unable to leave the water due to the continuous hatching and dining (on the trout’s part) to a heavy and extended hatch of sulfurs.

There is no rule requiring an angler to pack away his warm fishing clothing come May and, being a veteran Cumberland Valley angler who regularly enjoyed the 52-degree spring-fed streams during every month of the year, I have a goodly supply of said clothing. I also have at least two fishing rain jackets and waxed cotton caps, to say nothing of a pair of impregnated Thomas & Thomas fly rods. May? Well, might as well plan upon using them all!

At last, the great river has returned to a glimpse of wadabilty! There are still many runs and glides beyond reach of fly casters, but the flows are slowly receding after two weeks. Each cloud in the sky wrought new anguish this past week, but the rain that fell was light, retarding the recession of high flows somewhat, but thankfully failing to drive them back toward flood stage.

I ventured out, committed to visiting some favorite haunts. These are reaches I visit early in the season, searching for good hatches and a handful of quality rising trout. For this season of 2025, I have found these beloved runs and glides barren, their mayflies and their trout casualties of the drought of 2024-25 and a long, ice laden winter. Could the belated arrival of the high flows of spring freshen these bright waters and renew my hope?

My first destination revealed no secrets as I sat along the riverbank after a passing thundershower. Still no signs of life in the drift, no rises and seemingly no hope. Travelling once more, I greeted my next destination with an upstream walk, finding a grassy place on the bank to wait.

The timing of this visit led me to hope for March Browns, and it was easy to let the depth of my longing cause me to see one of the big mayflies bobbing along in every leaf or bubble drifting a hundred feet away. The sight of splashing white water along a far bank led me upriver, only to have my vision dissolve into fast current amid a jumble of rocks.

At last, I witnessed an image of hope. I waded down, trying the heavy flow about my legs to determine if an approach might succeed, for the second rise, and a rise it was, was preceded by a live mayfly lifting from the rapid surface into the growing midday light!

For perhaps half an hour I saw them in ones and twos, hopping on the surface and taking wing, and every once in a while a trout would decide the treat was worth the effort to rise in that deep, fast flow. The nearest one was a long pitch away, but the rush of the current allowed no closer an approach. At last, I eased up on the nervous power the anticipation fueled in me, and the line unrolled as it shot far across the river. He came for it, and despite all the slack line I had piled onto the faster water in front of me, I managed to bring it taught at the right moment.

The fish was strong in that tumult of swirling water and I dared to believe. He rocketed out of the water and answered my prayer; a brown trout, fine and wild and up to the fight I would give him! He refused to leave that maelstrom, but I coaxed him closer a little at a time. Then suddenly he darted away and was in the air again!

I countered every move, thrilled to every run, though in the end it was not to be. Drawing him at last close for netting, the fickle hook released him. The sense of loss, though poignant, was quickly replaced by intense gladness that such a trout was there, once more hunting this reach of river so devastated by the drought.

Nature renews. The hatch was brief, and in truth there were very few of those big, bright mayflies on the water, but they were there, the building blocks for tomorrow!

Given I had wandered the Willowemoc yesterday until the number of anglers exceeded my tolerance, I went on to sample another reach of small water. Though there are gorgeous, historic miles of the Beaver Kill above Roscoe’s Junction Pool, very little of that water allows public access and fishing. The “little river” has long been the domain of private angling clubs, and though the enjoyment of these shrines is restricted, it is their stewardship that has preserved the beauty and purity Nature has wrought there.

I read a great deal from those who angled there amid the Golden Age, icons like Sparse Grey Hackle, Gene Connett, Arnold Gingrich, and my favorite, Dana Storrs Lamb.

It was four years ago when I noted the fine print on a Catskill region recreational map denoting the location of Lamb’s “Pigpen Pool”, and though it was autumn and not the perfect time to visit the place, I was quite simply drawn there. Indeed, the Pigpen Pool was located along one of those rare reaches open for public fishing. I found it still just as beautiful as Dana had described it all those decades before my birth.

And so, in my desperation to find the solitude of fishing, I returned. There was no one about the place on this rainy afternoon, and I was excited when I saw a few mayflies winging above the bouncing currents. It looked every bit the fast run on this spring visit, very unlike the pools I fish on the lower river. I made a few casts of course, the old 7-1/2-foot Orvis bamboo being well suited to the environs, though I felt certain that the volume and velocity of the current would not entertain a trout to rise. Simply seeing those few mayflies in the air, standing amid that rush of bright water and hearing nothing above it’s passing save a hint of birdsong, caused me to feel the magic of the place.

Thank you once more, Mr. Lamb.

All of our rivers and streams are roaring down through their valleys still, and the coming week advertises more rainfall. By midweek, I am hopeful I can sneak off to a small mountain stream with a special 6-foot bamboo rod and a single box of dry flies, but there are no guarantees. The ten-day forecast predicts nearly an inch more rain for Hancock for Tuesday through Saturday. Our total for the past week, Saturday through Saturday came to 5.49 inches of rain. Some parts of the Catskills received more. This was the kind of event necessary to replenish the springs and aquifers so degraded by the drought of 2024-25, and we all hope that Nature accomplished that goal. The Delaware system reservoirs, still unfilled a week ago, are spilling tremendous amounts of water over their dams today.

I will do my best to take advantage of this forced time away from fishing. My own rod making project will give me a place to concentrate my energies. The butt and mid-section of my three-piece Lo o bamboo rod have been glued-up and are curing. Final planing of the two rod tips lies before me.

With more than forty hours invested, I am very satisfied with my rod crafting attempt thus far. The glued sections looked very good, with nice tight glue lines, and they proved to be very straight when examined after binding. Planing the rod tips down to dimensions as miniscule as 0.035″ is intimidating. Handling must be flawless, as also the planing and final scraping to get the finished dimensions accurate to one thousandth of an inch tolerance. The winter project has grown to perhaps more than half a year!

If I succeed, there will be a great deal of work ahead. Filing and sanding the excess epoxy from the rod sections, fitting and cementing ferrules, and then mounting the handle and reel seat. Wrapping rod guides decades ago proved challenging to me, and the traditional silk thread to be used for bamboo is more difficult to work with. I hope to complete the rod this summer, and to be able to attend the Catskill Rodmakers Gathering in September with my own handmade bamboo fly rod in hand.

May begins her second week and we are forced to look into her third for some hope of a return to fishing. I watched the television weather man in Binghamton this morning talk of another one or two inches, perhaps more, for tonight and Friday. Nature isn’t finished compensating for last year’s deficit.

Most of the Catskill reservoirs are spilling, the others are teetering on the brink, and our rivers are all generally too high to fish. Need to wade? Try your bathtub. This is necessary, no perhaps not all at once in cherished May, but very, very necessary. After last year’s horrific decision by NYC to execute a drawdown in the middle of a drought so bad it ignored the effects of a hurricane system, it was going to take something truly significant to rectify the problem and relieve the drought. Our freestones were in dire need as well, for the snowpack wasn’t nearly heavy enough to recharge everything. For now, the Red Gods get a big, big win and anglers are left to mow our lawns and grumble. I think I’ll tie a fly.

I have been putting by a few March Browns for my boat box, tying some early terrestrials, and I am scheduled to be the Guest Fly Tyer at the Catskill Fly Fishing Center and Museum on Saturday afternoon. Keeping in practice.

For the moment, I am happy that the freezing overnight temperatures are a memory instead of reality. Today seems like a good day to wash out the drift boat now that my hose bib has been safely enabled. Crazy weather makes me smile. I remember my first spring as a full-time resident here: 2-1/2 inches of snow on one day, Hendricksons on the next. That was the intro. There have been many examples during these six and counting seasons. Launching my boat for a float on a 34-degree morning in May stands as a monument. Fishing was great! Crazy…

Meaningful rainfall has returned to the Catskills at last! Wading anglers are not smiling today, with rivers high and muddied by runoff, but the needs of the rivers and the aquifers which feed them must outweigh the needs of the fishermen for a time. As I wrote those words, I heard rain trickling from my roof, the beginnings of today’s contribution to the as yet unfilled Delaware reservoirs.

I messaged my best friend to prepare, to free some time for a couple of days of floating. I expect, I told him, that the reservoir dams will begin to spill just about the time these tailwater rivers clear to welcome fishermen once more. The rise and drop of our rivers has been dramatic, a sharp spike on the USGS graphs, from the variable rainfall amounts our region received over the weekend. Hancock recorded just less than three inches through yesterday, and the word is the eastern Catskills received a heavier dose. Every drop of it was sorely needed!

Generally, we are embarking upon a run of typical early April weather for the second week of May. The mountains have grown brighter each day with new greenery. Spillage over the dams will mean a longer time of sustained flows, flows often limiting wade fishing to a little or none proposition.

There is work to be done now, those oars must be readied, the boat cleaned out, and the boat bags checked for the proper mix of flies, clothing and gear to cover all the varying possibilities of an unsettled spring day on the river. My beloved cane rods will be in waiting, as the long graphites more suited to the rigors of drift boat fishing are checked and readied. They have seen little use these past few seasons, and their reels will need their lines cleaned and new leaders affixed.

Once more we look to the skies for the sustenance of our passion: bright water and wild trout.

“The Cat” and I were working in the Catskill Rodmakers Workshop yesterday afternoon, each planing strips of bamboo… the endless task! Three days of rain were expected for the extended weekend and, as has been the norm during this past year, little had fallen, though the skies began to look the part. We both figured it would be a perfect day to rough plane a few more strips, bringing each of us closer to the self-made split bamboo fly rods we seek. It was quiet in the shop, just the whisper of planes skimming scant thousandths of an inch of bamboo from the strips with each pass. Methodical in it’s simplicity, two strokes and turn, the mind settles into the repetition.

A couple visiting the Museum talked with Dave for a while. He patiently walked them around the rod shop, showing the vintage rods displayed and explaining the methods and processes required to produce these magic sticks. They asked about the time required to build our rods, and we both admitted we had not logged the hours spent so far. Dave estimated perhaps 80 hours would be required, and I agreed.

Dave Catizone is a treasure. He was involved with the idea of a museum for the history and growth of American fly fishing here in the Catskills from its’ infancy. He is wise and humble, gifted with a wealth of knowledge of this game and its history. He shows great deference for the storied personalities who formed the region’s community of anglers from the Golden Age forward. These giants of angling were his friends and mentors and it is clear how committed he has been to honoring their accomplishments.

I looked back at my notes this morning, estimating the hours worked each day here since January. My best idea? I have spent some 40 hours to reach the doorstep of the final phase of hand planing the strips for my rod. That last step can be expected to require two sessions, or eight to ten hours. Beyond lies glueing and binding the three rod sections, sanding away the dried epoxy glue and the enamel, then initial finishing and mounting: ferrules, grip and reel seat. Perhaps I am close to the half-way point, if I am lucky.

There was a gentle shower, then perhaps ten minutes of steady rainfall while we worked. In less than half an hour the sun was coming out. Looking at the river gages this morning, it appeared that the Beaver Kill received enough to raise it’s flow gently. No way the inch that was promised was received, though we shall have to let today play out to see what falls. Yes, yes, the Beaver Kill still has a good flow, but I look to the Delaware tailwaters, whose reservoirs have still not filled, with praying hands.

Release flows were very low throughout the winter and remain so. New York City wants them full before they give the rivers the water they deserve, and I worry about the early onset of hot summertime weather before this new month is out. Don’t mind me. When bright water means everything to you, it is easy to be uneasy about the future of the angling passion. Rain is the solution.

My windows are open this morning and I listen to the birdsong. It is fifty-seven degrees here, and the hint of a shower flirts with Crooked Eddy. I have spooled a new fly line onto the vintage Screwback CFO IV which best accompanies my five weight Leonard, a very modern line which perfectly compliments the classic Catskill rod! I wonder, what will tomorrow bring?