It seems the fifties are behind us, at least for a couple of days, with the forecasters calling for ninety degrees to begin this week. I’ve been ready for some warm sunshine, so I can’t complain.

I have been keeping my mind occupied, and my ears, with a multitude of hot blues licks to fight off the clouds and chills during this “schwinter” weather for most of May. The long dust collecting components of my stereo system failed to work years ago, back after the move, and I have been forced to peek into the much-changed music world. I have opened the cover of today’s streaming driven arena.

I guess I am a guy who fishes with bamboo fly rods, older English spring and pawl fly reels and dry flies I craft with furs and feathers, and I am used to listen to the music I choose to listen, not what some computer decides to play for me. Just now, the AI must have tapped into my thoughts and started the plaintive introduction to one of my favorite songs, the Stones “Gimme Shelter”. Still, I started listening to Walter Trout. I heard a couple of songs with Walter’s guitar putting out that massive tone and suddenly Stevie Ray Vaughan was playing. Great tunes, but hey, I wanted to listen to Walter Trout!

At least this AI crap hasn’t gotten to the point that something invades my brain and forces me to tie on some synthetic foam mutant bad idea for an Isonychia when I reach into my fly box for a Catskill March Brown. I fear that kind of thing is coming. Every time enjoying an event of some sort, I see a bunch of people staring into their smart phones completely mesmerized, oblivious to their surroundings whether they are at ballgames, concerts or whatever is actually happening around them. The robots want to turn us into robots too!

Ah, the robots are sending me some Buddy Guy trying to get my attention back. Tricky those damned machines. I started playing Nate Gross’ award winning “Wild Turkey” live album the other day and the computer stopped and told me I had to watch a commercial if I wanted to listen to that. I relented, though I objected that, but they stopped again after one song. Forcing me into signing up to pay them a monthly bill I guess, that seems to what the machines want, people sending them automated monthly payments.

Damn, I really, truly need to get an old Leonard or Thomas & Thomas in my hand and wander out into a river…

I was sitting out on my porch just now, taking stock just how a beautiful day it is today. Yes, I am on the porch and still not on the river, but that isn’t the fault of the day. I do take some pleasure at Nature’s simple beauty, and I hope she saves a great deal of it for me when I finally venture forth where I long to be.

There was frost this morning, despite it is much closer to the middle of May than the beginning. I checked the river gages; a friend was expected here in the Catskills you see, and I wanted to see what the frosty night might have done to his chances of some fishing and offer the right suggestion. I frowned at his early chances with the temperature, though later found a message that his trip had been re-scheduled until late June. The rivers should welcome him a bit better then than after this morning’s sub-forty-five-degree flows. Though nothing to take for granted, I should be more than ready and able to show him some good fishing in early summer.

I am still hoping there will be some spring remaining once I am released from forced convalescence of course, even though I treasure my Catskill Summers.

I cannot expect any of those major spring hatches that give me hope through five or six months of our mountain winters, no Gordon Quills or Hendricksons, though I have been tying a couple of March Browns when both my mind and my fingers have grown fidgety. Perhaps there will be enough around to let me try out some of the new patterns I dove into their design in early winter. I hope so.

Expecting isn’t a word anymore when I talk about the Green Drakes. Perhaps my surest hope for them is that we have good flows on our rivers when however many of those flies show up. A few drakes can go a long way on the right day with the right conditions.

And so, another day winds down. Time to think about some supper and something to pass the hours before bed, trying not too how badly I miss as an afternoon like this in May blends into evening…

The weather mirrors my mood, a perennial state of medically induced winter. The Catskills seem to be caught in a whirling mass of fifty-degree air, peopled with cloudbanks, cutting winds and raindrops, washing away the glory of May.

May should begin first of all with sunlight, gentle balmy breezes lifting mayflies toward the wonderous canopy of greenery. It is a time of loafing, reclined along a secret riverbank, waiting for the rise with nothing but warmth and time for company.

Such days haunt my dreams: the spark of a heavy boil far across the river, the stalk leaving no trace of my intent boldened by the prize near that far bank. Ten minutes, twenty minutes, thirty or more? Once within casting range the stalk morphed into a game of infinite patience. As any realm of life patience at times remains unanswered, though upon the best of times it may be splendidly, rewarded…

I recall another May, shivering in a cold river, whipped for a chill forty-five-degree wind, but despite the conditions I was still on the hunt! The spoils will fall to those who wait, for at least they fell to me on that day. Our greatest mayflies hatched to the same cruel world, unable to warm themselves to take flight, and the browns swarmed to the feast. Ah, the 100-Year Drake shined that day in the late sunlight! I stalked from one to another and there were no refusers.

So many kind memories of May, so many warm afternoons reclined in the grass, awakened by that wondrous plop tingling in my ears – yes, there are flies in the drift and some secretive big brownie has been drawn forth by temptation…

I beg to be released to one of those waking dreams, to walk the riverbanks of memory, to walk as the day’s last light touches the water… smiling!

Days in the fifties and nights in the thirties or forties seem to be the norm as it has finally begun the month of May. The greening of the landscape has continued, though grudgingly, and even the drift boat regattas not seem to be blooming.

Granted, my vistas have been limited to peeks at rivers and access areas viewed from the highways to and from doctor’s offices these past few weeks, but even these are telling. Perhaps one of the sure signs before me are the wages of nearing seventy: healing isn’t the quick fix of the past. I took my baby steps in returning to the rivers, regaled with some success while taking care to not overdo things, but my Hendrickson hatch included one afternoon with trout seemed unaware that these lovely tan things were edible. A second shot? I counted on the flies upon my fingers, though brought a nymphing nice brownie up to my 100-Year Dun. The cold fronts and my slow healing took the reins from there.

The coming few days may warm up a bit, but not for the duration, and my chances are tasting even a few hours of it are not the best.

I did boost my mood yesterday, gathering at one of my favorite establishments Hidden Springs Brewhouse in Chenango Lake for the season’s first show for the Nate Gross Band. Great music lifts the spirits wonderfully, and Nate and the band wailed! Soaring blues guitar cuts straight into my soul, and I savored the music and my sole medically authorized pint of Lady of The Lake, HSB’s signature blond ale.

This morning, I am clinging to those memories as I ponder the possibilities of a small taste of dry fly fishing…

The remaining hours of April are trickling away into the past, and though tomorrow opens a new chapter of the season, it will look much the same. The chilly, damp and dreary days will stay with us through the weekend.

I like the rain, and I hope that it stays throughout the season. Yes, if I was put in charge of the scheduling, I would allow us to bask in sunlight through the days, while a nighttime shower freshens the mountain springs, streams and rivers at frequent intervals. Nature presents her full palette though, for all dwellers in her realm thrive on her variety of conditions.

I have spent a few hours on my rivers through the past two weeks, and I rejoice at the opportunity. I have chosen for the most part when the sun has provided some warmth for body and water, for I am a hopeless dry fly fisherman. I have read hundreds of tales of great hatches and huge rises of trout under the dampest, darkest days. Folk tales can be like that, though there can be a hint of the truth about them.

I remember taking that photo, I had the time to spare, for there was nary the sight of a trout rising to partake any of that hour! Water temperatures were just right, the flies stayed on the surface under those dark skies, but the other side of Nature’s miracle demurred. I watched carefully, used my best mojo to conjure a rise, but for naught. C’est la vie!

I have wandered throughout these rivers on blizzard hatch days searching in vain for a single rise, thanks to a handful of degrees of warmth. One great river in its prime figured in many such days, its water dropped to just below that magic trigger of fifty degrees and seemingly denied harboring any trout at all! Once our rivers warm to remain in the mid-fifties, a showery day may bring a magical interlude of fishing, but things become difficult to predict trout activity when the forties return.

It is part of the challenge, plying patience and experience; and waiting. Improving every day, I hope to soon haunt my rivers with my usual vigor. There are many gifts on bright waters, not all of them with fins…

The sunlight and the temperature continue to bob up and down like a caddisfly bouncing down a fast riff of current, in short, another Catskill spring.

That first precious day: caddis and a couple of different mayflies which I wasn’t really certain I would see; my Quill Gordon enticing a surprising rainbow, seeing and hearing my backing leaving; man my smile was a mile wide! Then fishing returned to it’s taciturn ways. Sunshine and no bugs, sunshine and enough bugs but with uninterested trout, and in between colder wet air driving water temperatures down enough to stifle activity.

No complaining here, not in the least. More than three decades on these rivers has taught me how it goes, and all of the changes and colors make the game what makes it a lifetime pursuit. Right now, in the back of my mind, I’m thinking about the two good fish were plunking along on some smaller mayflies; the fish I should have caught.

There weren’t any insects close enough to me to see, capture and identify and then I let myself be impatient, overruling my own better judgement and sticking with my 4X tippet instead of taking the time to change to 5X. I know that 5X lets me fish flies down to a size 20, and that 18 I was pitching wasn’t getting the job done on the heavier material, but I worried that Nature would trip the switch at any moment and leaving me standing there with a half-tied blood knot. I know this river. The phrase that comes to me is something along the lines of “famous ten minute hatches”.

My decision was the wrong one, demonstrated by those trout having enough that, when the little bugs petered out, they didn’t keep rising when some bigger bugs started drifting down the river.

So, I missed my opportunity for the afternoon but then again, I didn’t. I was out there doing what I love to do on a beautiful spring day, something I wasn’t in the position to ever being doing that a few weeks ago.

I just heard the wind suddenly pick up, trying to rip the tarp off of my unused drift boat. I was hoping to dodge some primetime rain showers later on and get a few hours to see if I can redeem myself. Maybe, maybe not. Springtime, after all. You never know what the day has in store until you get out there and live it!

Coming home brings all of the charms and challenges of a favorite place.

The morning began with beautiful blue skies and brilliant sunshine, buoying with my spirits. I could blink into those skies and all but feel the river warming. I worked through my morning chores, just like a normal morning, like any day of that precious span anglers know as dry fly season.

Waders donned and into the SUV, that special Leonard ACM behind my seat, I felt downright giddy as I told Cathy our destination. Once near the river, I strapped my wading staff about my waist, hoisted my vest on my shoulders and joined my rod and turned the locking ring of the reel seat snug, sublimating the excitement to take a slow deliberate pace down to the riverbank. At the moment I set foot upon the grass beside the flow, a cascade of wind rushed up the valley on cue, a welcome from the Red Gods.

I laughed and told her of the typical events anglers are presented with, sudden winds, rain and the creatures of the realm, all and any tossed out as a greeting as welcome. She has read every word these many years, but all I could do was laugh and utter: “it’s true, it’s true”…

Even though as I chuckled at the wind, trying to catch line and leader as it was blown around my head, I eventually managed to string the line through the rod’s guides and knotted a Quill Gordon to the tippet. I sat beside her to see would be the next act, pointing out the rises between the gusts.

The winds vanished as quickly they had descended, and at last I took up my rod and waded slowly through the clear waters. My legs began to gather a bit of stability with each step, sensing the familiarity of these rocks, as I worked my way to the thread of current where those rises were showing. Of course, a few gusts returned and played with my first casts, but within a few minutes I had my fly alighting along the trail of bubbles bouncing over the rocks shrouding the fish rising haphazardly.

Nature and the Red boys had an ace in the hole though, one challenge still to overcome. That first rise that came to my drifting fly brought the rod up just on time, and I felt a spirited dash. There I was smiling with every turn of the reel handle until I drew that fellow near to see the thick white lips that seized my lovely dry fly – a chub.

My mangled fly was discarded, amid a pang perhaps of doubt: might the handful of moving risers before me wear those same big green scales? Could such a favorite reach doom me to a season beginning with rising chubs?

I knotted a fresh quill and studied each rise in turn. Some were questionable, but to my eye there was one that drew my eye immediately. That big shapely head rose a second time, leaving nothing to fear! The winds chose to erase the vision at that moment while I was planning my cast.

Once the next calm spell I watched carefully, hoping that fish would return.

I found no more of classic head and tail rises, but there was some evidence. A soft rise and a mayfly I was tracking was simply no longer there, and the Leonard sent my fly dancing down that line of drift, twice and thrice, and I answered with it’s quiet disappearance!

The classic Hardy LRH Lightweight reel has a characteristic wail when one’s fly line and backing leaves it’s spool at a high rate of speed. To an angler, it is a symphony, a pure expression of ecstasy. Not a chub this time, not indeed.

There was another fisher downriver who had arrived as I was working out into the river. After I had finally snubbed that first run and made a few turns of the reel handle, the demon on the wetted end of that line dashed another screaming run right at him. He turned and I caught a mix of surprise, perhaps even fear, might he be at risk of bodily harm.

I saved him though, turned that downstream flight and began the long line stalemate, the gaining of a few feet of backing and then surrendering it, short dashes and turnabouts as a powerful fish gives his all. I thought I had beaten him half a dozen times, all to lose whatever line I had gained as he charged away headlong.

I backed slowly toward the riverbank, working shallower and working toward a patch of smaller cobble where I might work him into the net. When I got the first good look I understood, for my eye caught not the bronze and butter color of the expected brown trout. This was a migrant from the wide Delaware, green, red and silver, and he knew no quarter.

Finally, I stretched out the net, and guarding the fine tip of that lovely old Leonard, drew him in. I wanted a photo, but he had battled so long and hard, I honored him with a quick twist to the steel and a gentle return. There was no holding him into the current, for as that cold bright water touched him he was away like a dart! Welcomed back to the river, to life, as he welcomed me.

Perhaps the rarest trophy of these Catskill rivers are those special wild rainbows which exceed twenty inches long. In more than thirty years I have touched half a dozen, and each has been uniquely memorable. I will leave you a memory of another from the past.

At last, I am gathering rod and reel, flies waders, boots and staff to take my first steps in bright water for the 2026 dry fly season. Though my fly boxes are well stocked, I am tying two Quill Gordon’s this morning.

I have the hackle tails and dyed wild turkey biots wrapped, with a durable coating applied and drying as I write. Yes, these are my 100-Year Duns, and those tied I refer to as the Dyed Wild variations that betray the deep yellowish hue amid the banding observed along the hallowed Beaver Kill.

I can see that my supply of my special Quill Gordon dubbing is running spare. I will need to blend more before next year; a sour yellow, a wisp of gray, and a touch of sparkle in each hue, a good winter task. Now it is finally spring, and time for fishing!

I have two rods waiting in their tubes, their ferrules cleaned and checked, but that special Leonard seems to be tugging at my thoughts now that the day has finally arrived. I have promised to fish that one with a number six line after a brief comparison in the yard, and with the river’s flow and a wise extra measure of care considering the turns of my life have taken the past month and a half, that mysterious ACM seems ideal.

The two Quill Gordons? All reports have been telling of sparse mayflies and sparser rises, and I have found a special magic in flies tied the morning of a fishing trip. This pair will find my tippet before any others, waiting for the first season’s rise. That magic? Well, it can take something special to tempt a chilly, winter weary brown trout to rise to take a lone taste of Gordon’s Quill miraculously laid before him. Hope and wishing isn’t necessarily quite enough to make that happen, so that magic can be all the difference in just how wide my smile shall be at the end of this first day.

One more ferrule cleaning is in order, and if my hands should stray to polish the varnished bamboo, forgive my stretching out of these last few moments and finally fuss with my tackle, for this day has been a much longer time coming.

We took a couple of short walks yesterday, brief visits to a couple of places along the riversides. I carried binoculars, not a fly rod, bundled up against the harsh cold wind. Rivers have risen once more, and I scanned the likely currents I hoped to see some signs of life, there were none.

It is twenty-one well frosted degrees here in Crooked Eddy, and the changeover has been complete. West and East Delaware reservoirs are spilling once more, and river waters that had warmed to sixty unexpected April degrees have tumbled down to forty.

It seems the pair of bamboo rods chosen for my first forays shall remain in their tubes a little longer.

A few more days to gain some strength and stability lost amid the turmoil of winter; a few more hours to tie another dozen flies augmenting my already burgeoning supply, and wait.

Winter whispered a little reminder after dawn, just in case we have forgotten is still in charge.

I find the thermometer dropping down below freezing is a gift. River flows had been far too warm for the middle of April after several eighty-degree days, so Nature’s little adjustment is welcome. I won’t be convinced that a more normal season of rainfall is due for the Catskills until I actually see it, feel it, and wade in cold, seasonal flows in it.

I would like to see perfect temperatures and good levels as May closes out and welcomes mid-June on the Beaver Kill, and I want to watch the capacities keep flirting with the 95% mark as the reservoirs reflect the early summer sun on a still morning. I want to thrill us a long, glorious season, the kind I know a Catskill Summer, with highs in the mid-seventies and cool mornings where the mist raises the hairs on my arms at daylight.

It seems like a long, dim tunnel is coming to it’s end, and there is just a glimmer ahead, with something bright and cool and wonderful.

The chill of the river penetrates despite the layers of fleece beneath my waders. I have a sense of tingling, every nerve, as I watch the soft kiss of his neb touches the surface, while the rings emanate outward. One foot glides above the cobble then nestles gently back down. The fifteen minutes I take to close the distance to fifty feet seems more than an hour. That neb and it’s rings continue, but at long intervals rather than the regular beats of a confident feeding trout on a steady hatch.

I cannot say that I have clearly seen a winged dun meet that neb, so I have knotted a flush lying pattern with a low CDC crown. The first back casts feel stiff, but the smooth power of the vintage bamboo and the line begins to flow, feeling familiar, and then the cast is away…