I have cleaned the ferrules on the Maxwell Leonard, checked the line and leader on my 3-1/2 inch Trutta Perfetta reel, and just tied half a dozen flies: twenty olives and the bright olive/Hebe facsimiles foremost. I will spend this afternoon along the Delaware!

It is rare for me to angle the big river in spring, the season of frequent rains and spilling reservoirs, for in that season it is a boaters’ river. Come September though, with lower flows and cooler weather I can feel it’s call each season. Late summer, with it’s introduction to autumn in these Catskills, is the perfect time.

There are blue skies this morning, and I was counting on the earlier forecast for cloud cover, but if some flies show themselves the trout will take notice. They say the winds will be gentle, even calm, and that portends to a pleasant afternoon.

The holiday has passed, and I expect the miles along the Upper Delaware will be quiet. A few local anglers will likely show. I expect their thinking is much as mine: enjoy their time to wander the Mainstem without the frenetic pace of springtime, perhaps have the thrill of a good river rainbow light up the drag in your reel.

Since I have some time on my hands, perhaps I will tie a few flying ants. Since that sun intends to shine after all, and the winds remain calm, a flight could find their way along those same miles I chose to wander. If they do, I will hope they aren’t the teeny-tinies I last encountered on a late summer Catskill river. Tying on a fly smaller than size twenty seems to tax my capabilities these days.

Two weeks and two days: these are the last days in the parade of summer 2026. The Equinox comes at 8:05 PM on the 22nd of the month and autumn takes charge of our angling fates. We have been fortunate weather wise during my years of retirement here, the dry fly season hanging in to perhaps the last week of October. That of course does not promise strong hatches and plenty of rising trout through those several weeks of October. I count the end as the last day when I find a substantial wild trout to entice to my dry fly, whether hooked and landed or simply cast to and wished for.

Water temperature generally tells me that pinnacle of fishing has passed. Come October, the rivers cool through the sixties, then the fifties, and some years on into the forties. Once fifty-five degree water remains only in memory, there are few chances to see a significant trout urged to feed on the surface. Likely, there is nothing much to make them.

Depending upon water levels and temperatures through September, the larger fish I seek will begin to move closer to their spawning areas. I will not follow, for it is not right nor proper nor sporting to harry them whence they seek to sustain their kind.

October can bring a wave of Indian Summer weather, temperatures flirting with the upper sixties and seventies, but it is likely that the fish I hunt have gone to their task to ensure next season’s fry. Then I begin carrying an over-under shotgun rather than my bamboo fly rod, though I can be enticed to riverside come afternoon.

In kinder years, I have seen gentler days later in October, even found post spawn trout back in their feeding lies, but that is a rare gift.

This year, September has begun with the rivers in good condition. We had enough rain through the summer so that flows and temperatures are more favorable for this long farewell to summer fishing. The relief is palpable after the past couple of years, when heat and long droughts proved life quite taxing for all of the river creatures, including the two-footed, booted variety.

I am hoping that September’s early signs point to good fishing as summer eases it’s way toward autumn.

When you are passionate as something like Catskill fly fishing, it is easy to be deeply interested, even obsessed, with the history: the tales behind the people, the flies, rods, reels and the legends they wrought. I hatched that interest more than thirty years ago and have only swum deeper in those bright waters after retiring and moving here, the “cradle of American fly fishing”.

I have found often that there is a great deal of information available about these artifacts, and yet there are even more questions and mysteries.

If you develop an interest in classic fly-fishing tackle, the stories behind and within the great Catskill rodmakers are at the top of the list. The Catskill region lies at the heart of the craft in America, yet there are many questions. The epicenter of this world began about an hour’s drive southeast of the Catskill Rodmakers Workshop in Livingston Manor, New York, the site of the 32nd Catskill Rodmakers Gathering next weekend. Hiram Leonard, who had established himself worldwide as one of the finest rodmakers alive, agreed to move his rod shop from Maine to the small town of Central Valley, NY in 1881, at the request of William Mills & Son, his partners and principal retailers of his hand made bamboo fly rods. Leonard assembled a group of exceptional craftsmen to expand his production, and their names would rise beside his own as the architects of American fly rods: Edwards, Thomas, Payne and Hawes among others. As the concept and practice of fishing the dry fly spread through the Catskills, these men revolutionized rod making and design.

Leonard’s shop has been called the fountainhead of Catskill rodmaking, and the description is more than apt. They became the most famous name in bamboo flyrods, sustained their legacy for more than a century after the move to Central Valley, and yet there has never been a complete history, a book chronicling the best of them all. Surviving records lie in private hands, for most along with the equipment and inventory perished in a terrible fire in 1964 which destroyed the factory. Mills rebuilt the factory, and the company continued for twenty years, though after several changes in ownership the assets of the H.L. Leonard Rod Company were seized and auctioned by the government. Remaining rods, records and equipment were scattered to the four winds.

Thousands of wonderful bamboo fly rods remain, privately owned, cherished and fished saved for a few exhibited in museums. The majority have no markings save a stamped company name on their reel seats, and perhaps a small, ephemeral paper tag attached to their rod bags. Mysteries begin immediately at a Leonard rod’s appearance: what model, what year, which line? Such questions jump to the minds of lovers of their smoothness, power and simple beauty on the stream. Answering is not an exact science.

Beginning more than fifty years ago, after William Mills & Son rebuilt the Leonard factory, rodmaker Ted Simroe was put in charge of the company and began inking each rod with a serial number. That simple act was profound, as it establishes for the most part whether a Leonard rod in hand was made before the great fire or after it. Some post-fire rods may were made and sold without the serial numbers, but there no seems to be any clarity with regard to their numbers.

Once the numbering was begun by Ted Simroe, it appears the practice continued, though the numbering itself was changed after his tenure. Information indicates that Tom Maxwell who assumed the mantle of control after Ted’s departure, started over using low numbers for several hundred rods at least, then changed in 1980 by numbering the rods with the first two digits indicating the year followed by the rod’s order of manufacture, thus “8015” would be the fifteenth rod made in Maxwell’s final year of 1980. The changes confuse rod owners and would be Leonard fishers.

Many of the answers come from private enthusiasts, leading further questions as to the origins of any information. As human beings all, enthusiasts face the same fate: memory and time can alter recollections, recalled facts can be changed or simply forgotten.

I have found that internet searches return too little that can be fully trusted. Electronic records yield sales listings from private dealers, sometimes based upon previous rod owners’ recollections or often guesses offered by their descendants. These can only be trusted as the dealer’s best honest opinion and information. Searches today tend to include AI filtered and compiled information, and that automated “filtering” seems to tender authenticity in the absence of any confirmed facts.

It would be wonderful to sit down and record a few long conversations with the people who made these remarkable rods, but it seems sadly that most of those opportunities have passed.

I missed my best chance at learning about the Leonard Rod Company and their marvelous fly rods during my first summer here in the Catskills. While I worked to ready my little house for moving our family here, a diverse group of anglers, rodmakers, collectors, dealers and enthusiasts met at the Catskill Fly Fishing Center & Museum to hold a Leonard Gathering. Unfortunately, though a long-time museum member, I never learned about that event until several years later.

Perhaps I did not miss my chance, as the best way to learn about the Leonard fly rods is to cast and fish them, particularly in these Catskill rivers, and fishing is something I do my best more than a hundred days each year!

The quest continues, as it seems no one will pen the definitive book about the H.L. Leonard Rod Company. If, when the end of my time upon these rivers comes, perhaps I will retain the strength and drive to consider tackling that project myself. It would be tough though to replace my rod and dry fly with a pen.

Watching river gages has become a staple of my daily routine. Even when things go bad, like the photo above, I watch then whether it is a fishing day or not. I live from river to river, gage to gage, for I am a fly angler.

The rain finished up yesterday and the sun came out to dry the grass enough so I could mow it. After a porch sit and a cold beer, I walked down around the corner to take a look at the Big East as it turned against the slope of Point Mountain. Big and brown, just as I expected.

It’s Friday, my last fishing day of this first week of September. The rains have been beneficial, and we are still sitting in a band of blessed Catskill Summer weather as I begin counting the days until autumn steps in. Unfortunately, I only enjoyed one fishing day out of this week, so I am watching those river gages with the 66 ACM leaning against the armoire expecting to find some action today.

Taking my first look this morning, I found that some more rain fell while I was sleeping, so all of those gages that were dropping when I turned out the lights are rising again. Areas that were dropping and clearing when I went to bed are once more questionable. My day now comes down to some more patience and then the boot test. That involves gearing up, driving to the reach of river I hope to fish, and wading into the flow and see if I can see my boots when I am at least knee deep in the flow.

The bottom line of course, is that I really need more than just one fishing day this week, so I am going to go out there and hope the water I find is clear enough to let a big old trout see a big old dry fly. I’m going to pack along a stick that has a big dose of mojo, do whatever I can to hedge my bets.

An angler realizes that rainfall, winds, clouds, sun, fog and all of the events of Nature make fishing interesting. No, not interesting; they make it magic! Day after day and season after season of perfect conditions would be horribly boring.

That conjures up a tale from one of the late Charles Fox’s classic books. An angler has passed on, and he is led to a beautiful sparkling stream bubbling around a bend through a lush, green meadow, and he is told that this if for him. A trout rises, and he casts his dry fly and catches a beautiful 15-inch trout. He releases it, sees another rise in the same place, and catches an exact copy, if not the same trout. After he repeats that identical sequence of events a few times, he walks upstream around that bend and is confronted with the same identical scene where he began, sees the rise, and catches that same 15-inch trout. After a couple of hours, he realizes that, while he thought that he was in Heaven, he’s been really condemned to the other place.

Simple things can be wonderful out there on the river. I often stop and appreciate the utter beauty of the character of the light along the water and the landscape. The views are startling, and often bring to mind similar scenes and moments, but it is never exactly the same as another. Each moment is unique, precious, and I savor every one!

Looks like the river’s flow has stabilized after that second rise. That gives me hope that that surprise overnight rain wasn’t too hard and didn’t muddy things up. The boots will find out…

With rain pretty well promised, the cloud cover seemed a very solid bet. That kind of cloud cover ensures the water temperatures will stay considerably lower, and that had me gather my Paradigm and it’s Perfect and take a ride down onto the Delaware.

I was surprised when I saw the river, or didn’t see it to be accurate. I have never seen fog that thick and so widespread on the big river. Indeed, the coldest upper reaches of our tailwater rivers look like that many days out of our season, early and late typically, with the mixture of warmer air and forty-something waters. Finding the mighty Delaware in that condition was downright eerie.

There wasn’t a soul out there, just a lone truck with boat trailer parked out along the road, and I felt somewhat like the first man stepping onto a rogue planet. With the mist hugging the surface, the river was bathed in a moving, silvery sheen which vanished my dry fly as soon as it landed.

If there were any flies out there, or any rises, I wasn’t going to see them, though I did occasionally hear the sounds of trout activity. Wading out, with an unshakable feeling of trepidation, I was eventually able to pick up a quick white spurt here and there in the riffly water, but fishing a dry fly was hopeless. There was no evidence of any hatch, not even a measurable drift of insects of any kind, and I could not see my fly once it laid down upon that vaporous silver sheen I knew to be the surface of the water.

Considering the flies arrayed in my fly box, hoping something that I might be able to track along a drift, I saw a pair of larger Partridge & Pheasant Tails and I smiled to myself.

Casting this simple, traditional soft-hackled fly, I let the current take control to let it swing down, just settled into that sheen. Working the same water where my dry flies were ineffective and invisible, this old tactic soon had the bamboo coming alive in my hand. It is impressive just how hard a foot-long wild Delaware River rainbow will fight you. You don’t let them wiggle for a moment and then pull them in. Until you finally get them in close and see them, you will swear you have a strong fish measuring in the teens.

I did catch a trout on a dry fly though. I was walking out and saw a rise nearby, but even in close range I could not see my fly on that magical surface. I was sure the Halo Isonychia was the answer, but I found that it’s wonderfully visible Trigger Point wing blended perfectly with that alchemy of fog and diffused light which had replaced the flowing surface of the river. The little bow I finally bludgeoned with multiple casts fought hard too, though he was hooked on a short line and perhaps just short of ten inches long.

A very quiet afternoon of fishing? Seemingly so, though there is a unique sense of solitude alone on a big river where you couldn’t see another angler more than a cast away from you anyway. Besides the eerie surroundings, there was some additional excitement.

Leading the fly line innocently down the current where I had witnessed one of those tiny spurts of foamy water, something hit it hard enough to stop and tighten that slack line like a shark. The rod arched fully and for a moment whatever was down there just held it’s position and vibrated with energy! Thus ensued the toughest battle I have fought for a number of seasons.

This fish insisted he was going to stay within the bubble line where he hit the fly, and he offered no quarter. When I tried to force him out of his comfort zone, I feared for the life of my rod tip! The standoff couldn’t last, and the fish made the decision to orchestrate the preceding’s via the click check of the vintage Perfect. Run hard, half turn and then dig, dig, dig against the pull of the rod, over and over again. With a lot of time and effort, I eventually led him to the bank, and he shot back out and into his bubble line to the tortured screams of the Hardy. We continued as if we had just begun.

Twice we worked to the bank, and each time he raced away again so we started over. I had almost decided that I had foul hooked him, but on that third trip I could see the fly clearly nestled in his mouth.

A fourth trip to the bank was honestly the first sign that this trout was tired. I got him right to the edge and met him with the net when he turned to run back to the river. I took the hook out of his mouth and I swear he just glared at me, twenty inches of mean green, crimson and silver. As soon as I dipped the net into a foot of water after I checked his length, he shot out of it, right back to his riffle!

I would be choosing my tackle for the day, with a ride to the river just minutes away, but prudence has stayed my plans. An angler must be adaptive, and this morning’s threat of severe storms has me adapting mine. Most of the risk is centered on the morning hours, so a few thoughts may be laid down, and a few flies may be tied while Nature plays out her intentions for these Catskills.

Should storms decide to favor our rivers with gentle rain rather than downpours, some afternoon fishing could still be in the cards. I’m thinking this could be the day to carry a T&T Paradigm, the perfect rod for a quiet contemplative visit to the river. Followers of the marque know the Paradigm fly rods, both bamboo and graphite, were conceived to be the finest dry fly rods imaginable. They reward a smooth, deft casting stroke with perfection!

A day like this leads me to tie on an isonychia dry fly and stalk some of my favorite haunts along the Upper Delaware. Should the storms pass by, the cool, cloudy afternoon will keep the water temperatures favorable below Hancock, and the cold water flow from the West Branch still retained good clarity when I visited yesterday. It is the kind of day I have found the big, claret duns appearing over the years, and the memories tease my interest.

I have already gathered several iso dries, and tied some others, so I have just to place them in the evolving seasonal fly boxes in my summer vest. The Paradigm will be ready with a wipe of the ferrules, and a Perfect with a number five line is as close as the armoire behind me!

Eight o’clock, and a gentle hint of rain is falling. Clouds obscure the peaks of the mountains at all sides. The Red Gods’ intentions remain unclear, but it is time to allow the day develop.

The weather forecast tried it’s best to discourage my plans for fishing this morning. I had mostly decided to take care of an errand, yet I tossed an old pair of waders and my boots in the Jeep as a just in case afterthought.

After a long talk, trading stories with my friend Ben at West Branch Angler, the rain so certain earlier hadn’t appeared after all, so I decided to drive down the river and see if I could find a quiet spot. Wading in, familiar waters welcomed me. By the time I had knotted a fresh tippet and a dry fly, the first few rises appeared.

Age and familiarity change our approach to most things in life, and so it goes with fishing. Seeing nothing apparent floating out there in front of me, I assumed whatever the trout were daintily sipping were small, terribly small. The experience of thirty odd years on this river told me that, but age led me to knot a size 16 Cross Special to that fresh tippet.

There was a time I happily carried several miniscule specks of thread, feathers and fur intended to match those nearly invisible olives, but today’s eyes no longer see them so clearly as they once did. The Cross brought no response from those sippers, even though I had seen one similar sized pale mayfly flying past. Familiarity had me expecting that result, so I produced a size 20 olive, knowing beforehand it was still much larger than the sippers were drawn to. Experience made that result clear as well.

An Adams poster, a size larger, but buggier and indistinct, tried to convince me while I tried to convince those trout. At some point, I stooped low to the surface to satisfy my expectations had been met. Indeed, a miniscule set of wings answered any remaining question: a dark olive, size 24 perhaps, or 26, and far too small for me to carry them in my vest anymore. I simply cannot see them clearly enough to tie them on.

So, I continued happily casting something I could tie on and see to those sipping trout, while they continually sipped “nothing” and ignored my flies. I spent the hour and a half the stalled rain allotted me, standing all alone in that wide reach of river, casting well and fully assured that any chance of catching a trout was as minute as the midget mayflies they were actually eating.

As the first trace of rain began the flies and sippers ceased seemingly in unison. I thought, as I turned to wade back to the bank, and marveled at just how many hundreds of days I had stood in that river; and in every vision in memory there was one thing which was always the same, just as it was today. I was smiling…

Yes, September is waiting.

The final weeks of summer lie ahead, and an angler’s hopes look toward cooling rivers and an increase in mayfly activity. I always search for the big claret hued fellows which have been scarce these past seasons, the isonychia. The old timers may speak of the White Gloved Howdy, and the Pennsylvania boys will be asking of their Slate Drakes, but they are most welcome when any dry fly angler finds them regardless the name they’re called.

Isonychia are typically a sporadic hatch, they come in small flotillas during afternoons when they come. While the September brood brings 12 or even 14 size specimens, not the big number tens of spring, they are a robust mayfly that catches the interest of opportunistic trout. The Delaware River rainbows seem to have a particular fondness for them, and I have brought some wide shouldered, high-flying bows from the big river’s faster stretches with some of my favorite dun imitations.

The attraction of one of these iso duns dancing atop the surface has salvaged any number of quiet, hatchless afternoons during Delaware summer wanderings. I’ve taken many fine brown trout on these flies too of course, but isonychia seem to have a magic to pull a big rainbow to the top out of seemingly lifeless water.

In more than thirty years on Catskill rivers, I have seen just one heavy, sustained hatch of these flies, and it was epic! That has been so many years ago that I no longer hope to encounter it’s likeness, but dreams are still for the dreaming.

I’ve been watching rainfall and water temperatures along the Mainstem, hoping to draw me to those long, wandering afternoons with one of my best distance rods and a box of those claret beauties. Rains can bring cool, clear heightened flows from the East Branch and mix with the seasonal muddied flow from the West Branch, keeping the Delaware dry fly friendly. Those are the conditions I desire.

The Red Gods don’t cooperate thus every season, but I long for the rarer seasons when they do. A lower, clear, cold and wadable Delaware is a wonderful September gift!

Well sir, another tornado warning right here in Hancock, New York has just passed. I didn’t hear too much wind while the weather man on the television was talking about measured velocities at 3,500 feet of altitude, but we certainly had some beat down rain! The rivers are already rising, just a few minutes after the storm passed.

This is our third tornado warning right here in the southwestern edge of the Catskills, three in eight years, and the second one not long ago produced an F-1 tornado touching down just along the east end of our village, snapping and tossing a forest of mature pines along the East Branch of the Delaware. There seems little doubt that our climate is changing. Things have gradually become more extreme. Summers are hotter and drier, but the winters have been longer and colder too. The droughts have been worse and the storms too.

Anglers are more comfortable with fairly frequent gentle rains, moderate balmy summers and mild, wet winters. All of those things are good for the rivers we cherish and the trout and insect life which provide the magic in flyfishing. I think most of the people in this region would like those weather patterns too. Most, either directly or indirectly benefit from the rivers and the fly fishing they provide.

Our rivers will probably have some color tomorrow but will clear up and be fishable for the weekend. The tailwater rivers might just get a boost in the contents of their reservoirs too, depending how far north this storm front travels. Most importantly, we managed to get through this one without the mayhem of another tornado!

I prefer to do my worrying about my dwindling supply of wood duck flank feathers, rather than destruction and floods. Being retired means I should be entertained by smaller matters: which fly line really casts best with my Leonard rods and should I buy more of the leaders I have been using this year before the maker changes them, so they don’t work for me. Of course, how in the world am I going to find enough wood duck has serious implications, though it isn’t going to knock down any trees.

I’m trying to catch my breath…

It seems the past two months have spun past like a whirlwind. It has been a great summer, allowing me to more than make up for the spring fishing that was lost. Things have slowed down, finally, and I am feeling a sense of relief. I would not begrudge the weather keeping me off the rivers today.

The energy of great fishing had me cruising through long days one after another. Now, with the slower pace of late summer, there is more work, more water to cover to find just one good trout to ply my trade, spin the magic of the dry fly.

Yesterday I covered a lot of water carefully, taking my time to dissect every possible lie my eyes could see. Casting from distance, there is no chance to observe just what makes a trout to rush into a spontaneous rise. I could see the odd trico spinner pass by in the film through the late hours of morning, but such fare does not bring an apparently idle trout to swirl hard and shower his placid abode with spray.

Granted, the larger terrestrials would seem to be the answer, but there was no proof. Cast after cast was ignored, even where there was some secondary movement to prove the fish I targeted was still in the area where he rose. When the evidence confuses, I often think that movement is the culprit.

By late August, these wild trout have been assaulted by an army of visiting anglers, throwing everything but the kitchen sink. They have been harangued and spooked. Some have been caught early on and more have been fooled by those of us who hunt stealthily and aware. By this time, they are as schooled as well as the best of us, likely more. There is always an equalizer in Nature, the attraction of an alive, wiggling, bite size something which finds itself on the water. The lack of frequency screams the laws of chance are at work!

Throughout my thirty-five years of designing and tying trout flies, the guiding principle has been to project the image of life. That is paramount – and exceedingly difficult. When the predator trout has been conditioned by a full season of heavy angling pressure, when the largesse of the spring hatches are but a memory, that image of life often comes down to movement. Ninety-nine percent of the time brother, twitchin’ ain’t gonna cut it!

A twitched fly is of course attached to a leader, and any movement imparted to a fly is accompanied with a great deal more movement, movement of unnatural things: the leader, the line, and all of the water disturbed by them. Yes, one can get away with a very subtle upstream twitch in fast water, but not in the flat sheen of summer.

A handful of early afternoon Cahills allowed me to present a Cross Special to a trout who was looking for one, and how surprised was he when that tasty looking mayfly fought back! He was a nice fish, but not a big one, but he more than it made up with surprised energy.

For a moment, it seemed there might be enough of those little pale mayflies to start something, but no. A rise here or there… and then silence.

I checked the time, after two, and so having determined those mayflies were not going to be the start of something, I changed flies and tactics.

The last cast of the day…

His movements betrayed him. He wasn’t rising, wasn’t finding the food he sought, but he clearly wanted some. I stalked him as slowly and gently as my tired bones were capable.

The most difficult decisions in that kind of game are choosing to end one drift, withdraw the fly, watch and determine the next cast. Care and a bit of divine charity let me to make those decisions correctly. I had worked all of the corridor of water he had been moving through, leaving me the only place he must have been holding, returning to when his little sorties returned no engagements. Thus, that last cast…

The drift was slow, as was the slightest little soft ring. No nose, just that soft ring…

He gave a wonderful account of himself, a pair of leaps, hard, quick runs against that deadly silent modern drag, all ignored by the sole other angler in the river not far away. Had it been a typical day, armed with a light cane rod and a classic, musical Hardy, he and I would have not kept our secret. Geared for bombing casts across two thirds of the river had me unpack the old T&T Paradigm number four; silence is deadly.

Twenty inches, right on the button, how perfect might be that last cast at the end of a long day!