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?

We got to go fishing the other day; just me and my best friend JA on bright water under clear blue skies with just a hint of breeze. Several years ago we envisioned this as a very regular occurrence, but then life has a way of getting in the way of idyllic plans. Over those intervening years, we have stolen a day, or maybe half of one, when we could.

Spring has been reluctant this season, so to get a truly perfect weather day, one with some actual hope of a hatch or two took a little serendipity. There were some caddis on the water when we arrived in late morning, but no fish were taking them. The river levels were near perfect thanks to Nature’s sorely needed gift of rainfall, and the currents were clear enough to let us enjoy ourselves while allowing the trout to keep a few of their secrets.

JA decided to prospect the riffle down into the run, while I sidled downstream into the head of the pool. We both fished a little, making a few casts with our favorite caddis imitations despite a lack of rises. We both figured that there were enough flies on the water for a trout or two to be out there looking, and if we drifted our caddis over just the right rock…

As early afternoon arrived, I saw the first Hendricksons begin to drift by. It wasn’t long before I saw a soft rise, covered it, and had a good trout take my fly. As I was playing him, I heard a couple more rises behind me, so after netting that fish I waved to JA to come on down. Within five minutes there was another rise and a second nice brownie took my 100-Year Dun. More rises behind me. I waved some more and JA started down. He hooked a nice brown between us, but it jumped and threw the hook. Then things went quiet. We talked a bit, waited and watched, and finally he decided to work his way back up into the run. That was the best decision of the day!

I would find only a recalcitrant sipper or two for the duration of the hatch. They kept me busy trying to get a cast into the perfect spot, but I had no further success. I had looked upriver once during my time in purgatory, and seen JA’s handmade bamboo rod high in the air and bucking with life. I smiled and went back to my own business. That was the first bamboo fly rod JA had made about five years ago and it was beautifully done. I believe he is working on rods six and seven now, and one of those is a surprise gift for me. He has also spent a lot of time over this past winter teaching me how to make one myself and fulfill a special dream. I suspect that gives you an idea of what kind of man my friend is.

Not too long before the hatch petered out, they have been short and sparse this year, I heard a call from JA and looked to see him carrying his net to the bank. I could see his smile from a hundred yards away.

When I joined him he was still smiling, telling me about the half dozen good browns he had taken on one of his little caddis emergers, including the twenty-one incher I saw him carrying to the bank. He wanted a picture of that one, the fish that jetted away instantly and started emptying his reel.

As we talked beside the road before heading home, he handed me a fly box full of those special caddis. He still ties flies for a few, select fly shops including one in downtown Roscoe. He ties more than thirty dozen of that particular fly for that shop each season, as it’s their best-selling caddis pattern. There’s a reason for that.

I’ll be looking for some more good fish taking caddis this week. They hang around for a while much better than the mayflies, and I will give JA’s emerger plenty of time on the end of my leader!

There’s an old 1940’s St. George waiting on the ottoman, it’s line freshly polished and a brand-new leader and tippet attached, snugged into the sheepskin liner of it’s leather case. The ferrules on the five weight Leonard were cleaned just the other day, and it waits too right beside that ottoman. I can feel the old magic now, that tingle at the first blush of morning on the spring skyline; I’m going fishing!

A best friend will join me, and he’ll bring polished cane and dry flies just as I do. We know what it is we seek, to touch that magic of the past and pull it with us into our own futures.

The rivers are freshened with a long spring rain. Hope says they have cleared just enough, and the mayflies that have proven more than ephemeral for these past two weeks will make full appearance and greet the season with their own ritual of life and renewal.

Mr. Brown will consent to join us too, for he’s as hungry for those flies as we are for his company!

We are both old men, but this morning we feel as giddy as boys, comparing flies tied just yesterday, vaunting their merits as the be all and end all patterns no trout may resist. Aye, we go a-fishing!

Pleased to say that the riverscape has changed. At last, a forecast weather system actually released it’s promised rainfall over the Catskills yesterday! Roscoe received two and a half inches of that precious gift, and here in Hancock very nearly two inches fell. The rivers are rushing brown torrents, though their flows are already receding as far down the watershed as Lordville, NY on the Delaware. Now the dry fly anglers hold our collective breath and hope that the refreshed rivers may still produce the spring mayfly hatches that we dream about.

Various members of the Catskill Fly Tyers Guild and our little band of fledgling bamboo rod makers enjoyed the rain from the comfort of the Catskill Fly Fishing Center and Museum’s Wulff Gallery. We had a nice turnout for our first live meeting during the morning and lunch hours, with a few new members joining the old guard. Catskill dry flies were tied, and many squirreled away to be boxed up and presented to the Museum for a raffle prize. I wistfully tossed half a dozen freshly tied Hendricksons into the fray as a leap of faith that we will still see our season’s best hatch once the rivers return to wadable flows.

Post meeting, I joined Dave Catizone, John Apgar, Gary Moleon, Joe Ceballos, and CFFCM’s new Director of Operations Laura Colangelo for a continuation of our quests to build our own split bamboo fly rods. Between minging with groups of Museum visitors and explaining our efforts, we enjoyed quieter moments orchestrated by the unique sounds of multiple hand planes sliding over strips of bamboo nestled in steel planing forms. I managed to complete the final stage of roughing five of the six strips required for one of my rod tips. The next work day should allow me to get the seven remaining strips roughed before resetting the planing form for the final tip dimensions.

New York City will not update their rainfall data on their Catskill reservoir page until sometime Monday, but that update may finally show the Delaware River reservoirs at full capacity for the first time this year. The four had reached an average level of 93.875% before this rain event, with April rainfall down an inch from the historical mark. If normal rainfall returns to our region, we can look forward to better river conditions on all our freestone and tailwater treasures!

The early insect hatches have left dry fly anglers in a quandary, with sparse showings of expected flies in many corners and absences in others. Whether this situation reflects the damage of the 2024 drought and a very difficult winter remains to be revealed, but good river flows will certainly improve our outlook.

I spent Thursday on the river with my buddy Mike, visiting from Maryland. It was the last day of a three-day trip for Mike and the conditions had tested us. Perhaps that’s why he lingered at his car that last morning, urging me to go ahead and walk ahead to the river while he puttered with his tackle. I made the long walk and found the chosen reach lower than I can ever recall, the riverbed displayed in stark relief. I decided to scratch my early morning itch with several casts to prospect visible lies.

While the shallower rocks failed to reveal any lurking trout, I did see one soft rise in the deepest thread of the run. I worked more line through the guides of my vintage Leonard and let my little CDX caddis bob down the bubble line, drawing a repeat of that soft rise. The golden bamboo arched heavily as I raised the rod, and the CFO began to sing the praises of dry flies in spring!

The fish was substantial and used his size and strength to keep to the deepest portion of the drought shrunken run. The pressure of the bamboo finally led him closer, and he darted and dashed through the shallower water until I finally brought him to the net, twenty inches of dark flanked bronze perfection!

Mike finally ambled onto the scene as I released the brownie, and shared in my expectations for the day. We enjoyed the company, and though a few mayflies did find their way to the surface that afternoon, the trout in the slow, shallow pool refused to come to the surface. Under these most challenging conditions, the trout feed on the active emergers beneath the surface, taking them just before they reach daylight. Past experience has proven that our best efforts at tying lively flies fall far short of mimicking the strident movements of the naturals. Without the camouflage of current, the trout have a high-definition show of insect life to attract them, a test no drifting fly will pass.

In truth, wild trout’s survival instincts are heightened under challenging conditions, and that is all part of Nature’s plan. Anglers may marvel at it while we fail to overcome the abilities of our quarry, smile and wait until conditions change.

A cool morning, though it is heading for eighty degrees! Rivers remain low and continue dropping, and the hatches, such as they are, aren’t even making sense. My front porch will probably hit 90 this evening, though the Summer Ale isn’t even in the stores yet. There’s no corn on the cob, no steaks or burgers for the grill waiting in the freezer, oh, and no fishing.

I guess that last part isn’t quite accurate, it just seems that way. I have seen a few quick, spotty appearances of Red Quills, and there were shad caddis on the Delaware yesterday afternoon. No sign of a Quill Gordon, or a Blue Quill or a traditional Hendrickson. I have not seen a mayfly on the Beaver Kill, and wonder about the effects of that terrible sustained drought followed by two months of ice cover. Oh yea, on a positive note, the wind is blowing, hard.

Maybe my ramblings require explanation. In any kind of a normal, or even abnormal year, the Quill Gordons are the first mayflies to appear. The smaller Blue Quills show next, giving the trout an option of a juicy size 14 or a diminutive but plentiful size 18 when they are both on the water. This may occur any time between the second week of April and the last week, depending upon Mother nature’s calendar for the year. Once we get to that last week of April the Hendrickson’s begin and as that hatch progresses over it’s first week we see some Red Quills. The Hendrickson hatch usually takes us through the first couple of weeks of May. As they are waning, the Shadflies or Apple caddis begin to appear. Hatch timing always presents some sort of quandary, but the progression stays the same once they start. Not this year.

Even the fly shops, whose business it is to exclaim how great the fishing is, have been reporting “a few Quill Gordons and Hendricksons just starting”. The fishermen you talk to though haven’t seen many of them; and what are the Shadflies doing here two or more weeks early?

Perhaps I should be carrying a fly box containing one pattern of every fly I own, as it seems there is no way to know what might show up today. One each should be plenty regardless, as there won’t be many of them anyway. I’m going to stop bellyaching now, let a hot shower take some of the pain out of my bones before I dig out my summer fishing clothes. Now, where did I put those ant patterns?

So here we are, the last full week of April. There have been a couple of very nice warm days, and the river temperatures soared into the mid-fifties at their peaks. It was just thirty degrees this morning when I stumbled onto the porch here at Crooked Eddy however, and they have taken the sunshine from my forecast. The weekend reports are buzzing with all of the right words, though expectations are tempered a bit since they are commercial reports after all. It seems its now or never.

I tied a few flies yesterday, and a few more this morning, keeping to my ritual for the coming of the dry fly season. That was inaugurated on Friday at last, the cane dutifully bent and writhing with life after a clean stalk and a lovely cast with the 50 DF. Another 100-Year Dun has made it’s mark, fooling a great fish, cautious in low water despite her hunger for the new spring’s looked for bounty.

After a very long, very cold winter, the question on a thinking angler’s mind revolves around the effects of two months of snow and ice encrusted rivers at extremely low flows. This week should begin to reveal the answers. As a general rule, Mother Nature offers a handful of small olives or our father Theodore’s honorably named Quill Gordon as the first mayfly of the season. I have seen neither, though of course there are those reports. This early cup full of Red Quills surprises. Though surprise is something Nature has demonstrated countless times.

I hope the full complement of spring hatches lies right here on my doorstep, further that I might begin to enjoy their company just hours from now. It is nothing new to find some surprises in the mix, for that is all part of the magic we seek every free day of the season.

Here we are, closing out the third week in April, season of almosts. Our rivers almost warmed to that magic place: 50 degrees! But then a few nights well below freezing took care of that. There were almost some flies on the wing; but they were just the early stoneflies that hatch and buzz the surface without the notice of the trout.

Honestly, there was no true hope of an early spring after the winter we just came through…I think we’re through it… 26 degrees yesterday morning, 48 outside for this one. The miles and experience of several decades wandering Catskill rivers has taught me that the last week of April ushers in the dry fly season. Anything earlier than that, and it has happened, qualifies as an early spring.

What we have in an embattled Catskill April like this one is a procession of… clues? Hints of spring, yes, that’s what they are! A sunny day here and there, but after a deeply cold wintry night, where that morning sunshine has to begin by melting the heavy frost lying upon the land. Being far too enveloped in the angling life for my own good, I am out there regardless of the weather, ignoring the common sense I was born with to wander in search of that first tiny gray pair of wings, that first subtle ring upon the surface that isn’t the result of an ice crystal falling from the sky.

I have seen those hints of spring, I mean, I waded a river in mid-March and caught a pair of very nice Catskill brown trout, though that was swinging a sunken fly. A dirty business that, not at all something to be proud of. Sometimes though, the soul of an angler craves solace. I have seen rises too. One here on one day, another there a few days later, but not those wings! A trout with a wild hair? Who knows. Maybe a last remaining bug from back in November that was flash frozen in the river ice and just thawed out to take it’s last kick of life in front of a trout who was just as interested in springtime as I was.

Sitting on a riverbank, the Leonard 50 DF laid on the brown grass beside me, I feel the alternating warmth of the sun and the chill bite of the wind. Every moment of the afternoon that passes tells me that, once again, it is not going to happen today. I accept that, for I believe it will happen one day soon. I live for that belief, for precious hours along bright water whether sitting in the grass or casting to some rising flame of wildness. Each day I cherish, and I search and wait, all the while finding just what I am looking for.

There are just a few flies bobbing now and then on the wind tossed surface, one here, one there. The only motion of the water is driven by the wind. I search, and sometimes I find a tangible hint of spring, hear the soft plop over the rushing of the still bare branches. The 50 reaches out just then, as my search becomes reality for just one perfect moment; and then the cane is bending, surging with life and the old reel sings to drown out the rushing of the wind!

The sun was out when I reached the river, and the wind the forecast had warned of was still keeping time elsewhere. I had prepared for the rain that was said to come later, but I hoped the warmth and stillness would last.

I carried my old Orvis “99”, rigged with an upscale CFO and one of those modern half-heavy lines, a WF6.5F you could say. That line loads the old HCH rated “99” fully, and the combination will most certainly handle the wind.

I knew I was early for any fishing that might develop. Yes, the Catskills are still in that wishing stage of spring, with lovely sunny days in mid-March having bowed to cold, damp and windy during the first half of April. The only way to meet the first hatches of the season is to be there, to walk the rivers, stand in their currents and wait. I fished a little along a protected bank, feeling overly warm in the rain jacket I had worn in deference to the forecast, but nothing stirred. Strange thing I am sure from the trout’s perspective, a fine Gordon Quill perched on the surface, when there has been no sign of a mayfly for five and a half months.

Now all of the old literature will tell you to expect those Epeorus flies by eleven o’clock, but nearing one none of them had shown, so I ambled back to the water I had hopes of fishing to sit down and wait. Just as the hope was welling in my heart, the clouds began to move through over the mountains.

With that wonderful sun vanished, it felt cooler, and the breeze strengthened just a little with the first tiny shower of raindrops. I rose, stretched and sat again, passed some time with dreamy thoughts of days like that pictured above, dark skies, but with mayflies by the thousands in the drift!

After that first little shower the sun began to reappear, jousting with each new bank of clouds for mastery of the sky. The clouds proved more valiant, and the Red Gods claimed dominion over the angler’s best part of the afternoon. The squalls came in force for the next hour and a half, each one building on the former’s prelude. Standing in the river, hoping for a reason to cast during one little spell between them, the sudden wind came so hard it nearly knocked me off my feet!

I recalled one fly shop’s morning report had called for hail in the afternoon, and I laughed at the thought of being knocked silly by a hailstone while sitting on a downed tree in the river, waiting for a calm moment and a fish. I sat there laughing at each thundering gust of wind and rain for quite a while.