The clouds drift above the mountains to the southwest this morning, and though there is a hint of light in them, they speak to me of snow and ice laden watersheds. It is summer in my memories, mornings whose chill is one of anticipation rather than one of ice.

Walking on a bright morning, the sunlight chasing the traces of mist wraiths from the water, I feel the cork between my fingers. Soft footsteps at riverside, I pass in silence to preserve the spell. Here, where everything before me speaks of promise, I slip into the golden glow of rippled waters. It is quiet save for the music of those waters, and the ratchet of the reel breaks the lyrical refrain as I pull line from it’s spool to cast.

The transformation from this world of peace comes as an electric shock, for as the shaft of cane is raised into a graceful arch the gentle riffle explodes again and again with the leaps of a great fish! The reel screams with his swift departure as the rod arches deeper, and that electricity flows through me, touching my very soul.

As summer waxes I stalk misty mornings, the fog thick enough to obscure the sounds of the hunters. I move as soundlessly as I am able, casting to pockets of soft water revealed by the moving mists, the tension as thick as the air! Oft the fly is unseen, so I watch it drift gently in my mind as fly and thought become one.

Some days the hunters betray themselves, and a quick cast is required to meet opportunity at river’s edge. When the spirit is awakened the chorus of an old Hardy runs through the throbbing drumbeats of the bouncing rod and my heart smiles with the symphony of the chase!

If only it was not so long until these wondrous bright and misty mornings might come to pass once more!

Twas cold and gloomy over the weekend, and my hip was barking due to the general lack of riverine forays. Nearing Noon today, everything was transformed with brilliant sunshine, and I reached for my boots and a down jacket to enjoy a river walk.

The porch thermometer read well above freezing, and I headed off with a smile. I walked briskly, the sunlight having brightened my mood considerably. Nearing the turnaround where the public road ends, I saw something in the distance: a whitetail, perhaps a hundred yards down the remains of a private woods road. The deer was feeding peacefully wherever the sun had revealed a tuft of meadow grass, and I was surprised to find her companion just at the edge of the meadow no more than fifty yards away. I turned quietly and left them to their foraging, undisturbed.

A countercurrent caught my eye in a slot between two ice islands, and I noticed the wind on the river blowing hard upstream. I’d felt none of that breeze standing there, still didn’t, and I smiled with the realization that I was being spared the cold blast in the face by some pleasant whim of Nature. I had dallied there a few minutes, watching the winter wildlife with that gorgeous sun in my face, and got a shock when I turned for the return northward.

Though all of Crooked Eddy still basked in the sunlit benevolence of the day, the mountains to the North were being overrun by a dark, stormy mass of clouds, sure to bring snow before I reached home. I watched that front boil over the mountain tops, still walking in the sun, even as I reached the steps and the cover of the porch.

I was nearly convinced the day had changed her moods once more when I sat down to watch the clouds pushing easterly.

I hadn’t sat there more than ten minutes when the terrain darkened, and the first snowflakes began to swirl about. Ten more and a bonafide squall had erupted!

It snowed heavily for twenty minutes, enough for me to nod and let my eyelids fall in the comfort of the recliner. What better thing for an afternoon snowstorm but a nap?

In truth though, I am not much of a day sleeper. My eyes soon winked to behold blue skies and sunshine once more!

The moods of the day get me dreaming of soft sunlight on my shoulders… and golden cane arching to the music of the reel…

I’ve been reclining in front of the heater with Dana Lamb’s first volume “On Trout Streams and Salmon Rivers”, sipping coffee and wandering along the rivers of my own memory. It is cold and snowy outdoors where those memories lead, though the day might just peek above the freezing mark they say.

As the new light enters the sky my gaze welcomes the mountains to the North and East – a simple pleasure my retirement here has granted me. The price is five months of winter; the treasure seven months of angling with the dry fly.

Spring often comes fitfully, teasing with a few early sunlit days, feelings of actual warmth that penetrate my jacket and cap; even the sight of flies buzzing above the river! Such days are meant solely to increase the longing it seems, for the spirit they awaken never finds the true solace of the rise of a trout to the fly. When that moment does come, it often steals upon the scene when least expected.

Picture a swollen river and legs shivering from both current and cold, the day dark with howling winds. The looked-for hour comes, then passes, the angler’s reward for hope and endurance – more waiting. The aching want struggles to outlast the elements and dwindling possibilities and then… The first glimpse of wings fluttering amidst the roiling waters, the heartbeat quickens, and at last a subtle ring appears where the current lessens along the far riverbank. Now, a step deeper into the icy flow, the rod flexing stiffly in the air, and the line loosed toward the new beginning!

Once that blissful day arrives, it is too often followed by a return to deepening cold, growling winds and hazardous flows, though every few seasons the progression of spring continues with smiling days. Two rises tomorrow, a significant hatch the day after, and suddenly the fishing becomes expected. Pray that this year the Red Gods will smile with that rare benevolence!

Snow is falling at Crooked Eddy, gently, as this week’s winds seem to have abated at last. Dawn’s light struggles to filter through the cloud cover giving the fresh snow a faint blue glow as I ponder another winter’s day.

It is a quiet weekend here, with preparations for coming activities. Another week and Guild tyers will gather at the Catskill Brewery to share our craft and fellowship. JA and I will conclude our day with time in the rod shop. My strips are ready for rough beveling, then winding and heat-treating. I hope to accomplish all of that if I can, so planing may begin thereafter.

In my quest for knowledge, I have been contacting rod makers from Pennsylvania to Europe to discuss their individual heat-treating regime, particularly any changes applicable to the new Lo o bamboo. The variations are interesting.

Fly tying rises and falls as the rivers, a quick outlet for nervous energy on one day, serious study and contemplation of new designs on another.

I’ve been working my way through that new volume of Schwiebert, just a tale or two at a sitting. Stolen pleasures, like an evening cup of coffee with a hint of Beaverkill Bourbon Cream… and Dana Lamb waits there upon the bookshelf with his remembrances of the Golden Age!

Three months of winter lie still ahead, countless hours of dreaming, planning and wondering. Will the hatches come early, or with that false start so often seen? A hint, then nothing! Spring comes in it’s own time…

I left my buddy to work the first good rises we found and continued my search. A few flies had started wriggling their way to the surface, and we both trusted to patience and stealth to bring rewards.

I waded down river gently, sticking to the edge and taking pains to prevent my passage from sending pressure waves out into the pool. I must have spent half an hour covering 75 feet of river, and the flies began to increase in number once I passed the head of the pool.

When the trout began to rise it was all at once, several of them, all within reach of a long cast. I worked the closest riser with my Hendrickson and he proved to be willing. A nice fish, perhaps fifteen inches, he made me concentrate much closer upon the riseforms scattered throughout the area. The next candidate to bend the bamboo was just a bit larger, the second to succumb to my Hendrickson.

A few Blue Quills mingled with the Hendricksons, and when I finally located a rise with less splash and more bulge, true to form he ignored the Hendrickson. My drift was good, but this fish was obviously interested in the smaller mayflies struggling in the film. A change to a Blue Quill Cripple proved to be just what he was looking for, though not until I downsized my tippet to 6X!

The Menscer bamboo rod bowed heavily when I tightened, and the old CFO sang his praises as he darted away down current. I did my best to pressure him away from the next pod of riseforms, ever conscious of the delicate tether we shared. He obliged by turning away from me, running out to the middle of the river. I was smiling broadly when I finally brought him to the net: twenty-one inches of golden bronze and dark-spotted muscle.

The Hendricksons were coming steadily, and though the battle had pushed several fish downstream, they weren’t so shy as to ignore Nature’s bounty. Ten gradual steps downstream put me within easy casting range of the first in line, and I studied his riseform carefully before casting. I judged this fish to be of decent size and had offered two drifts when my eye caught a heavy swirl and bulge in the next line of drift. A step down and a step out gave me the angle I wanted.

As the trout turned back to the drifting Hendrickson duns, I had knotted one of my CDC Sparkle Duns to my leader, allowing the fever of the hatch to prevent me from changing back to 5X tippet. An angler’s gamble, one born of countless experiences, some of which had led to victory, and others to defeat. I have waded many miles of rivers and well remember the expediency big trout often require.

Conventional wisdom would lead an angler to expect a larger trout to feed longer, taking advantage of a good hatch to take in all of the calories his bulk demands, yet often this is not the case. Perhaps it is their inert wariness that grows with the experience of years. I have found many such fish that rose just a handful of times before vanishing. It seems as if they feel you before you ever offer a cast. On this day, it would be 6X or nothing.

It required a couple of casts to match his rhythm, then perhaps two more to drift the fly teasingly to him, the flecks of light-carrying bubbles in the dubbing and the wavering fibers of the CDC wing convincing him, giving proof of life. When the cane arched, and the reel screamed to life, I knew the greatest finesse would be required to win this battle.

I fought the fish out in the secondary current that washes the shallow bank of that reach of river. There were no logs or brush piles as often populate the main flows at the foot of our steep riverbanks, but this pool has a fine complement of rocks and boulders in it’s gravelly bottom. I kept the rod shaft as close to a forty-five degree angle as possible, reacting quickly but gently to each turn of direction. If I could keep him working in that spring current and away from the sharp-edged boulders, I believed I could win the war; and so I did.

A deep, heavy bodied Catskill brown some twenty-three inches long can weigh in the vicinity of five pounds, and I agreed with that estimation as he lay glistening in the meshes of the net, a glorious gift of spring!

In my mind I’m listening to the power chords and Steve Marriot’s voice singing those words to the tune of the Humble Pie classic “Thirty Days In The Hole”, while my ears hear the gusty winter winds rattle the siding here at Crooked Eddy. Welcome to Day 90 on my own countdown to a hoped for Catskill spring.

Though I have yet to tie any flies this morning, I have some sense of accomplishment. I took care of my secretarial duties for the Catskill Fly Tyers Guild and made myself a schedule to follow up on a possible new location for our Saturday winter fly tying gatherings. The flies will come later.

At last, the journey toward making my first split bamboo fly rod has become a reality. Last Saturday the work began with sanding the cane before splitting it into six wide working strips. These were moved to the band saw jig where they were cut into more than two dozen 1/4-inch-wide rod strips. Twenty-four finished strips are required to complete my three-piece rod with extra tip, so there are enough, along with a handful of spares to accommodate the expected mischief of the Red Gods.

My friend JA guided me through these first processes, also mentoring our friend and Catskill Legend Dave Catizone whose quest is to build himself a rod from Jim Payne’s classic Model 100 taper. Dave is one of the gentlemen I look to as true scholars of Catskill fly fishing and fly tying, having known and worked beside most of the greats in our region’s considerable history. His knowledge and personality are wonderful assets to the Guild as well as the Catskill Fly Fishing Center and Museum.

My next stage of rod work will be the initial beveling of those quarter inch rod strips to produce the 60-degree triangular strips that will be bound into four different rod sections: butt, mid-section, and a pair of tips. Once beveled and bound, all strips will be heat treated before the long hours of hand planing may begin.

I have found a reel to complement my rod, increasing my urgency to move along with the rod making process. That won’t cause spring to arrive any sooner of course, but it does stoke the fires of anticipation that carry me through the long months of ice and snow.

The Italian Roast has a chocolaty warmth as it rolls down my tongue, bringing me fully awake. I feel excited this morning, as today I will begin the rod conceived as the Angler’s Rest Special.

Waiting for the Holidays to pass, the winter has taken a deep hold. Rivers have ranged from icebound to high flows colored by rain heightened snowmelt. Today is not a fishing day; nor will tomorrow be… Yet, the excitement is there: anticipation, plans afoot!

I’ll gently sand the culm, cleaning it, and then begin the first crucial steps – splitting strips. If I execute this task to best advantage, I hope to end the day with somewhat more than 24 strips, enough for my 7′-9″three-piece rod and extra tip. Two tips are traditional, and practical. The diameter of my Lo o bamboo appears to be adequate, though with little margin for error. This Bambusa procera seems to split straight and clean, but my hands must learn this new precision on the fly.

I look at the rods in my quiver, Dennis Menscer’s exquisitely crafted masterpieces, the elegant classic lines of the Leonards, the elegant homage to the Catskill tradition found in the Thomas & Thomas Paradigms, and to such I aspire. I know these are heights I will never reach, as this stage of life lacks the years required to strive for such perfection.

I am thankful to stand here at this juncture, and for the opportunity to try, for the friendships that have made it possible. Might I actually plane twenty-four strips of bamboo to tolerances of a thousandth of an inch? The quest begins…

Nature has once more pulled her white coverlet over Crooked Eddy, and I am tying flies with dreams of May…

Caddisflies have my concentration this morning, specifically the little CDX I designed years ago for the prolific Shadflies. Unfamiliar? Well, the name depends upon which valley of the Catskills, in which watershed you find them.

They were the first insects I encountered on the storied Beaver Kill more than three decades ago. Shadflies, named for the timing of their hatching, those weeks which usually brought the first shad migrations into the Delaware River system. The entomologists know the species as Brachycentrus appalachia, and if you’re wandering the West Branch or Mainstem of the Delaware you’ll find Apple caddis.

Up on the Beaver Kill all those years ago, I had found patterns for light shadflies and dark shadflies in the bins in the Dette’s front parlor. One of those lovely flies fooled my very first big Beaver Kill brown, but I wasn’t up to the task of landing him on my introduction to Barnhart’s Pool.

On the front porch of the bed and breakfast inn that housed me that very first trip, I blended a touch of dubbing with the bright green and caramel undertones, crafting a pair of Gary LaFontaine’s Emergent Sparkle Pupas before the rising breeze sought to blow my little store of materials away. Those two flies were the key to an epic day on the Acid Factory Run, and thus began my love affair with Catskill rivers and the Shadflies!

The memories come flooding back which each turn of the thread, and shudders run up my spine with every wrap of hackle…

It’s a May morning, sunny, and I decided almost too late to visit a deserted reach of the Beaver Kill. The river here is a beautiful mix of bright, bubbling currents and mirror scape. As if destined to greet me, a good trout rises out where those currents blend. An eighteen CDX Shadfly has already been knotted to my tippet.

The fish takes on my second cast, shows his mettle with powerful runs and a signature leap. Gorgeous and strong when I release him and begin my walk upstream, the river quiet once more.

Along the flat border current of an edge seam, I find a soft and dainty ring! Shaking with anticipation, I work my way into deeper flows, and the cane flexes to propel the fly to Valhalla…

The gentle sipping rise becomes an eruption, and the forty-five year old bamboo arches heavily, bringing the Hardy to full chorus! For long moments we battle – the trout with incredible power, and I with careful leverage and finesse, until at last he is mine. Burnished bronze, gold and pearlescent white, made by God with the grace of Nature’s spotted palette, deep flanks heaving in the net, and I bow as I realize her flanks are better than two feet long…

Such are the memories of the shadflies.

I’ve been lost in his words once more…

Just yesterday the mail arrived with a book to add to my angling library: “The Complete Schwiebert” a 1990 compilation edited by John Merwin. I ripped away the packaging with gusto and settled in immediately!

A legendary angler, scholar, world traveler and captivating writer, Dr. Ernest G. Schwiebert, Jr. passed on just over nineteen years ago, on December 10, 2005. All who dream of tying and casting a fly owe Ernie a great debt, for he more than any other transcribed the essence of the magic we encounter on bright water.

From boyhood spent on rivers and streams in Michigan, he developed the inquiring mind and thoughtful intelligence that would lead him to a wholly remarkable life, a life he was thankfully inspired to share with his brothers of the angle.

I met him three times, the first in the infancy of my own angling journey. Then I found myself so awed that our conversation was brief and respectful. I failed to find the words to engage him in lengthy conversation, though his kind, gentlemanly manner offered the opportunity.

Our second meeting came at an angling book show in Carlisle, Pennsylvania where I was introduced by my mentor, the great fly tyer and angler Ed Shenk. The two were well acquainted from years earlier, seasons spent upon the nearby Letort. This time I managed a bit of small talk, offering praise for his books and questions regarding his current impressions of the fair limestone springs that had so fervently captured my heart.

Our third meeting was truly special. I had sat enthralled with his presentation at the annual banquet of the Fly Fishers Club of Harrisburg the night before and was surprised and delighted when he arrived at a gathering held streamside by the Big Spring Watershed Association the following afternoon. The group had finally convinced the Pennsylvania Department of Environmental Protection of the pollution from the Fish and Boat Commission’s ill-conceived hatchery that had been strangling this legendary limestoner for decades. Schwiebert, ever the conservationist, retained a deep affection for the Cumberland Valley spring creeks, and was interested to see what was being done to protect and restore these legendary waters.

We walked along the stream and talked, one on one for a couple of hours, he borrowing a rod to make a few symbolic casts at one point. We spoke of the troubles of Big Spring and the need to shutter the State’s hatchery, as well as the first positive signs of recovery. He mentioned some successes with restoration efforts on the historic Broadhead’s Creek. As the first President of the Henryville Flyfishers, he had a long history with that hallowed ribbon of trout water.

In his 1998 book chronicling that history, Schwiebert made a valid case for the Broadhead’s place as a focal point for the beginnings of fly fishing in America. It was clear from his conversation that he remained haunted by that lovely stream, and he urged me to fish it when I divulged the deep interest in our angling history which had drawn me to the Cumberland Valley.

I didn’t manage to find my way to Broadhead’s Creek during those next two years, and my heart sank to read of Schwiebert’s passing late in 2005. I still have not made the journey.

When this New Year 2025 draws nigh to it’s close, the twentieth anniversary of his death will stand before us. Time seems to pass in brilliant flashes. Perhaps this year I will make my way to Ernie’s Broadhead’s at last; to cast a fly and offer thanks for all of the beauty he shared with us!

One of the nice things about winter fly tying involves the memories that drift back into consciousness as I craft each pattern.

I’ve been tying spring patterns for one of my best friends, hoping to urge him to make room on his globetrotting calendar for a drive to these Catskills when the fishing is at its best for a change. Winding the goose biot body of a small Blue Quill Parachute this morning, I found myself along a sparkling little side channel of the West Branch…

It was April, and I was carrying a rod my friend Wyatt Dietrich had made for me a few years prior. The rod was a three-piece bamboo made to the specifications of his mentor, the late George Maurer; a taper George called the Trout Bum. I had fished the rod in a few different places, but I had never carried it on one of those special days.

The river was high, high enough in fact that wading that back channel made a hell of a lot more sense than trying to wade the main river. I was working my way upstream, noting some little Blue Quills bobbing on the surface, and had knotted one of those biot bodied parachutes to my leader. There would be a rise here and there, but no sign of a trout actually feeding regularly, until I worked my way well upstream. There I found a chunk of tree branch lying along the bank, shrouded by an overhanging bush. Right under that old fly catcher, there was a very nice fish working hard to reduce the population of those quills.

Within a few casts, I had the feel of the Trout Bum and began placing my flies in the bubbly little line of current that carried it beneath the bush. Of course, that current wasn’t clean, as the branch deflected some of the flow out and away from the bank and made it tough to manage a drag-free float. The trout was sort of sliding around in a small area, picking out certain mayflies, passing up most of them, and my fly.

I studied the currents closely, finally finding the right spot to land my fly. The more casts I made, the more comfortable I became with the rod. I cut down my leader a little and replaced the 5X tippet with 6X, thinking that was the only way I was going to get enough gentle slack to master Nature’s little percolator with the water flowing three different directions. That did the trick.

My fly bobbed and dodged just like the naturals were doing, and the trout came up and sucked it in, leaving one of those subtle little rings that anglers often mistake for the rises of little fish.

That old boy shot out of there and into the main current, spinning the reel and making the rod buck like I was beating a rug with it! I was near the whitewater in the head of the channel, and the flow was strong all the way down. For a moment I had a flashback to another bruiser I had hooked there many seasons earlier. He never stopped. Luckily, this fellow did!

The fight was long, active and tense. I couldn’t help but think about that flimsy 6X tippet every time he turned his flank against the current and the rod bowed deeper and deeper. When he came to the net at last, I took special care not to touch that tippet with the rim. It’s not very hard for a five-pound brown to break that stuff.