Those dries, today, were Isonychia, Century Duns and a 100-Year Dun on big size 10 hooks. They were fashioned with a hope that I see those big claret-colored mayflies come early June. They have been spotty these last few years, as have many of our mayflies.

The sunshine drew me outside, though I knew it’s shining warmth was a lie. The air still hovers below freezing, though it feels a bit warmer walking in the direct sunlight. Saturday’s thaw was short lived, and I recorded all of seven and a half degrees this morning after sunrise.

I enjoyed my riverwalk, hailing the bald eagle soaring down along the strip of open water along the east bank of the East Branch. I doubt he had found anything fishy along that shoreline, with most of the river still silent under a cap of ice and snow. The snow and ice we have been warned of for the morning won’t make tomorrow’s hunt any better for him, but Wednesday afternoon is boasting of 49 degrees and sunshine, with Thursday just about as warm and bringing nearly three quarters of an inch of rain. The combination just might be enough to break the ice’s hold on our Catskill rivers.

It’s tough to try to hold onto expectations for March, for a few days of mild, sunny weather can tease you into believing spring has sprung, then be followed by snow driven by thirty mile per hour winds.

I look at March as a take what Mother Nature gives you kind of situation. I know I won’t find any dry fly fishing, but there can be a run or two of really nice days when it simply feels great to get out on the water. I can wander riverbanks and swing a Copper Fox, take a slim chance on running into a big, hungry brown.

The slow swing, bumping rocks along the river bottom is an easy way to get my casting muscles into shape. It is comfortable fishing, devoid of any serious expectations. Trout don’t feed much when the water is in the thirty something degree range, but there is always a chance to find one down there poking around because it’s his day.

I’ll take one of my old Orvis’s, or the Steve Kiley eight-footer with a heavy six or seven line. If there’s a stronger flow, a clear intermediate will get the nod, while low flows call for the floater. I don’t need a vest, just a bit of a chest pack, a small box of flies and a spool of 3X tippet. There often aren’t a lot of those days, so I enjoy one when it comes, saving the cold blustery days for drift boat chores, etc.

The ghost in my laptop just popped a tiny snowflake onto the bottom corner of my screen, with a message I don’t want to see: “3 in. of snow Tuesday”. I’d rather that system pass quickly through overnight and let Wednesday’s warmup arrive a day early!

Just maybe I’ll wrap a few Red Quill bodies and then rustle up a Cold Snap while I let their hard lacquered coating dry. Sounds like a plan…

At last, the punishment of February lies behind us; though Nature and her Red Gods have their tongues thrust deeply into their cheeks. It is twenty-six degrees with snow falling here in Crooked Eddy.

Driving back from Flyfest in yesterday afternoon’s bright sunshine, I read fifty-seven degrees on my old Jeep’s thermometer. Driving into town with the windows rolled down was exquisite: kids running along Front Street in shorts and tee shirts, snowmelt everywhere. Everyone felt the release, that sense of freedom with the outdoors at last beginning to be unlocked!

Yes, there is hope once again, despite the falling snow. Thirty-six days lie between this moment and the beginning of the new dry fly season.

Last year I was freed from my icy prison on the tenth of March, walking in sunshine and swinging flies upon the hallowed Beaver Kill. Another week had passed before those slow arcs of swinging fly line found resistance and the season’s first brace of wild trout came to hand.

The dry fly season flirted shyly and teased for another month, until at last my Maxwell Leonard settled a Dark Red Quill 100-Year Dun upon the surface to be taken by a beautiful brown of twenty inches!

March’s first few days are bound to revisit winter memories, though warmer and wetter days are ahead. Perhaps the great thaw will open the rivers, and they will clear and fall to wadable levels before too many more days have passed behind. It is time to stretch my aching indoor muscles, to build back some strength and flexibility sacrificed to January and February’s deep freeze; for fishing is coming!

Betrayed once more! Just yesterday I pinned my hopes to our local forecast, with but three inches of snow throughout the ten-day prediction. I awakened this morning to watch the Weather Channel pounding their contrary view and, checking the local just now, I see eleven more inches across that ten-day span!

It seems I shall have nothing save dreams and memories to cling to as cruel February winds into March.

Once winter has nearly beaten down my spirit, I often watch some short fishing or fly tying video as I take my breakfast, and yesterday I watched two of Davie McFail’s. He was tying a couple of patterns using CDC fibers for body dubbing, something I had not done for a good many years. Back on Falling Spring, I had tied a personal version of the classic Usual dry fly. I dubbed the fly’s body with pale yellow CDC fibers, using the original snowshoe rabbit’s foot hair for the tail and wing. I also tied some of these using pale dun CDC for the wing.

Both of these flies worked very well on the wild and heavily pressured Falling Spring trout, particularly in the short, sparkling riffled areas of that limestone stream.

I had learned of the Usual and it’s history from one of Fran Betters’ books, and really learned to appreciate the pattern on an early Catskill trip. I had selected a few size 16 Usual’s from the bin’s at Dette Flies upon Mary’s recommendation and taken some lovely Catskill trout on them almost immediately. For some reason though, that classic, rumpled every fly fell out of my tying regime and my boxes over the years.

Yesterday’s wandering thoughts recalled those moments, and I decided that a CDC dubbed body would be ideal for a few of my CDC soft hackles. A mixture of sulfurs and olives took shape quickly. I plan to tie some more of these as I do my best to let good thoughts of sunshine and bright water stave off this frontal assault of winter blues!

The power chords erupt from the depths of my memory, and I can clearly hear the voice of the late Ozzy Osbourne: Lying snowblind in the sun…

Snow is falling once more in the Catskill Mountains. My brain needs to balance between the Weather Channel’s warnings of “a big nor’easter”, and the much more tractable local forecast amounting to maybe three inches across eight of the next ten days which bear snowflakes in their headers. I want to believe that local story, but I can still hear Ozzy’s wail.

I have had enough of winter!

Baseball begins today, and I welcome the distraction; and Flyfest comes around next Saturday, maybe even an evening out listening to Nate Gross’ incomparable blues guitar. All of these are sorely needed to set my mind free from indoor temperatures in the fifties and this ever enduring white landscape!

Right now, I have to get myself through the morning. Perhaps I will plan out what I’ll tie at Flyfest this year, set aside the materials I’ll need to stock my travel kit. I am leaning toward some of the new patterns I’ve been working on, maybe some old, old ones like the soft hackle dry flies… Terrestrials might inject a little warmth into the spirits of my fellow anglers and fly tyers…

Right now I just have to get through another week, for beyond Flyfest and the blues lies March! Yes, yes, it will still feature cold winds, perhaps more snow and ice, but it is finite and ends in springtime!

I get myself going each March, getting my boat ready, fussing with the tackle I plan for the opening salvos of the new season, and actually wandering riverbanks, wading those rivers, and casting a fly. I know I will begin to see tiny black caddis and early stoneflies and I will dream I can see the ring of a rise once more! Once in the past seven years my first dry fly trout of the season was actually landed in March, so miracles can truly happen, not just appear in waking dreams!

Forty-five days remain; but thirty-one shall be in March!

Our February warmup has fizzled, leaving the river gages still frozen and a great deal of our last snowfall still on the ground. While temperatures improved markedly over the past five days, the sun failed to make more than a brief, last gasp glow in the western sky.

The Beaver Kill is our larger, undammed watershed, and though the flow rate gage is iced and inoperable, the gage height shows an increase of four tenths of a foot since yesterday, the product of sporadic rainfall and whatever snowmelt that began. Added flow is good flow at this time of year, and that gives me some hope for the early mayflies that deserted my favorite reaches of that iconic river last season.

I tied a trio of my Century Duns to match the Quill Gordons late this morning, more of a subtle plea to the Red Gods than an act toward filling any direct need in my usually overstuffed fly boxes. They are sitting here in front of me now.

I have nearly finished this, my third reading of the father’s Notes and Letters, yet I catch little things, points and mentions memory does not recall. He wrote often of the terrible troubles he had acquiring quality hooks and materials for his flies. Should he appear across the room from me I would put one of Charlie Collins’ gorgeous dun hackle capes in his hand, bid him to take it along back to neverland. I think he would appreciate my own personal tribute, the 100-Year Duns I tie, inspired by his own flies and writings. I hope so.

I have been working on prototypes this week, rounding out a selection of some new and old styles of flies to cover the major hatches I hope to see when the dry fly season begins some forty-seven days hence, or thereabouts. And, though this week’s warmup has not featured the sunshine I had hoped to draw me out to watch the snow melt, I have welcomed the end of shivering indoors.

I have also written and edited my column to be published in March’s issue of the Catskill Fly Tyers Guild Gazette. Instead of writing about proven patterns, I shared my thoughts and motivations for my new Transitional flies, and the writing helped spur me on to produce additional prototypes. It is too early in my process to tie these flies in quantity, for they will have to be cast upon the rivers and examined closely to fine tune their design.

The idea behind these new Transitional Duns involves pushing the abdomen deeper into the film and slightly below that threshold. I am counting on the absorbency of the wrapped pheasant tail fibers and the copper wire rib to accomplish that, allowing the CDC puff wing or the sparse hackling of the Century Dun variations to provide just enough floatability to keep the thorax of the fly hanging in the film. The design allows adjustment, by adding heavier wire ribbing, or even wrapping additional wire underneath the pheasant tail fibers, but I cannot judge the “hang” until the river ice vanishes and I can cast these patterns on flowing water.

The Catskills are expecting rain today and, coupled with a high temperature near forty, that should cause some significant snowmelt and raise river flows. Whether the past few days’ warmer temperatures and that flow increase will be enough to soften and loosen the river ice will be the question of the day. The advance forecast reveals a full week with low temperatures below freezing and highs in the thirties once our warmup subsides tomorrow, so I don’t really expect to get nearer any of our rivers than a drive by until March winds into view. No one here would mind an early spring, regardless of that famous Pennsylvania groundhog’s prognostication.

I have also continued working up additional styles of soft hackled dry flies. With 175 or more years of history behind them, I am sure there are already too many patterns, but I do insist upon choosing my own dubbings and feathers to agree with my own observations of Catskill bugs in our twenty-first century.

I expect another month of winter, despite my preferences for an early spring, though I will undoubtedly push the timeline if Mother Nature offers any kind of a window, some flash of unexpected warmth!

I am hunkered here at my tying desk, entombed in fleece and down as the wind howls between my outside wall and the tent protecting the drift boat, thinking about floating that boat down the rush of bright water visible above.

It would seem like a good year to take an early, solo float, something I have done a number of times in retirement. Perhaps the most enjoyable of these sojourns came during those early months of the pandemic. Imagine ten miles upon the West Branch of the Delaware without sight of another soul?

Solitude is not something you find along the most popular trout river in the East, not even when you venture forth before the vaunted spring hatches have begun!

An early season wind can make that boat a cold place to spend the day, but the truth is it is many times warmer than wading a forty-degree river. Will the trout rise? No, of course they will not, but I always have a rod rigged beside me. Such trips are something besides simply fishing. They are a moment of reverence paid to Nature and her Red Gods; grateful thanks for many precious days upon bright water.

Once the sun has grown strong enough to bring the rivers past the mid-forties, I can almost convince myself there is a chance for an insect to flutter upon the surface, a prayer for a trout to rise. I am smiling as I think of that, remembering so many days when forty-eight has broken my heart.

My calendar says fifty-three days of waiting remain, though this one is closer now to evening than to morning. That weekend warming trend still lies ahead, despite today’s swirling snowflakes and the chill I am feeling in my bones efforts to erode my anticipation.

I was searching through some photos this morning and came upon this one that a friend of mine took several seasons ago. Looking at it, I can almost feel that sunshine! Shirtsleeve weather, mayflies hatching, a favorite bamboo rod resting on my shoulder – everything about that moment was so completely right.

It was easier to fall into thoughts of springtime this morning, for there is a thaw coming at last! Sure, things will stay around freezing through Friday, but then the predictions have our daily highs in the forties for a week. Oh, there is still a tease though. One of the computer models The Weather Channel monitors has us getting some heavy snow over the next few days. Then again, one of the other models doesn’t. Do we get to choose which one?

The flies tied this off-season are burgeoning out of their pill bottles, even though I have begun to fill the compartments of a new aluminum fly box with the new designs. Once that thaw gets here, I may just have to move some more of them to their new homes and keep riding the tide of hope that spring gets closer every day!

The winds are positively howling, as the Catskills are battered by another dangerous cold weather advisory, and I am continuing down the rabbit hole of tying alternative dry flies. The Drowned Hendrickson above provides evidence that I’ve been here before, but I have enjoyed a new concentration in this area as this long, cold winter continues to overcome the best efforts of my old furnace.

Primarily, it was two thousand twenty-five’s decided lack of mayflies that has caused my attentions to turn. If there aren’t many bugs, the happy-go-lucky fly fisher might suppose that trout would be eager to eat most anything cast upon the waters, but if anything, our wild Catskill brownies proved even more difficult and selective than usual. While I am hoping for improved hatches in twenty-six, I have been preoccupied with producing some very different flies for my chosen regimen of surface fishing.

That Drowned Hendrickson was a forerunner to an expanding group of CDC soft hackles, and I have also combined that concept with the soft hackled dry flies previously expounded upon.

The concepts are sound, promoted by longevity as well as the newest studies and opinions regarding vulnerable flies featured in Mr. Hayes’ and Mr. Stazicker’s recent work.

If mayflies prove to be scarce again this season, something that could easily happen, it stands to reason that a trout which is less likely to rise for floating duns he has not been seeing regularly, might be significantly more likely to tip up and sip a fly struggling in the surface film. It certainly cannot hurt to offer these in the forms of imitations of the mayflies of the season, rather than fishing purely generic patterns.

The new series of Transitional Duns that I have produced this winter follow the same reasoning. When fly hatches are lean and sporadic, many trout are less likely to rise to a dun imitation, even a very good one. My Transitionals are designed to ride awash, while still displaying the trigger of an emergent set of wings.

Fishing of course, is still two months away. I have plenty of time to continue filling a fly box with an array of new ideas, as I work to pass all of those frigid days while retaining my sanity!

It is the fifth day of February, and it is one degree below zero here in Crooked Eddy. Sixty days of winter and waiting remain until the dawn of a new dry fly season, though this is measured solely by my own hopeful reckoning.

Another push of arctic air is headed across New York and New England for the weekend, bringing snow and dangerous low temperatures. Funny, but that seems a lot like our average daily forecast.

I have been working through this parade of frigid days with a good book, and half a dozen fly hooks that I choose to bring life to an idea. My tackle room remains cold enough that I don an insulated overshirt, with a blanket splayed over my lap and legs. My favorite coffee mugs have been replaced by a new Yeti which is half mug and half thermos. Welcome to winter in the Catskills.

Were I a younger man, it might be fun to strap on a pair of studded boots or cross-country skis and wander the mountains, but I shan’t try that today. Instead, I surrender to the inevitable and the truth, that all of my equipment has, rust.

Wealth might find me off to a Caribbean island with a heavier rod and bonefish flies or, since I am enduring the cold anyway, I might easily succumb to the enticements of British Columbia and her famed steelhead rivers. Such magical escapes require significant wealth though, and my humble accounts won’t allow any of those dreams either.

Catskill winters are the trade I offer for Catskill springs and summers and, though I doubt the bargain here in the middle of another ice laden blast, I am glad I made it. Angling gives me a great joy, a fulfillment of spirit. I shall rely upon that as I count these sixty days…