I took a chance on summer’s final fishing day, traveling to the Neversink River with hope in my heart.

I had visited only once this season, finding the summer flow meager at best, and trout absent from familiar reaches. The flow has since been increased, and I thought I owed the river the opportunity to redeem herself in my eyes.

The day was bright, comfortably warm, and carried a surprise – wind! Gusty breezes frequented my old haunts carrying the promise of a feast of terrestrials. I hunted carefully, despite the lack of even subtle hidden rises.

There has been development here in the years since I first visited, and I expect a few more trout may have been released into new residents’ kitchens than the law allows. Whatever the reason, I have found fewer trout in these environs in recent seasons, where once I discovered a quiet bounty.

As I fished along the little run with its overhanging grasses, my heart quickened with memories.

It was springtime when I first approached from downstream, creeping right up to the lip where the current gathered and then spilled into a wide, shallow riffle. The pooled water just above that lip had three trout rising, plucking Hendrickson duns from the surface. I cast as delicately as I could and my dun was taken by a large, vigorous wild brown trout. Landing him, I was breathless to find his brethren still rose.

I caught all three that afternoon, that first one the largest and better than twenty inches, his fellows not far behind. Quite the introduction to this unassuming little run of water!

As I moved on to the tail of the Victory Pool, memories came freely. I found a good trout there at last, his belly tight to a flat rock on the bottom, almost asleep. He had ignored all of my presentations as he ignored the fruits of Nature’s larder delivered by the winds.

I fished on through the pool, covering all of the hides, the shaded edges, the pockets below each rock, but there was nothing but the silence of my casting and the brush of the breeze to break the trance. At the top I recalled a very special day there.

It was my first Catskill trip of the season a decade ago, a longed-for occasion in a late, timid spring. The day itself was everything I had been waiting for: sunny, warm, gentle and beautiful, and I had high hopes for a hatch of Hendricksons. I sat down on the warm, green grass to watch the pool, stretching back and nearly napping with the pure pleasure of it. A sound came to my ear, a gentle plop that brought me upright immediately.

The current parted above a huge rock outcropping in midriver, and the first things I saw there were wings! Blue quills had begun to emerge and struggled to dry their wings and escape the surface. A soft, slow bulge interrupted those struggles, and the mayfly disappeared.

I slid gently off the grassy bank and planted my feet on the gravel, then pulled line from the Hardy Perfect reel. I carried my first vintage bamboo rod, a Wright & McGill Granger Victory, as I began to approach into casting position. By the time I was ready, the first Hendrickson emerged wriggling in the crease of current above the tip of the rocks. The Blue Quill was ready, and I cast it, watching the drift as it bobbed along that subtle seam between smooth flow and upwelling.

Another bulge, and a Hendrickson ceased its struggles. I retrieved my line, clipped that blue quill, and knotted one of the Hendrickson emergers I had tied back in February as my new Granger rested nearby. The rod was older than I, but straight and smooth casting when I sent that Hendrickson on it’s quest, and the arc it described after the bulge and lift was epic! That trout battled hard, ever running back to that sunken outcropping to rid himself of my fraud. In the net he was gorgeous, besting the twenty-inch mark on my tape! That old brownie started me down the long and wonderfully winding road of vintage bamboo and trophy trout!

I savored that memory as I walked slowly downriver, smiling at that grassy bank and the midriver outcropping, on my last summer day on the water. Memories accompanied me rather than energetic trout and the music of a singing Hardy reel, but my feelings were of contentment, not remorse.

It has been a difficult summer, the longest and hottest dry spell of my Catskill memory, my own summer style of fishing interrupted by a July flood and the City’s September drawdown, neither of which brought improvement to the fishing. This season has offered it’s own special gifts, as each season does, and I shall not hold it’s memories in lesser esteem.

What shall autumn bring? I have high hopes, for they are stirred by each new season in a sportsman’s life. I’ll walk the forest thickets on frosty mornings searching for the elusive Mr. Ruff, and angle away the golden afternoons with my hand gripping the scarred cork of vintage cane. What shall I find? Promise and contentment amid cool mountains and bright water of course.

There are clouds at daybreak this morning and, as much as I have enjoyed these last calm, sunlit days of summer, they are welcome. It is fifty degrees here in Crooked Eddy.

I hope the clouds will urge the late season mayflies to play out their life cycles this afternoon, to ascend toward that leaden sky and tempt the wild trout of the Delaware to feed. There have been too few such dramas of late!

I traced a new path yesterday, walking a wide lovely pool along the lower East Branch Delaware. The afternoon sun was warm once more, the surroundings beautiful with a tinge of color hinting at autumn in the golden glow of that sunlight. I had searched upriver and down, finding nothing to draw further interest, and had taken a stance near mid-pool to survey and wait. Another angler joined me, cordial and considerate, and we spoke briefly about the lack of any activity. He asked if I was headed downriver, and I replied that I had just come from there, so he nodded and headed down.

I saw him cast a few times in a couple of areas, but from the distance I could see no rises. Trying spots where memory held a trout? Eventually he returned and I asked him. He reported a handful of trout had risen and related that he felt his casting had kept them out of reach. As we spoke, he told me that two or three were still rising, and suggested I have a try at them, volunteering to show me just where they were holding. I was a bit stunned at his act of kindness.

We walked down and, sure enough, just beyond a ripple of current swelled from a submerged boulder which I had earlier scouted, there was now a trout picking tiny morsels from the glide. A few Cahills had appeared during the past half hour, and I had knotted a 100-Year Dun to my tippet accordingly. Rather than change to a tiny olive, I offered the Cahill once, the smooth power of my Delaware Pent laying it gently on the edge of that glide. The trout rose, I paused, then lifted it free of current and trout!

Analysis can be the bane of the angler, but after trying a couple of other flies once that trout resurfaced, I fell headlong into that trap. My conclusion in the end was that I had misjudged a refusal as a clean take, thus taking the fly away while the trout was visibly beneath it. He had resumed feeding within a few minutes, though clearly alerted I felt. I would never come close to touching him again.

I kept at it for perhaps an hour, there being nothing else to draw my attention, while my impromptu host worked his way upstream. We nodded goodbye to the river and walked out together. He remarked he was recently retired, and I saluted retirement as a wonderful condition that allowed anglers such as ourselves to fish all week! The one thing we neglected was a formal introduction.

Thanks to this stranger, I had an enjoyable interlude with a worthy opponent. I had thanked him for sharing his fish as we exited, but I regret that neither of us dropped our names.

I confess I have become too accustomed to rude, boorish behavior from my fellow fly fishers, to the point that I tend to shun conversation and contact. It seems I forgot how to act in the presence of a gentleman angler. I hope we cross paths again.

My favorite season is coming to a close. Though this summer has not been the kindest, nor most productive, nor even the most comfortable of those I have enjoyed since my retirement, I still feel a touch of melancholy as these last days pass. In truth, none of us ever know if we will remain to enjoy another.

It is not that I do not dearly love the autumn or the springtime, for each of these are truly sportsmens’ seasons, it is just that I find these Catskill Summers uncommonly sublime.

Our great drought brings a second wave, and there seems no relief upon the horizon. The wide Beaver Kill has shrunken to a warm trickle, the flood of July nothing but a memory. The river’s bones bake in the sun, and I wonder if her trout can even survive much more of this.

I spend many happy days along the river each autumn, but last year left me wanting. The large, wild trout I meet there made no appearance, not even when the crispness of the air and cool autumn rains bade them to come home. Would that I could spare half the high flow in her sister river and shower her gravel with that gift of cold, clear, lifegiving water!

My thoughts look past the glory of autumn, for there is a fear growing. I try to distract myself with the culm of Lo o bamboo which waits for these old hands to split, plane and glue. JA loaned me his copy of the bible, A Master’s Guide To Building A Bamboo Flyrod, to prepare.

Imagine me, tasting the last draughts of summer and thinking toward winter! Too set in my ways perhaps, too comfortable with familiar summer patterns to embrace the variety of a difficult season.

I keep hearing the same line, hatches and rising trout at evening, but it is an old song. In spring certainly, dusk brings a whirlwind of activity, but I have spent many summer evenings along these rivers with little for company save my own thoughts. I hear tales of the afternoons too, yet the great river I walked last week revealed little.

I should look further, deeper into Nature’s farewell to the season of warmth and plenty, yet memories pull us back to old haunts by their very existence.

Part of me wishes to survey miles of river from the seat of my drift boat, to float easily upon summer’s last release, search the riffles and pools for some spark of life. I don’t trust that pinched nerve in my neck though. Still hearing it’s murmur, I know this is not the time to challenge low water with a solo float, despite my longing.

I just cleaned the ferrules of my fly rod, my Delaware River rod you might say, for when the 8 1/2-foot five weight penta was conceived and ordered it was with the Mainstem in mind. Pittsburgh rodmaker Tim Zietak flamed the cane beautifully and presented me with a smooth casting foil. Each autumn, I take it home, to the wide expanse of the Delaware.

As the second week of September comes to a close, summerlike conditions prevail. There is not much dry fly fishing about other than on the big river. Flows are ideal for wading, and plenty of cold water flows from both branches and their reservoirs.

Still, the Mainstem always presents its challenges. Foot access is limited as it always has been, so anglers cluster around the few available. The riverbanks can get a bit crowded in these areas. Walking up or down river will provide some space and solitude, but that too is limited. There are deep eddies, rock studded heavy water right to the banks, and a general lack of convenient walking encountered, and respect for private landowners generally means staying in the river. Age enters into the picture too for anglers such as myself. Long walks in the riverbed take their toll on legs, hips and backs in particular.

There are memories here: bright evenings as the anticipation builds for the hatch, epic battles with drag burning rainbows, and quiet moments when the sheer beauty of the river touches your soul.

On this afternoon the first pool I visit is deserted. I wade out and see one tiny fish break water, nothing more. Deciding to give things some time to evolve, I wade further and cast first an Isonychia dry, and then a soft hackled fly to resemble the swimming nymph. It swings through the tumbled water around a rock pile, though it’s path is not intercepted by any of the trout I seek.

Straining my eyes downriver I see a lone drift boat and wonder if he has found some action where the river moves into a shaded bend, so I stand and watch for a moment. He moves on, and with that I decide to do the same.

My second stop is not so completely deserted, as a lone angler prospects downriver. I am free to sample the first and second riffles which had drawn a small crowd earlier this week. The anglers there seemed not to be catching much of anything, until one gentleman hooked “the biggest fish of the year”. It was more than he could handle, running hard into his backing and staying there, so I moved to shore and bid him walk through to follow. His friend eventually joined us and netted the fish amid much complaining, a lovely 18″ rainbow wearing the angler’s fly on his flank. Foul hooking had seemed ever more likely as he tried in vain to get the fish close, but I was pulling for him!

Mostly the river has surrendered feisty small trout, to me and others this week. On this bright, comfortable afternoon it was much the same. A few flies were seen, but only the occasional rise typical of small, hungry trout taking advantage of slim pickings to draw a cast. That fellow down river walked out before me and reported the same: two, between eight and ten inches. I nodded, as my single fish resided firmly in their company.

Eight days remain in the summer of 2024, and for now the big rivers are the only destination which will draw my interest. I have urged JA to join me but have yet to hear his reply. Working on this or that no doubt…

It is still cool nearing midday. Though the sun is bright, its light has a subtle tinge, that golden quality of autumn light.

I am headed for the wide-open reaches of the Delaware this afternoon, feeling somewhat improved from my weekend battle with some sort of pinched nerve that forced a rod from my hands. I feel better walking around at least, and that is enough to break my hiatus and get me out on the river. If I find a rise to draw my cast, I will discover if my aging muscles are sufficiently healed to perform. The Delaware is not typically a place for short, gentle casts.

Our forecast shows a coming four day return to summerlike weather. Beginning Thursday the highs should hit 80 degrees with plenty of sunshine. Today though, I hear whispers of autumn.

My mind is a rush of thoughts, from the simple joy I feel on a beautiful day, to that touch of melancholy that ghosts in with each thought of season’s end. Fidgeting with tackle, I keep travelling back to past Septembers on my Catskill rivers. Fishing seems never to be easy. Rivers are usually low, their wild trout straining to recover from the long drought and difficult migrations of the heat of summer. Yes, migrations, as the City of New York’s whimsical attitude toward the health of these great rivers and their fisheries does not make for comfortable conditions in many miles of these rivers. Both freestone rivers and tailwaters become too warm for trout to survive, and they must move to seek spring holes, cool tributaries, and sufficiently cold water closer to the dams.

Conditions vary each year. Hurricane Debby complicated the picture this summer, and a few short spells of colder nights brought many miles of marginal waters down to cooler temperature regimes for a time. That did not last, as heat and sunshine returned when the rivers dropped and the freestoners saw afternoon temperatures in the seventies again.

So where are the trout? The big water of the lower East Branch and the upper miles of the Mainstem Delaware have nice, wadable flows and ideal water temperatures right now due to increased dam releases in anticipation of the Delaware Aqueduct Project. That should increase insect activity, but have the trout come back? Nature’s wrath already posted a false alarm after Debby, and I found a few in the Beaver Kill after that, but not many. Guiding my new friend from Germany on Thursday and Friday I did not find them within the hours we had available to fish.

Today’s walk along the Delaware is another leap of faith, an exposition of my belief in the stamina of her wild trout. I hope for a sign, enough mayflies to bring a couple trout to the surface would be a shining example, the arch in my rod as a sleek rainbow charges away downstream would be even better!

There is nothing so frustrating for a fishing guide as failing to find a taking fish for his “sport”, particularly when that sport is such a fine angler and personable gentleman as Dr. Peer Doering-Arges. NYC disrupted the tailwaters with high releases on Wednesday morning, with Peer arriving that evening. The freestone rivers had warmed after the post-Debby cool down and are frighteningly skinny. As so often occurs in early September, fishing conditions are relatively poor.

Peer’s first visit to the Catskills is tied to a presentation he will be giving at the 30th Catskill Rodmakers Gathering tomorrow morning, and it was necessary to fit in our fishing within his available hours. The rivers, insects and trout failed to cooperate, but we did enjoy each other’s company.

The good doctor has found, tested, used, distributed and is marketing a new species of bamboo for rodmakers. Commonly called Lo o (low-oh) in it’s native Vietnam, Bambusa procera has some interesting properties to recommend it to rodmakers. The culms are larger, typically yielding 16 strips rather than the 10 split from a culm of Arundinaria amabilis, China’s tea stick or Tonkin cane. The nodes are spaced much farther apart too, making it possible to build a nodeless multi piece fly rod without removing nodes and splicing sections. The lack of nodes means reduced work for the maker, as there is no sanding, filing, pressing or staggering of nodes required, and the nodeless strips are much simpler to straighten. Having briefly tried my hand at planing bamboo strips, I believe that will be a somewhat easier and smoother process working a nodeless strip of Lo o.

Peer fished a 7-foot three weight Lo o rod yesterday on the Beaver Kill, giving me a chance to cast it on the water. It is light, responsive and casts smoothly and accurately. My friend Tom Smithwick made two identical rods for comparison, also 7-foot rods for number three lines. Tapers, fiberglass ferrules, reel seats and guides are identical, though one rod is made with Tonkin cane and the other Lo o.

The Lo o is noticeably lighter, and the reduced mass is felt in casting the rods side by side. Tom suggests a maker could increase his taper dimension by roughly 4% to create a blank with similar mass and feel. “Or you can simply speed up your power stroke a bit”, he adds.

After casting their rods, I know I would be quite pleased with a 7′ 9″, 3 piece Lo o bamboo rod for a number five line to put through it’s paces during a long Catskill dry fly season!

I hope to catch Peer’s full presentation tomorrow, and there’s a chance we may get a few more hours together on the river before he heads on to his next destination. I would love to find him a couple of our quality-sized wild brownies willing to rise and put a full arch in that new bamboo!

I awakened this morning to find that, as expected, NYC has waited until the last minute to begin dumping water from the Delaware reservoirs. Flows and temperatures are changing, and the fish will need a moment to adapt. This evening, I will meet Dr. Peer Doering-Arges upon his arrival from Berlin, Germany to discuss our fishing, which is to begin tomorrow. I am scrambling to figure out just where and how we will fish under these drastically altered conditions.

The topsy turvy summer of 2024 marches on, and I am wondering if the drift boat is the answer. I have not floated since April, so I am left flat-footed. There may be some flies in the afternoons, but I am left with no chance to go find them. Peer had said he was looking forward to this adventure. It may be more of one than expected!

There is no denying it now, even after a pair of hot, sunny days; we are about to begin the final third of the dry fly season.

Mostly overcast yesterday, and I had hopes for the sight of mayflies. The morning had that odd mixture of humid warmth, with a tinge of coolness as the cloud banks mixed in the heavens. It felt like rain, and I spent most of the day in my old SST jacket, though no drops fell, and no hatch appeared.

Though the day proved to be mostly a calm one, there were a few sprites of breeze seeming to come from nowhere, enough to brighten the water with the first yellow leaves. I fished hard, so much so that both my shoulder and elbow were barking this morning. A few small trout sampled my dry flies, but I enjoyed just a single chance at something more.

The Red Gods stirred one of those phantom zephyrs at just the moment I delivered my cast. The drifting leaf fragments competed with my fly for attention, and my eyes fooled me into believing the cast had fallen short. I was straining to discern the fly’s location when a pop tight to the bank surprised me. That microsecond of indecision wrecked my timing, and I snatched the rod away, touching nothing. The streak on the surface proved my fly had been where I had intended, and that resounding pop had been my day’s chance for glory.

Such fish do not come back for another bite. There are no replays in this game. I tried a few more casts, changed the fly and tried even more, all the while knowing there would be no take. Honor requires the effort be made regardless.

A cooling trend begins today, with significant rainfall overnight. I hope the rivers get a good draught, for they have returned to those low, clear and warm conditions which limit fishing opportunities. It is not a bad thing if late summer looks and acts more like autumn.

I am ready to see the dark Isonychia mayflies drifting upon the surface of the Delaware, her rainbows picking them off in the riffles, the bright little Hebes hidden in the afternoon glare until vanishing in the tiniest sips imaginable. I am ready to bask in the golden sunlight cast upon the rivers at this time of year.

Sometimes it pays to turn the tables a little. Keeping to regular habits will give the trout an opportunity to pattern an angler and his approach, particularly the older, wiser and larger members of the fraternity we prefer to encounter. I have been convinced of that fact on various occasions.

The hiatus proclaimed by Hurricane Debby’s floodwaters ended a fairly long run of dawn patrol fishing for me. As the fishing has begun to improve, I have more or less been keeping more of a spring schedule, starting in mid-morning and fishing on into late afternoon. Initially, that was dictated by colored water, figuring the best chance for dry fly fishing would come once the sunlight was strong enough to provide better fly visibility for the trout.

I tried a relatively neglected reach of river yesterday morning, one I usually reserve for afternoons. This area receives a lot of angler pressure, and I enjoyed the chance to catch it unoccupied. In full sunlight, any reach of river can appear intimidating, and this one was fully bathed in sunlight when I arrived. I know a few good lies in this pool, and there was still a narrow band of shade clinging to life along a couple of interesting places. There was no question in my mind where I was going to concentrate my efforts.

Funny how things happen sometimes, but the first little patch of shade I cast my Baby Hopper into produced a strike and a hard fighting fourteen-inch brownie. That reinforced my fly choice and my strategy. My little bands of shade were vanishing quickly, so I kept moving. A couple of lies with great memories were next in line.

One of those spots has a puzzling history. The first spring and summer of my retirement, this lie was an afternoon gold mine. I tangled with a lot of big brown trout that called this place home. The second year it wasn’t nearly as productive, though I did log a couple of bruisers there, but I haven’t caught a trout there since.

I fished that lie thoroughly, always hopeful that another outsize trout will take up residence, but my hope was once more in vain. The shade was really dwindling now, and I had one more shot before the last of this shelter vanished into midday.

By the time I acquired a casting position, my final band of shade was less than one foot wide. The hopper glided out and landed right on the edge of light and shadow. It drifted slowly past untaken. Successive casts dissected that shade line from the edge all the way back to the bank itself. It seemed that no one was home.

I noticed that flood waters had formed a little subtle pocket downstream another forty feet, so I waded gently past my “last” target area and probed the dappled sunlit pocket carefully. I had made two or three unrewarded casts there when I saw a tiny little spit of water to my left, just on the edge of light and shade at the downstream end of the previous lie. Quickly shortening the line, I let the Queen do her thing and placed the Baby Hopper two inches back into that retreating shade line. The fly drifted a few inches before it was consumed in a chomp!

I still had more line out than I wanted, so I was stripping madly as a very pissed off brownie charged out into the sunlight headed for mid-river. There were loops of line flying as I stripped, gave line to his runs, then stripped again, somehow managing to keep free of tangles. Eventually, I got him on the reel. Distinct from the Hardy’s I so often fish, the Abel TR2 emits its own sweet music when spun by a running trophy brown!

Big, angry, electric golden and bronze, my sneaky shade trout wasn’t too happy in the net, though he shook off his mood when I slipped him back into the cool flow of the pool. I swear he glanced back over his shoulder and glared at me as he drifted back toward home.

I wrote several days ago about ignoring tiny little rises and disturbances in the river. When do I pay attention to them? When they are close to a proven lie!

At last, the legacy of this summer’s flood has passed. Signs remain, but the rivers have cleared, and life seems ready to get back to normal.

It has been a difficult month. Deprived of the solace of my trout hunting ways, the days seemed endless and without purpose at times. Like any angler, I have endured dry spells before. Nature weaves her magic, and the results are not always to the angler’s liking. It is part of the game, the extreme challenge of the sporting life. This time, there was a growing sense of loss…

I had a plan yesterday morning. My old friend Matt Supinski was to join me for a day’s fishing. An unexpected visit from family changed his plans for him, so I headed out earlier after receiving his call. The plan had been to continue the search for the hunters I spar with during my Catskill summers, to find where the changes wrought by Debby had sent them. I stuck with that plan and embarked upon a long day in the bright Catskill sunshine.

I was carrying my Sweetgrass Pent, eight lithe feet of golden bamboo designed for me by friend Jerry Kustich, and I had decided to try a different fly line with the rod. I mounted a 3″ Hardy St. George bearing one of Wulff’s Bamboo Special number four fly lines. Jerry had designed this taper for a traditional double taper fly line, and the long belly Wulff fishes much like a classic DT, though it has the advantage of a fine running line which adds easy distance capability to the cast.

It was a beautiful summer mid-morning, the mist already burned away when I entered the river. I was hopeful that the clear, low flow wasn’t the only thing that had returned to normal. I was late for prime hunting I knew, but I welcomed the challenge with a bright outlook.

I had been diligently searching for an hour and a half, when I saw what I was looking for. A subtle quiver in the surface, the kind of thing the average fly fisher dismisses as nothing, if he notices it at all. Subtleties tell the tale for the hunter.

The Sweetgrass and Wulff combination let me reach each subtle drift line with grace from more than fifty feet away, as I worked through my target area. When he came for the fly at last, there was no discernable riseform, just the barest ripple as he turned toward the fly. I paused, struck, then struck again as he tore away from me!

My adversary put everything he had into his escape, and I countered very run, every move, as he sought to break me as he dashed through the cover. I brough him close twice, but he turned and burned to put distance between us and target another snag to rid himself of my fly.

At the end he was tired, as the smooth arch of cane eased him within range of my net. The exhilaration I felt made it clear I had emerged from the long darkness of flood waters and barren riverscapes. Twenty-five inches of vibrant color and life thrashed in the net as I carefully removed the fly and snapped a quick photo before returning him to the cold, clear embrace of the current, at least six pounds, I thought.

As evening flirted with the mountain sunlight, I walked slowly toward the last riverbank. The day had been long, rewarding, and shall remain in memory amid the perfection of a Catskill Summer.