Yesterday was a lovely day to be outside, with a fine dose of warm sunshine and gentle breezes. Piloting the mower rather than the drift boat my heart craved, I contented myself with the simple accomplishment of necessary chores. While there are some who will run the West Branch during flows in excess of 4,000 cfs, I am not one of them.

All of our rivers are wild and rough again today, so this day, expected to dawn as lovely as yesterday, will doubtless be another chore day for me.

I recognize the safety concerns of high river flows, and I respect even the milder rivers like the West Branch, refusing to overestimate my own prowess as an oarsman. Once flows rise much above 3,000 cfs, I have found little chance of dry fly fishing. Trout seek protected pockets along the riverbanks if they are drawn to the idea of surface feeding, and the more flow the fewer pockets that remain the calm collectors of insects such fish crave.

Our forecast calls for another three quarters of an inch of rainfall over the next three days, with most of it coming down tomorrow. The Delaware reservoirs are higher and spilling from April’s rain that has already been more than twice the historic average. I cannot even estimate when I might see floatable flows on the West, much less wadable ones.

My prayer is simple; that the rivers welcome me at the same time they welcome the Hendricksons!

Dodging much of the rain forecast this week, I managed four afternoons on the water. Yesterday seemed as if it would be the one to open Nature’s coffers and provide sustenance to the soul of this long-suffering dry fly angler. It was not meant to be.

My freshly re-treated rain jacket stayed dry yesterday, but the faithful bamboo fly rod was used for nothing more than a few practice casts. No flies hatched, no trout rose, and during the night all of that rain found the watershed of the Beaver Kill. She has risen nearly two feet since four o’clock yesterday, and the graphs of discharge and gage height are vertical lines. I expect all those dozens of Quill Gordons tied over the winter will be put to rest until next year. There’s even a bit of snow in tomorrow’s forecast. Such is life on the river.

And still, I have fared much better than one of my friends. Mike Canonico called me yesterday to relate his fishing on a mountain stream. It was not a tale of solitude and bliss, of bright trout rising to his dry flies. Instead, his was a tale about the dark side of solitude.

Mike related a sudden and serious injury, alone on a reach of water. His cell phone was useless, he was in pain and unable to walk out. Crawling back to the nearest road is not what this angler had in mind when he set out for a day of fishing, but grim determination saved him. He’s okay now, though facing surgery and a long rehab which will cost him the majority of his fishing season, and his tale will make us all stop and think before venturing off in the mountains alone. Heal up my friend, and I’ll save you a seat in the boat when you’re up to it.

Wednesday, April 10th: A chilly rain is falling, and the mist wraiths surround me on this quiet little pool. The past two warm, lovely, sunlit days left me waiting and wanting for some actual fishing, and it was hard to come out today and muster hope for something more. I find I have less of my old willingness to suffer the weather in pursuit of trout.

We have all read those epic tales, blizzard hatches in snowstorms, trout feeding madly in pouring rain and sleet, but have we lived them? There are too many uncomfortable days spent upon rivers to count in my memory, yet I find it a truly difficult task to recall the few that offered even mediocre fishing. Perhaps all of those scribes had suffered alone and wished for companionship in the afterlife; or they simply felt that all of their readers should suffer the defeats of cold, wind and rain to better appreciate the sunny days.

I was warm enough when I settled into my seat on the riverbank, my old rain jacket zipped up to my neck. My arrival was punctuated by a burst of heavier rainfall, a gift of the Red Gods deigned to shake what little resolve I had. There was no appreciable wind, and for that I was thankful.

I had dented the soft soil and brown grass for more than an hour when I saw the rise, rising myself to work down to what I prayed would be a casting position. I had knotted the new A.I. Quill Gordon, thinking the buggy, disheveled dubbed body appropriate for a mayfly struggling to emerge in unfriendly spring conditions.

Once in reasonable range I settled my feet and resumed a patient vigil. The rain moderated, then intensified and moderated again, and at last the rise was repeated. It seems the season’s first fish was moving, for I saw some motion in the current as my fly floated beyond the target, a look as drag ensued. Watching, he slid about the fast current of the flat, rising twice more in different locations, then the rain increased once more. Chess, in a chilly spring rain!

When the droplets paused again, I was ready. He rose, I cast and he took the fly, leaving me wondering in which pocket I had stashed my sense of timing. Dulled by five and a half months of winter, I had missed him cleanly.

It would be half an hour before I caught a disturbance in the surface again. Sure enough, my missed fish had discovered another mayfly. This time I was sure I had him, but just as the electricity started up the line and into the rod it was gone. Timing too late perhaps? I know only that the hook pulled free.

The flies were sparse, as they had been on those preceding gorgeous days, coming for less than an hour. It was nearly done, though each time I thought to depart a straggler would appear, and I waited there as the cold worked it’s way into me. I saw one dance down toward an obstruction and vanish in the gentlest sipping rise, sent my fly to follow it’s path to no avail.

My traveler was finished then, and no more would he crease the flow and entice me. When the rain picked up once more, I turned. Though thoroughly chilled now, I felt that faint tingle of excitement, a hint of the old magic winking at me through the rain. Well, the season has begun…

It was good to spend an afternoon on the river.

I enjoyed a little warmth, the sight of a sparse handful of mayflies of different varieties, and I even made a few casts, just to get those muscles reintroduced to the feeling of presentation. I was hopeful, more so until I checked the water temperature just after Noon, and relished the moment. Of course, once my thermometer registered only 42 degrees, I let my expectations recede a bit.

It is ten degrees warmer this morning than yesterday, and the high is forecast to reach 74 degrees. I hope this day will amount to more than another tease, for nearly two inches of rain are expected over the next five days of falling temperatures. This is spring in the Catskills, and it seems each year unveils a different scenario.

A case in point concerns last April. The tenth was my zero hour and it blossomed into a sunny day in the sixties. Though flies and rising trout were sparse, the three brownies I found feeding at the surface were duped by my offerings and put an arch in the Leonard. Good fish they were too, seventeen to nineteen inches, and I can picture each of their lies and the cast that seduced them still! Of course, it would not be April without Mother Nature’s mysteries. The week warmed daily until Friday afternoon flirted with ninety degrees. The sun shone, the winds blew, and there were neither hatches nor risers throughout.

Logic would lead one to expect continued good fishing with air and water warming daily, but it wasn’t in Nature’s deck of cards. Hatches and the fishing awakened once the afternoons cooled down to more springlike temperatures, though there were still fits and starts. Ah yes, April!

What devilment will the Red Gods bring today?

My countdown is complete, and I am more than ready for the first rise, that first arch of the rod and whirr of the reel that tells me in a tactile sense that it is spring.

Yes, I am ready, though it appears that the river is not. The Beaver Kill rose once more overnight, telling me there is still enough of that late snow among the high ridges of it’s watershed which melts in the afternoon sun and journeys downstream to the reaches stalked by eager anglers such as I. The water temperature is cold by trout fishing standards, though it did not drop as low as the air temperature. Six AM, and it is twenty-seven degrees here in Crooked Eddy.

The Wheatley fly boxes are filled to overflowing, nestled in vest pockets dutifully protected for deep wading, and all of my gear is waiting in the car. The celebratory box carries something new, a handful of A.I. soft hackled wets to match the Quill Gordons. I have waited all of these months for the dry fly, but high cold water makes the chance of a rise less likely. Rather than standing motionless in the chill of the river for hours, a bit of movement and a swing of the wet fly might increase my patience. Epeorous mayflies emerge at the bottom of the river after all, the winged duns rising through the currents to their chance to fly at the surface. Typically, the chance of enough mayflies to bring a trout to the surface is rare on first days, no matter who’s calendar one follows.

It seems the country is aflutter as concerns the eclipse, and when and where afternoon clouds might obscure it. I am an angler and would prefer the sun remain strong to warm the river closer toward that magic fifty-degree mark. My chief concern regarding the eclipse is a casual wondering if the unexpected low light might stimulate a wary brown to rise. Should leviathan take my dry fly, leap, and obscure the sun, that would be a celestial event!

There is color in the eastern sky now, as the sun ascends above the ridgeline of the sheltering mountains. Hancock sits in a little pocket, with ridges to the West, North and East and the great Delaware to the South. I can hear birdsong as the morning advances.

My porch is situated to watch the sun’s descent, to enjoy the orange and red of sunsets. Were I a rich man, I suppose I would have a second porch with an eastern view to watch the day begin. I’d enclose that one and set my fly-tying bench there. I often tie flies as the morning light rises, flies for the day’s fishing. They are good luck!

Perhaps I will tie one fly when I close this post, a single Gordon’s Quill to knot to that first tippet and cast with that first inspiration of hope for the new season. It all lies there before us!

Dodging the biting wind laced with snowflakes, I ducked inside the Roscoe gymnasium yesterday morning to join another early spring tradition, the Catskill Cane Revival. This year’s event was dedicated to the late Mike Canazon who had been the driving force behind it.

This is quite simply an informal gathering of rodmakers, bamboo fly rod fishers and enthusiasts and those interested in learning something about the beautiful implements born of a split and glued Chinese grass that is the fountainhead of Catskill fly fishing. American rod making reached a zenith nearby with the Payne and Leonard rod companies and spread across the country.

There are still a few superb professional rodmakers in this region, though time gradually thins their ranks. There are also many amateurs working upon their craft for the love of it, some of whom may one day become the next generation of professionals.

Hancock’s Dennis Menscer is one of the top professionals keeping the Catskill rodmaking tradition alive. In his rod shop beside the West Branch Delaware, Dennis creates beautiful, remarkable rods that have been fished all over the world, rods like the gorgeous eight-foot three weight he handed me in early February. I had the chance to cast his seven-foot wand for a number three line yesterday, and found it to be another gem, particularly for smaller waters where shorter rods shine. Like my eight-footer though, it will allow long casts with finesse and easy grace.

Another attendee brought an interesting rod to share, a Fario Club model from Pezon et Michel. A “true parabolic” action, I found the rod to be powerful while offering easy control. Many anglers describe parabolics as difficult, but I found this classic to be invariably friendly.

I particularly enjoyed the chance to cast a rod that is not often encountered. Jed Dempsey was featured in the wonderful film Chasing the Taper as a Catskill Museum trustee, though without mention of his considerable skill and talents as a rodmaker. His resume includes time working at the legendary E.F. Payne Rod Company. Dempsey’s seven-foot four weight was beautifully executed in design, fit and finish, casting smoothly and accurately to any required distance, a rod I would love to add to my collection. Jed is a close friend of Dennis Menscer, who deserves thanks for bringing the rod to our gathering and giving all of us a chance to enjoy the work of a quiet master of the craft.

In keeping with the spirit of the day, I even planed a little bamboo myself, trying a bit of rough planing on one of the strips that will be glued, bound and finished into my friend John Apgar’s next rod. John began with the Catskill Museum class a few years ago and produced a first rod that was truly remarkable, impressing enthusiasts and experienced makers alike.

Were it not for arthritis, I would be sorely tempted to attend a class myself. I take comfort in the fact that I dedicate my time to fishing the wonderful creations of a number of masters of the art of rodmaking!

April fourth, spring, and it is 32 degrees here in Crooked Eddy. Our landscapes and riverscapes were freshened by spring overnight, and gleam white as the sun strives to illuminate them through the clouds. The rains have raised all of our rivers and thoughts of fishing are far away. This is Day Four of my countdown, and I am reeling from the Red Gods’ Revenge.

I fought back yesterday, as the rain continued to wash away my hope, tying half a dozen CDC cripples to match the Quill Gordons and Hendricksons that torture my dreams. My punishment is white!

One hundred sixty days have passed since I last cast a dry fly to a rising trout.

I just tossed my hat into the ring to join the gathering of fly tyers at the Catskill Fly Tyer’s Guild Rendevous on April 20th. This once annual event was missed last year, and I am pleased to see the tradition honored again. The event is open to all fly tyers. Many of our Guild tyers will be on hand to demonstrate and share all manner of Catskill flies, from the original classics to our own modern styles and interpretations of mayflies, caddisflies and all manner of trout food.

Adding to my stock of emergers and cripples comes as I ponder the high, cold water I expect to encounter when the weather does allow me to begin my seasonal hunt. Trout are less energetic when the bright waters only flirt with that magic fifty-degree mark, and there are times when a vulnerable cripple drifting in back-eddied currents can be the difference between endless waiting and watching and actually experiencing the thrill of throbbing, arching cane.

I tie the CDC wings a little heavier at this time, as the flies will have to struggle to remain afloat in faster currents. My wings are just a notch taller as well, to retain the fly’s visibility while bouncing along with their bodies beneath the film. They can be tied more sparsely in summer’s low flow and heightened clarity.

There is no baseball today to take my thoughts away from the waiting, so while the snow melts I may as well tie a few more flies. The Struggle Dun idea seems well suited to the conditions I will encounter once the Red Gods release their hold, so perhaps a few with an extra heavy CDC wing…

So here we go, down to the last few days of the dry fly angler’s purgatory, or maybe the next to the last week, or…

I awakened to rainfall, and I soon discovered that the Red Gods had invited the forecasters to throw their science to the winds of fate once more. An inch and a half of rain in 36 hours is the current prediction, followed by a chance at two to six inches of snow as we work our way to the weekend. Yes sir, an early spring to be sure!

Dennis Menscer called me yesterday after a drive to Roscoe and back. He told me he counted fishermen in the Beaver Kill all the way from Roscoe to the stacked roadways. I had thought of giving it a try until I heard his report, confident that the cloudy day wasn’t going to boost the water temperature enough to matter. It was good in some way to hear that there were still enough of the faithful out to celebrate the tradition of Opening Day, and the sun did finally make an appearance; just before it set below the mountains to our west.

I had spent the morning sitting across from my cardiologist telling me that my recent passing chest pains carried no concerns for my heart, and that he was retiring this year and going fishing himself. I should have asked him if any of the other doctors in his group were fly fishermen. I have a tradition of my own to keep up.

I have always liked for my doctors to share the passion to some extent, if for no other reason than to allow me to feel they understand what my lifestyle and passion demands. You’ve gotta keep me wading and casting guys, that is a given.

The rain was kind enough to pause for me to go out and hook up the drift boat this morning, as I had to take it for the annual trailer inspection. The ways things are looking, I am going to get more use out of it this year.

Though it doesn’t look like a good weekend for fishing, there is the late Mike Canazon’s Catskill Cane Revival gathering in Roscoe Saturday morning. Bamboo aficionados, whether seasoned veterans or curious newcomers, will get together to cast some rods, whetting our appetites for the season we must continue to so patiently await. In the past, this little event has allowed opportunities to cast rods by all manner of makers, including some classics. Dennis and I talked about the selection of rods he plans to bring along, and I suggested that his hollowbuilt 8-foot five weight simply had to be among them. That model is the quintessential Catskill fly rod in my book, capable of the performance to fish all of our rivers effectively. We will be casting in the Roscoe Central School’s gymnasium from nine until Noon. The address is 6 Academy Street, Roscoe, NY.

Despite the weather, something keeps tugging at me to tie a few flies. I have thousands by now, perhaps tens of thousands. I know there are too many to count. There is one big storage box with older flies dating from my first efforts as a fly tyer. They haven’t been fished in decades of course, not since my skills improved and I wandered into the fascination of fly design. There was a brief period when I tied patterns out of books, sometimes substituting materials for those I didn’t have and perhaps failed to find at the little fly shops I frequented. We all more or less start out that way.

It did not take long for me to start picking up bugs from the streams I fished and noticing that having the perfect color dubbing and hackle for a sulfur pattern in this or that fly tying book did not necessarily lead to my flies matching those bugs. The wonder of Nature and all of her variety of life taught me from the beginning to use my eyes and mingle the furs and feathers in my growing store of fly-tying materials to get closer to what I saw when I plucked a freshly hatched mayfly from the surface of Gunpowder Falls or the Yellow Breeches.

As a student of flyfishing history, there are times that I want to replicate a classic fly pattern, to tie it exactly like the famous dead guy that created it a century or more ago. There is a satisfaction in learning where we came from as anglers, as well as a little special rush when a good trout takes a classic Catskill dry fly and reaches for the sky. It is a bit sad that, with the fantastic growth of our best loved sport, fewer people are even aware of it’s beginnings, and the accomplishments of the generations of anglers who came before them.

Even when I design a “new” fly for my own fishing, I pay homage to the past, and I look to those pioneers of angling for inspiration. It is often said that there is nothing new in fly tying, and there is great truth in that. Though any of us can have an original idea and follow through with it, the chances always favor the fact that someone else has had that same thought and put thread to hook to see what they could do with it.

Appreciating the history of flyfishing is what led me here to the Catskills, and I am fortunate to honor that history every time I cast a fly with a bamboo fly rod or hear the ringing song of a trout spinning the arbor of a classic spring and pawl reel! Honoring and appreciating that history is a large part of the passion for me.

My countdown may be winding into it’s final week, but it truly looks like a long one. Time to sit back and watch the forecasters scrambling to predict the angler’s fate…

After another concerning brush with mortality two days ago, I am contemplating that as I watch things continue to change on the weather front. Its a lot like watching an action movie. Since yesterday afternoon, they have spread out the rainfall a little, taken one of the three snow days out of the picture while adding some accumulation to one of those remaining, and trimmed five degrees off the high temperature that still hinted at a little promise for day zero.

The three Delaware reservoirs continue to spill. They have gained volume over the past day or two, and there’s another three quarters of an inch of rainfall on the way before that snow blows on into town. The Beaver Kill has reached a wading flow, though the water temperatures have not recovered to that verge of magic reading that teased me two weeks ago. Everything looks ready to change, and not for the better.

Instead of getting a few early days on the river this week, I’ll be sitting down with the cardiologist while trying not to dwell on the slow start to the fishing that is looming as April begins. Come on Red Gods, give us a break!

Pardon my indulgence. I had to step away and bask in the glow of some brighter April moments: the anticipation of that soft, bankside bulge amid the drifting mayflies, the full, glorious arch of vintage bamboo amid the crescendo of notes played by an English reel!

I look to memories to soothe my mind…

There are less than two weeks to go before my annual target date to begin my dry fly season arrives, and the Red Gods seem to have hit the rewind button once more. Rivers are high and un-wadable, their waters wintry cold, reservoirs are spilling again, and tomorrow is slated to bring day long rainfall – another chapter in the early spring that wasn’t.

I uncovered the drift boat yesterday, and today I’ll wash it and check the bunks, rollers, lights and tires to be certain its ready for the road. Fly boxes are about to be loaded into my vest, along with any new leaders, tippet or sundries required, but God I need to go fishing!

I just read a Blue Mountain TU newsletter post, courtesy of my friend Ed Ostapczuk, telling me that February was the warmest ever recorded in the United States. I managed maybe three visits to bright water, courtesy of the bronchitis that stole my opportunities. Just two weeks ago it seemed that everything was about to explode a month early, and I drank the Kool-Aid!

Dangling my thermometer in the river I read a temperature of 48 degrees, watched the first Quill Gordons riding the sun warmed air currents, and tightened my grip on the cork. Since then, rain, snow, wind and freezing temperatures have brought us back to winter. Yes, once more I let the Red Gods get the better of me. How many of my fellow anglers made that same mistake?

As with any and every spring, it will come when it is ready. If the good days come in fits and starts, so be it! I am alive and waiting for that first rise to the dry fly!