Another season has come to a close and my mind recalls the memories made upon bright water. A look through the logbook I keep details the fishing, the flies tied and those new patterns and variations designed throughout the season. Moments shine as I read through those entries.

Each season has two beginnings, for I do wander the rivers on a handful of days each winter, with the beginning of dry fly season being the day most celebrated. Thus, this season began on the seventh of February, swinging a new winter pattern – the Dazed Dace, on the West Branch Delaware. The winter release had been lowered rather drastically, and I had to maintain concentration as the fly bounced off the rocks that stirred the skinny water of the run.

Cold water takes on a slowly swung fly are generally just another of those little bumps. Bouncing over a submerged limb, I felt that wonderful rubbery feeling as the loop of slack line between stripping guide and reel slipped from my fingers and raised the cane rod smoothly, pulling tight into a substantial fish. The old warrior fought well, heavy and darkly bronzed in winter’s cold, gray light, he measured twenty inches even in the net, inaugurating my season perfectly!

I began my riverbank vigil for that second season opener in the 62-degree sunshine of late March, finally finding it precisely at the end of my annual 100-day countdown on the tenth of April. The Beaver Kill surrendered a nineteen-inch brown and a pair just a bit smaller to my Leonard and Quill Gordon fly for a classic opening day of Catskill dry fly fishing.

In terms of the final tally of trophy sized trout taken, the 2023 season was very close to my average success over five full-time Catskill seasons, though it proved to be above average in one sense. Five remarkable trout were landed on the dry fly that measured a minimum of twenty-four inches long, the best a twenty-six inch brute that stands as my largest Catskill trout to be taken on a surface fly. Wild brown trout of such proportions are truly magnificent creatures, and I am blessed to have enjoyed their strength and spirit through the arch of my rod! Most of these fish were taken on classic tackle, and that makes their memories even more priceless to me.

There is truly no music so sweet as the wailing solo of a vintage Hardy reel when a wild, trophy trout dashes away from the arc of split bamboo!

Now my attention turns to late autumn in the mountains: a search for Ruffed Grouse and some precious hours chasing whitetails with a great friend. My winter pattern of fly design and tying has already begun, working to incorporate the impressionistic concepts of the late John Atherton into my own dry fly designs.

There are long months between seasons, days upon days I will while away at the vise or spend polishing flamed bamboo with loving hands. Throughout this time, memories will flood my consciousness and bring a smile to my winter-worn face, for such is part of the celebration of a life outdoors.

I have been moving on with my thoughts of expanding my “A.I.” or Atherton Inspired dubbing blends and flies, looking to take advantage of the multi-toned, sparkling and buggy combinations created to represent individual species of mayflies. Yesterday, I mixed a dubbing blend for an A.I. March Brown, and today another for the Blue Quills or Paraleptophlebia adoptiva.

I have recounted the success this past spring fishing the first such pattern, the one dubbed the A.I. Hendrickson. There are simply times when a buggy, more impressionistic fly gets better responses from the trout. Whether it is something to do with light intensity or penetration, or insect behavior on a given day, I will never know. The results were impressive enough that I will give the recently created Isonychia, March Brown and Blue Quill versions significant time on the water come spring 2024.

My best guess is that a buggy, bubble encrusted fly body may visually suggest a struggling, emerging mayfly, an easy target for a trout feeding efficiently on a hatch. Going back to English writings from a century ago, I have seen that theory applied to the classic Hare’s ear flies, both dries and wets. I think those gents were onto something!

To date, I have used the A.I. blends to tie some of my 100-Year Duns. Trout have taken them hard on many occasions, furthering my belief in the struggling mayfly idea. The next step in the process will be to tie a few CDC duns in A.I. garb to see what our Catskill browns will think of them. If they take the buggy, muti-toned blends as struggling emergers, the addition of a CDC wing’s movement ought to excite them even further.

I am working my way through the withdrawal that challenges each autumn, taking small steps toward some kind of normalcy. I began the long overdue process of reorganizing my tying room for winter yesterday, by getting rid of some of the accumulated non-fishing materials. There is a lot more work to do.

I sorted through some of my hooks, hoping to order a substantial re-stock of the Sprite dry fly hooks I have used over the past few years. It seems my only choice is to place an international order and the shipping aspect makes it less than feasible.

I have been thinking ahead, intrigued by the success of the A.I. flies I tied and fished this season, I am planning to expand the idea into a series of patterns for several hatches. My Translucence Series will get some adjustments as well, including some refinements to a few of the silk dubbing blends. Experimenting with trout flies is always a big part of my winter sustenance for the soul.

This was my second season tying and fishing the smallest 100-Year Duns, sizes 16, 18 and 20. The design has proven itself to be highly effective in taking selective trout, in fact one of the most impressive tests came during the peak of the Hendrickson hatch. There was one fish sipping in a nearly impossible lie that wouldn’t look at a Hendrickson. I calmed my enthusiasm enough to take note of the fact that I had not seen that trout take a live Hendrickson, despite their predominating numbers. There had been a couple of brief appearances of blue winged olives during the day, so I offered that trout a size 18 100-Year Dun and landed the best brown of the spring!

Ah experiments! What to do this winter: a size 22 100-Year Dun? No, I think 20 is the practical limit for a wood duck feather wing. Perhaps a minuscule Century Dun? There is no telling what the Winter madness might spawn!

I took my first riverwalk of the season just now, the same path I tread throughout the winter. It is a bright afternoon, clear blue skies above and a chill to the air. I had toyed with the idea of driving out to the river to swing a few flies for an hour or two, to make the most of the 55-degree sunshine, but the passion simply isn’t there. The end of the dry fly season feels hopeless and uninspired when I finally must accept that the end has truly come.

Transitions can be difficult for those impassioned by bright water. Life has been bright and vivid for seven months, always with a new challenge, some new source of excitement, and then, suddenly, the light of bright water goes out for a time. I know it will not last, that acceptance of the change will come after some time upon the mountainsides, but now the loss burns deeply.

I walked slowly through the high forest yesterday morning, as the first snowflakes of the year wafted between the trees. I found no birds, though I worked all the best covers.

Come early afternoon I took a drive along the river, from Roscoe down to East Branch. The miles of the Beaver Kill were empty, flowing strong as more of those little snow squalls punctuated the cold. November first, and the Catskills have become a different world than a short week ago.

Last Thursday I searched those river miles for rising trout on a seventy-five-degree afternoon, and now snow squalls. It is twenty-eight degrees this morning, here in Crooked Eddy.

There is truth in the statement that there are but two seasons in these mountains: dry fly season, and winter. Deep in my heart I know that dry fly season is always summer. Though I may find myself buried in layers of fleece and down on a windy April afternoon, the cane flyrod in my hand and the Quill Gordon it casts fly on a breath of summer breeze!

Talking in the rod shop with friend Dennis Menscer last weekend, he told me we are in for a long, very cold Catskill winter. He sees it in the sky, the birds and trees. I am not one to doubt his senses as a veteran of more than two decades residing there along the banks of the West Branch, though I secretly hope that Old Man Winter grants us respite. Sadly, I do recall the Weather Channel talking of El Nino and artic blasts for the entire Northeast.

I am looking forward to Saturday’s Catskill Roundtable. Today I will gather materials for my travel bag once deciding which flies I wish to tie. It will be good to join my friends in the Guild once more before the long months of solitude. We will not meet again until February’s end and Fly Fest ’24.

Ah, yes, Fly Fest seems so very far away right now. I will be well into my 100 day countdown until the dawning of a new dry fly season! All of the tyers gathered will be flush with the excitement of a new season on the doorstep. Last year we tied blissfully as the snow fell outside the Rockland House. That storm didn’t quell our enthusiasm for spring!

I learned a short time ago of the passing of Joe McLaughlin, fly fisher, of Balls Eddy, Pennsylvania.

I met Joe by chance one evening at the Troutskellar bar at West Branch Angler when he was talking bird hunting with Ben Sheard, the fly shop manager. Joe’s voice had a habit of carrying even in a crowded bar, and I took notice when he mentioned the name Dennis Labare. We talked once his conversation with Ben concluded, sharing our connection with a common friend. Joe knew Dennis from fishing the Catskills in the seventies, and I from working for the conservation of Chambersburg Pennsylvania’s Falling Spring Branch in the nineties.

We became fast friends moving on from that evening, and shared many a fine hour along these rivers that had such a strong hold on both of us. Joe was a fine dry fly angler and tyer.

Perhaps one thing common as we age is the fact that we become more convinced of our beliefs and opinions, and Joe and I both held strong to our own. Strong feelings led to an end to our close friendship and our times along the Catskill rivers. Our contacts during the past few years were few and brief, though personable. I saw him last during the summer, fishing the somewhat lackluster sulfur hatch on the upper West Branch. We exchanged a few words across the water as we passed, idle talk of the ins and outs of the season, and parted wishing each other good luck as I waded on downstream.

I learned just a few days ago that he was ill.

Like all men of common bond, we had our agreements and our differences. I chose to remember Joe for the good days, when friendship and the appreciation for wild trout and bright water created good memories. I wish him well as his spirit fishes on, around the bend.

Cold rain is falling here at Crooked Eddy, and another season has come to a close. These last days of October are already hitting November’s stride. The gray side of autumn envelopes us bit by bit. Sitting on my porch just three days ago, warmed by the bright sunshine, I gazed upon the colors of Point Mountain to the east. Sitting there yesterday, I noted with sadness that those colors were gone.

I began my winter season yesterday morning, keeping a promise to myself to blend some dubbing for a buggy, impressionistic dun pattern for the Quill Gordon, the latest of my Atherton Inspired concepts. I found a small piece of gray squirrel dyed with bright yellow, a decades old gift from my friend JA, and blended it with beaver’s mask, yellow Antron and angora goat. It looks interesting, though it will be many months before I will cast that first 100-Year Dun to a rising trout. Winter revolves around fly tying and reading here, once deer season has come and gone. The accumulations of snow and ice control that, for icy mountains are no place for an older gentleman hunting alone.

Next weekend the Fly Tyers Guild will gather at the Catskill Museum’s Wulff Gallery for our autumn Roundtable. I will be tying there with many gifted artisans of the trout fly. Our tyers and historians will share the history of the Catskill school of fly tying, answer questions and demonstrate techniques and materials for visitors. Stop by if you are in the area, eleven in the morning until four in the afternoon on Saturday, November fourth.

Our Catskill weather has turned markedly this weekend. I sat in Dennis Menscer’s rod shop yesterday morning watching the sun sparkling on the river under a gorgeous blue sky through the open door. By Noon, when I stepped outside to go, we were engulfed in a swarm of storm clouds with the bite of a crisp wind shedding the trees of their leaves. The week ahead features forty-degree days, reinforcing seasons end with falling river temperatures. When the sun returns mid-week, I’ll carry walnut and blued steel as opposed to bamboo and nickel silver.

It has been another challenging and interesting season upon the rivers of my heart, and many new memories have been forged. I haunted these bright waters for one hundred and eleven days with the dry fly, loving every moment whether in victory or defeat. Simply beautiful!

Friday morning, and I have just finished tying the last dry flies of the day for this season. There has always been some luck infused with these, for many times the best trout of the day has fallen to a fly I had tied that morning, an act of faith and inspiration before heading out to the river.

We have come to the last days of October, one last triumph of warmth and sunshine before the onset of winter, and I will go forth and try my best to make it memorable.

I made that same attempt yesterday, and found a little hope attached to the flies tied that morning. I was walking slowly up the river’s edge when I noticed the faintest little ring in a slick along the far bank. As today’s, yesterday’s morning flies were tan caddis, an old favorite of mine dubbed the CDX. I checked the tippet and knotted one securely, then eased out into the sparklingly clear October flow.

There was a wide span of fast, broken water between me and that faint little ring, water I was not going to blindly wade through without fishing. Such places are far too likely to dismiss when lying between the angler and the rise.

I prospected above and across from my position, gradually extending my line, and then began some casts downstream. On one of these, the fly passed over the center of a large, flat boulder and the fly vanished softly. I paused and raised the old Orvis bamboo and met the kind of heavy resistance I had been searching for throughout this last month. The trout was big indeed, and he had me at a disadvantage down there in the hole below that boulder. I kept tension, hoping that the give in the tip of the old rod would keep my prize, though this wasn’t an encounter I was going to win. The fish refused to run; I mean, would you give away your advantage with flight? There was a pop, and he was gone. I hope he enjoyed my caddis.

It turns out there were three trout over in that slick when I began to fish it, but they were skittish and my drifts were, compromised. Too much velocity in the current between us, and a river bottom unfriendly for wading helped me fall victim to impatience, and I missed two fish with a load of slack between us. I claimed a small victory with the last one after a twenty-minute wait.

And so, this morning found me tying three more of those little tan caddisflies, preparing to walk that reach of river for what I expect will be the last time until a new spring warms my heart come April. There were snowflake icons falling upon Wednesday’s forecast on the Weather Channel. It will be the first of November after all.

One last day of seventy-five-degree sunshine, one last day to cast a dry fly with a lithe and beautiful wisp of split bamboo, and one last act of hope that a certain large and smug old trout might come for breakfast once again…

It is Tuesday the 24th of October and thirty-five degrees here in Crooked Eddy. We are down to it now, the full realization and acceptance of the end of another dry fly season.

A week ago, I stopped to assess a pool I had never fished and found something much to my surprise. Wading in, I was greeted by the lone occupant, a friendly and courteous gentleman whose name was Angelo. Upon recognizing the cane fly rod and dry fly I carried, he unselfishly offered me his place in the middle of the run, telling me there were fish working out there in the current. I thanked him and told him I was inclined to fish downstream, and to please continue to enjoy his sport.

Wading down I looked to a seam where the bouncing current blended with a band of slower water approaching the far bank. I could see large rocks beneath the surface, good lies for hungry trout in such water, and here and there a little flash of bubbles as a trout rose to take a small blue-winged olive mayfly.

It was a dark day, heavy cloud cover providing the kind of light which, coupled with the fast water, makes small dry flies intriguingly difficult to find at the end of a longish cast. I knotted an autumn favorite, a size 20 olive comparadun winged with Trigger Point fibers. It is a bit of nothing that I can see, even in difficult conditions, and the trout have shown a preference for this simple little fly on many occasions.

I fished quite happily for perhaps an hour, hooking five trout and landing all but the first. Most were wild Delaware rainbows, not large but solid fish of a foot or more and full of vigor. On an afternoon when my hopes for finding any rising fish had sagged, they were a revelation.

Cold rain highlighted the weekend, and water temperatures have continued to fall. The tailwaters are stuck in the forties, and now the freestoners have reached that low ebb as well. I am not ready to concede the season, and look toward a weeklong warming trend that should have us enjoying seventy-degree sunshine one more time before winter’s iron hand takes control.

Hopefully some of those early spawners have returned to the pools and are eager to feed while a chance remains. Should there be a few more mayflies to tempt them to the surface, I may yet find a proper finale.

As the season draws to a close, I haunt familiar places. It has become somewhat of a late season ritual for me to spend a number of the season’s final hours at one I call simply the glides.

I traveled there yesterday, expecting not to find the game I wanted passionately. I nearly affixed the reel with the intermediate line to my rod, and sadly I did tie a new heavier tippet to my leader, tipped with a lightly weighted swinging fly.

There was sunlight on the water when I first waded into the river, and it was calm and beautiful as I made a few casts and swings upriver from the glides. The first rise was unmistakable, soft and gentle, though clearly not a leaf turning over in the current – one of autumn’s little teases for desperate dry fly anglers scanning the surface at a distance.

I was cutting and re-building the leader as I waded down the shallower part of the river, and smiled ruefully when the wind sprung suddenly to life obscuring the surface of the glides with a shower of leaves. It was to be expected that the Red Gods would punish me for my faithless beginning to this day. And so, thus my penance would begin…

I had waded close, struggling to knot a little olive to the wind whipped tippet, and waited for a time for the gusts to subside. As I studied the sinuous mirror of the glides, I knew there was still too much flow to make my task easy. The rise that had sparked my approach and the revisions to my terminal tackle was not repeated, though in a while I caught a glint of light from upstream. Sure enough, within a few minutes the barest tip of a trout’s nose creased the surface where one tiny olive mayfly had drifted.

I repositioned as carefully as the uneven bottom would allow and tried three casts before pausing. That rise too, would not be repeated.

The flies were very sparse and looked to be smaller than the size 20 dry that has become part of my autumn ritual here. With varying banks of clouds exchanging dominance of the sky with the sun, I was having a difficult time tracking the twenty. There was no decision here, as I was confident that my chest pack lacked anything smaller. In truth, I had sensed the theme of the day, knowing that the river’s flow was still too high for success on sippers in the glides.

Such water tends to be the most challenging I encounter in my pursuit of wild trout with the dry fly, for even at the perfect flow, the smooth appearance of the moving surface is a ruse. Microcurrents is the popular technical term for Nature’s primary obstacle to fishing the glides, but I prefer to think of this phenomenon as a unique bedevilment of the magical life within bright waters.

The perfectly placed dry fly, touched down with an ideal amount of slack in a supple tippet, will dance and spin within a foot of drift. No; to be honest an actual foot of drag free drift here is a blessed gift from the heavens on most days! But don’t insects dance and dart on such water? Certainly they do at times, but it is different.

The mental game reaches a high level when fishing the glides. There are three practical tactics that may be employed in the battle against wildly dancing flies. Adjusting casting position can improve one’s chances of a drag free drift, though the Red Gods have arranged the river bottom to complicate this extraordinarily. Casting adjustments to put more slack in the leader and tippet would seem a better choice, but more curves of tippet material require more surface space and are quickly defeated by the myriad swirls and upwellings of the glides’ currents, sometimes making the fly skate wildly away. The third tactic involves reducing the tippet size down to the dreaded 6X! The waters of the glides hold treasures, powerful finned and spotted treasures, and the Red Gods’ architecture includes many unique angular rocks and boulders. Six X requires the angler pin his hopes to luck alone!

Impossible water? At times it has been, yet that is why I am drawn there, why this has become a ritual.

The afternoon brought periods of wind and rain and the breathtaking glow of autumn sunlight, and yes, every quarter hour or so a trout would rise. Just once in most cases, though as fish move from lie to lie in this place it can be difficult to determine. The last and most fervent blow and rain shower even brought a little flurry of mayflies, and one last chance for this angler to vanquish the power of the Red Gods.

My nerves were too well frazzled by then I guess, for I drove my hurried third cast down into the water with a splat. The flies would quickly diminish after that, and the river grew quiet.