It is the sixteenth of October, and the last flies out of my vise were swinging flies. The reel sitting at my left hand this morning holds a just cleaned intermediate line and leader. Yes, I have little faith that I will find the usually reliable autumn hatch of olive mayflies and a rising trout or two, yet I will begin my search in a couple of hours despite these misgivings.

In the four previous seasons since my retirement, I have enjoyed a dry fly season lasting until the third or fourth week of October. My last opportunity for 2023 came on the fifth, with two missed fish sipping amid a scattering of tiny winged ants. I have witnessed nothing since that even the hope in my heart could guess to be a rise of trout.

I am not ready to retire the dry fly for the season, not in the least, but each day upon the river I am drawn closer to the conclusion that, for this year, the time has passed.

Here in the Catskills, the season’s finale is a hard reality, for try as I might, I have found no dry fly activity from late autumn through early spring. Thus, I cling to every moment as a season winds down. Five and a half months of winter await, and I will resist it until hope is extinguished!

We are nearing the middle of October and there is no escaping the fact that the dry fly season is waning once more.

I looked back at my log this morning in an attempt to register the events of this autumn’s fishing with last year’s, which seems so bright in memory. Yes, there were special days last October. Twenty twenty-three has been quiet by comparison.

On Wednesday, I spent the last hour at an old haunt, and the river teased me with images of an awakening. I committed Thursday to taking advantage of that activity, only to find those fish were ghosts. In one beautiful run, I finally accepted that no trout were coming to the dry fly. Before I walked out, I knotted a cinnamon bodied soft hackle to my tippet and swung it through that run.

There are times when you hope for a trout without really expecting one. I was caught hoping I guess, reacted a bit instead of calmly allowing the bump to become a pull. The rod grew heavy, alive and intense, but for only a moment. Long enough to realize I had something worthwhile, though not lasting enough to be truly enjoyed. Of course, my subsequent swings took on more purpose, but the moment was singular and had passed. There have been a number of those these past few weeks.

I have the task of making seasonal adjustments before me, and I must do a better job of making them. Time is short, but there may be a handful of those singular moments that are yet to be revealed. It is past time to make peace with the inevitable passing of another season, to calm my mind and concentrate on the beauty and wonder before me. That is the path to touching the magic again before the shadow of winter falls!

The rains came heavily to the east of Hancock, and I was rather stunned as I checked the river gages Sunday morning to find that the Beaver Kill had risen more than six feet! With thoughts of fishing washed away, and the heat of Indian Summer just a memory, I headed toward a favorite Catskill mountain this morning.

New York’s Ruffed grouse season opened on the first of October. I kept my eye on fishing during that first week though, and felt such a cold, crisp morning as this one was appropriate for a walk through the coverts. It didn’t take me long to learn I’d made the right decision.

I started into the first covert with my double gun at the ready. I had not gone ten yards in when a bird flushed to my right. He took a low, parallel course, angling away, and I swung and fired my first shell of the season. It was a tough shot, and as it happened, that grouse got a good laugh at my expense. At the report, three or four more birds flushed from the same corner that first one came from. I got the 101 to my shoulder after turning back, then swung as one bird rocketed through the cover, rather than out and away like his fellows. I’m surprised he didn’t catch his flight feathers in the ground vegetation as he skimmed the earth at full throttle. He didn’t catch any of the shot column from my second shell.

Moving on into the covert after a reload I worked it hard hoping for a re-flush. When that didn’t materialize, I worked out of the trees into the meadow the other birds had headed for. A trip down and back failed to turn up any of them, so back into the woodlot I went. I never found a trace of the single bird who had escaped my second shot.

Ruffs aren’t covey birds, so I was more than surprised to flush five of them out of the same location. Perhaps they were talking about the brand-new chill after the first truly cold night on the mountain. The morning low dipped into the thirties. In any case, I was lucky to find that many birds. Maybe this first morning is a good sign for the new season. I have never flushed that many grouse during a Catskill hunt.

Ruffed grouse populations have declined as much as eighty percent statewide. Usually, loss of habitat is the primary cause. The “Forever Wild” status of the Catskill Park has generally taken that part of the birds’ problem out of the equation, but finding birds is never easy, particularly for the solitary gunner. A good bird dog will turn up birds that will stick tight and let a lone hunter walk right by.

Hunter’s stories tell far more tales of grouse that avoided their shot strings, than found their way into their game bags. When they do flush, maybe one in a thousand will rise up toward a clear spot between the tree branches and offer a classic wing shot. The other nine hundred and ninety-nine will dodge between the branches and tree trunks, fly low in front of and behind alternate trees like the bunch that made my morning exciting, or flush behind you and head away on a zigzag course. Shot opportunities are usually brief if they happen at all. All things considered, Ruff offers the wingshooter the ultimate challenge!

The river won’t be wadable for a few days, so I have a couple more chilly morning ahead of me. Who knows, there is always a chance that that one thousandth bird will flush and give me one of those classic shots. Hope I can keep my head down and swing through when I find him!

It has been a beautiful week and a fitting farewell to a splendid Catskill summer. Autumn’s typical cooling trend was turned upside down as our afternoon temperatures soared, flirting with records. The sun warmed my shoulders pleasantly, without the overbearing effect of July.

I have stalked the rivers each day, filling myself with feelings of warmth and the happiness of days well spent to last through the approaching sleep of winter.

As gorgeous as this week has been, I could not tell you that the fishing matched it. As some might say, the fishing was splendid, it was the catching that left much to the angler’s imagination! Bright sun and low clear water do not a dry fly angler’s dreamscape make, but there seems to be something else at work.

Thinking back to last year, I recall the cast, the battle and the landing of my last dry fly trout of 2022. It was late in October and I found her rising subtly with a handful of olive mayflies on the water. She succumbed to the wiles of my 100-Year Dun in size 18, a quiet little fly with a dusky wing of widgeon and a body of olive muskrat fur. Removing the fly in the meshes of my net I noted her tail, worn from digging her redds, yet healed, clearly telling me that her duty for the season had been completed.

With the swift onset of cooler weather and plentiful flows from both rainfall and reservoir releases in September, I believe that many of our brown trout have abandoned their feeding lies and taken to their favored spawning areas. I am always careful wading at this time of year, avoiding any signs of bright gravel or congregations of trout in the riffles, and the pools seem barren of the activity they held in summer. Time to let them rest, to seek the wild rainbows of the Delaware as the rain falls and temperatures plummet.

A good friend is headed north to explore the salmon rivers of the Maritimes, and I need to visit him today and wish him Godspeed and arching rods. Oft I have dreamed of such a journey! There is an old Orvis Battenkill cane rod back there in the rack, waiting, and a Hardy Zenith loaded with two hundred yards of backing and an eight-weight floating line…

I walked the river late yesterday, relishing the recent burst of autumn color, the warm air and sunlight, and was stirred by the simple beauty that surrounded me.

The river was quiet, there wasn’t any activity to note from either insects of trout kind, and yet it was a very satisfying visit. The color of the light at this season, particularly as afternoon proceeds toward evening, is worth basking in of it’s own right, for it accentuates every nuance of land and riverscape.

The classic old Leonard rod in my hand found it’s stride as I prospected a wide run of faster water, first with a dry fly, and later with a soft hackle wet. I learned something new about that old rod too. A smooth, beautiful casting instrument with it’s intended number six fly line, it sang more sweetly than ever for me with a modern Airflo Tactical tapered WF5F line spooled on a vintage Hardy Perfect. Should I find good trout sipping the tiny olive mayflies I seek at this time of year, that combination stands ready to make glorious presentations!

Quiet afternoons are expected at this season, though opportunities may be found by the careful observer. Just last year I walked the same reach of riverbed as gently as possible in the low, clear flows on an afternoon so warm and still any sign of life would seem an intrusion. Studying the wide mirror before me I detected a single teacup sized ring a hundred yards distant. I did not check my watch upon beginning my approach, but the time invested was substantial. Once or twice along the way, another tiny ring became visible for an instant.

At last, I found myself within a long cast of the epicenter of those sole signs of life. I carried a little seven and a half foot Orvis bamboo, and called upon it to reach out and deliver my old faithful number twenty olive dun. That cast and the events that followed left a lovely October memory…

October first, and the last month of our dry fly season begins to unfold. After a cooling trend, the first week is rumored to be quite warm; good for comfortable fishing but not so perfect for walking up a grouse.

Yesterday I headed to Dette’s fly shop to meet the author of a new book on fishing the Battenkill. I found Doug Lyons to be personable and knowledgeable and enjoyed our talk. Leaving with a copy of his book in hand was never in doubt.

Later in the afternoon I read through a few chapters, something I continued this morning, stopping during his tour down river when I came to Atherton’s Pool, not far above the Vermont/New York state line. Several of us within the Catskill Fly Tyers Guild are fond of the famous painter, author and fly tyer’s contributions to the art of fly tying. JA, Seth Cavaretta and I have independently taken the time to blend the various shades of dubbing and tie the artist’s numbered dry flies.

Last winter, I was thinking about John Atherton and his fly tying and found myself inspired to experiment in a similar vein. Blending several shades of red fox fur with the guard hairs from a fox squirrel pelt and a bit of golden tan Antron dubbing, I created a buggy, lifelike dubbing to add to my arsenal of Hendrickson imitations. The A.I. Hendrickson turned out to be my most productive pattern during the hatch this spring.

As Mr. Lyons’ words described the Isonychia hatches on the reach of water close to the Atherton home, I had another little burst of inspiration. Equal parts of claret dyed beaver, both reddish and gray barred guard hairs from a red squirrel, and a mottled hare’s ear gray Antron dubbing combined to yield an Atherton inspired Isonychia. Though the hatch seems close to it’s end for the year, I hope to find an opportunity to try this new variation of the fly that has given me some pleasant afternoons in late August and September.

Perhaps I can find a Beaver Kill brown, or a Delaware rainbow interested in a taste of Atherton’s influence!

My first fishing day for autumn 2023, and so I reacquainted myself with and old friend. It has become my custom these past few years to begin and end my season along the Beaver Kill. It was my first Catskill river when I came to mecca thirty years ago, and there seems to always be more water to explore.

I carried the Leonard, appropriate for these environs – the most famous Catskill fly rod for the most celebrated Catskill river. A tiny olive 100-Year Dun, tied that morning, was knotted to the long, fine tippet, the little fly remarkably visible in the midday sunlight as it drifted down the glides.

There was a trout there, strange fellow, mostly sipping though jumping right out of the water once or twice. He looked to be around that foot-and-a-half range, a very respectable trout, and I wanted him. He came for the olive a couple of times, at least he seemed to, though I failed to touch him when I tightened. Micro drag perhaps. It is the rule of law on the glides.

Since he seemed so eager to leap for his dinner, I tried an Isonychia, and later a small hopper, but he eventually decided he didn’t care to be fished for. He was the only game in town on that pool, and so after waiting for a re-appearance that never came, I moved on.

The blue skies filled gradually with clouds, and by my last hour the transformation was complete, the deep gray afternoon had little resemblance to the brilliance of morning. I thought the heavy overcast ideal to produce a hatch, but nothing more than the occasional olive showed itself on the surface.

My little unnamed pool was quiet, save for a tiny dimple here and there, fingerlings that shunned the Isonychia that had found it’s place once more at the end of my leader. No choice but to return to the little olive I started the day with and hope.

Funny how a place can gather a bit of magic, and this little nothing of a pool has held more than expected for me these past five years. I was easing downstream a step at a time when I saw it, a single healthy rise a longish cast away. Two careful steps closer as I stripped more line from the old St. George and the cast was made.

It can be tough to pinpoint a trout in open water from a single rise. This fellow was no exception, so I added a foot or so to each cast until I felt I had the right line of drift. He came for it cleanly, and the old Leonard arched as he bore away to the cries of that classic Hardy, a good fish giving his best in the chilled and freshened current of autumn.

I was surprised at his slim profile and his length, just shy of twenty inches. While he seemed fit and strong, his slender form spoke of the challenge of a long hot summer of survival in the big river. “Go, fatten up” I thought as I slipped him back into the flow.

Though the foliage has just begun to take on hints of autumn color, the rivers reflect the season in grand style. Flows are strong on the freestoners, and water temperatures are downright chilly just a week after summer’s finale. October lies on the doorstep, and my double gun is calling…

It is the latter half of the final week of September and the river too is calling me. I have not waded bright water for nearly a week, and my legs are wont to feel the rush of current once more. I need to feel the old cork of the Leonard in my hand and watch the dance of a dry fly on some sparkling run!

I feel the urgency of another season slipping from my grasp, though I still cling to hopes for an Indian Summer reprieve and for the season to steer a long, gradual course for autumn.

It was just last year that November brought a run of seventy-degree days to these Catskill Mountains: fishing the wide Delaware in shirtsleeves, can you imagine? I see no reason for truly cold weather until deer season.

Nature will give us what she will, and I will be thankful for it, whether it extends my fishing season or not. To see the seasons change in these mountains is enough!

And so, it is done. Another Catskill Summer passes into memory. I watched it go as the sun sank toward the treetops, reclined on my porch with the flames in the grill crackling and a chilled Summer Ale. After supper the western sky glowed with a beautiful red fire, saluting the finest season.

As the season runs in these mountains, summer often seems to last forever. Though there are changes in the weather day by day, it is always summer for the full breadth of the season. Spring and autumn never enjoy that longevity, with winter taking as much as a month from the beginning of spring and much more from the end of autumn.

On the river I felt the crispness of autumn in the air as the afternoon breeze rose. The life of the river seemed at ease, languid in these last hours of summer. Little stirred beneath the surface for most of the afternoon.

With no flies, no rises, I made my own sacrifice to autumn, to the inevitability of winter. I knotted a soft hackle Isonychia and swung it down through the sparkling effervescence of the riffle. Just once there was a tug, growing to a strong pull with the chatter of the reel to awaken me to the gift of life at the end of my line. He surged and sent spray flying before the hook pulled free, and he became a memory like the season itself.

In the last moments of the afternoon there were flies on the water, pale olives with bodies so thin that even a thread wrapped hook would appear twice their size, and a few Isonychia. My eyes searched the wide expanse for a feeding trout, but the handful of rises which appeared were singular acts, a last taste of summer for the trout perhaps.

Summer’s passing readily invokes the realization that winter lies too close at hand. Hope looks forward to a last month of the dry fly at most. The Red Gods, and the Catskill mountain weather will have their due.

I close my eyes and picture the soft, sunny afternoons of October, the first grouse walk on the mountainside, and the dainty rises of big autumn trout in clear low water. It is a deliciously beautiful season, but brief, the mountains on fire with the last glory of the forests.

I have kept an eye on the water temperatures, looking for that eventual trend when daily peaks drop into the ideal range for trout. The seventy-degree sunshine offers a very pleasant afternoon on the river, at least if the Catskill Mountain winds lie down.

It is forty-five degrees here in Crooked Eddy, perhaps an hour past sunrise. The wind forecast smiles with that enticing “5 to 10 miles per hour” tale that tends to draw me eagerly to the big river, but forecasts here often deceive. Local weather forecasters have a nice track record for temperatures and rainfall, though mountain winds seem to be their Achilles heel. Days are often a few degrees warmer than the forecast during clear weather, and that warming gets the air moving unpredictably, I guess.

There are plenty of Isonychia dries in my fly boxes, along with some Hebes, olives and ants. Any of those can appear this time of the year and tempt a good trout to the surface. Our Delaware rainbows love the isos and will come through the fast-moving water of the deep riffles to eat one, so there is always a chance for a surprise jolt even on the days I find no rises on the rivers’ wide expanse.

My eight-and-a-half foot pentagonal fly rod sits ready in it’s tube. It tends to find it’s way to the Delaware this time of year. Pittsburgh rodmaker Tim Zietak made this rod to order for me some years ago, with the big Delaware in mind. It seems happy casting either a five or six weight line, depending upon my mood and that pesky wind forecast. There is an early CFO IV reel nearby, spooled with one of Wulff’s Bamboo Special fly lines. This line carries a WF6F moniker, but that doesn’t tell the whole story. The front taper is extra-long and fine, taken from Lee Wulff’s Triangle Taper, which blends into a longer middle section before quickly tapering down to a very small diameter running line. In casting, I find they feel like a cross between a typical weight-forward and a classic double tapered line. They are very much a caster’s line.

The big pent really shined with that Bamboo Special on a windy afternoon on the lawn recently, laying out a long leader to 75 feet with little influence from that gusty wind, and I am anxious to try it on the water.

It is just about the right time to change over from my summer chest pack to my vest, but I may delay that until these final days of summer pass gently into memory. I mean, why change a good thing? I do need to change out the leader on that bamboo line though, something I should be doing rather than thinking about. There is time though, for the afternoon is hours away.

The pace of an angler’s seasons changes as do the hatches and rivers, winds and weather. In spring the urgency of our release from winter’s clutches drives us to be out early and stay late, even though spring hatches tend to be midday affairs. Summer can go either way, as early mornings call during certain weather patterns and afternoons in others. Many still remain committed to fishing that last hour of daylight on into summer, but I am more of a daytime angler these days. I enjoy the natural beauty of the rivers and their sheltering mountains in daylight and searching for subtle clues which sometimes lead me to fine, old trout hunting stealthily. Late summer and early autumn is definitely an afternoon situation for me. That is when the seasonal mayflies are active, and I simply love the golden character of afternoon sunlight at this season, as it brings fire to the changing foliage. Retirement is a blissful thing, and I give thanks every day for it!