The storms seemed to have passed, leaving our river flows only slightly improved, though that has been a good sign for the fishing amid this young summer season. Waiting to determine what the weather might have in store put me on the water later than I would have preferred, but conditions looked good for a productive hunt.

I set to work, ignoring the odd rise here and there as a handful of mayflies drifted through. I was looking for bigger game.

Prospecting turned up nothing, and those occasional scattered rises seemed to have become more frequent, so I stalked an area where two or three had shown more than once. They seemed to be cruisers, a mode of operation that has become common for our wild trout during meager hatches. I found no response until one rise came nearly underfoot, and a quick flip of the fly brought a take. The fish was small and energetic, exactly the trout I expected to be cruising about and picking off a wiggling bug here and there, so it was time for me to get back to the hunt.

I exhausted the morning and half of the afternoon in my relentless pursuit and found nothing. Well, conditions looked good this morning… The wind had risen, and some dark clouds had gathered, and then the sun began to peak through the rushing cloud banks. It felt like rain was imminent, so I chose that opportunity to take a break and head elsewhere.

At my new hunting grounds I encountered a solitary angler packing up his gear. He said he had not fished very long, made no claims for either success of failure, and I didn’t ask. As I headed in, I hoped he had not disturbed the water I intended to work.

Sun and shade had replaced the mist and clouds, but the results remained the same. I found no evidence of life as I stalked a good reach of river. By three o’clock, I had nearly resigned to quit early as I approached the last lie with a bit of history.

The cast was long, the drift longer, the old Thomas & Thomas mending slack to extend it down, down to it’s limits. I could no longer see the fly and hesitated when the soft ring was revealed, then tightened just in time. When I felt that rush of life, I set the hook firmly and got my fingers away from the flying reel handle just in time!

There are trout that like to slug it out in close quarters, head shakers, trying to rub the fly from their jaw on the rocky riverbed, and then there are those who must like to hear the reel scream as much as I do. He had me to the brink of my backing quickly enough, leaving me to reel as fast as my hand could fly when he turned. It would go like that for a long time.

He took a tour of the pool you might say, and there were critical minutes passing while he inspected each corner. Light tippets get abraded, hooks widen their holes and pull out, reasons why I work hard to beat fish quickly, but some will not yield.

After a time, I had him closer, though still running in short bursts; back and forth. Even once I got him into roping range he simply refused to come to the net. I had turned the rod over to equalize the strain, and even then, I began to worry about the continuous strain.

He did come to the net at last, a scoop and a quick lift, and I was marveling at the weight, and the vigor he showed thrashing against the mesh. I dipped him back into the water as my forceps closed on the hook. Nose and tail aligned on the scale: just better than twenty-three!

I returned him nose first into the gentle current, and he darted right down to the bottom and sulked. With the water at sixty degrees, he had given me a hell of a battle. I watched him for a while, finally stepping closer to see him swim away.

I held the rod aloft and noted the reverse curvature lingering throughout the length of the tip section; a memory of a battle hard won. A short cast and the supple bamboo returned to its prescribed state of straightness, bringing a sigh.

Game taken, and game returned; a successful hunt in the eleventh hour. Ah summer!

It is Sunday evening, the ninth of July, and it is 68 degrees in Crooked Eddy. A gentle rain has fallen intermittently throughout the day, a far cry from the storms predicted. This morning’s forecast called for a stormy day and night, continuing tomorrow, and some two and a half inches of rain. Such weather would have changed our rivers violently. Most of us here are happy to avoid the flash floods, and I and my fellow anglers would gladly bow to Mother Nature bringing perhaps an inch of rain over that same period; gentle and continuous, the lifeblood of our rivers.

I was sitting on the porch just now, the grill crackling as I watched the mist wraiths glide o’er the slopes of Point Mountain. I thought of the rumbles of thunder heard a couple of hours ago, and how close we might have come to those flash flood inducing downpours. The gentle rain is soothing, the cool dampness a welcome break from ninety-degree heat. We are two and a half weeks into summer by the calendar, closer to a month as measured by the moods of the trout and their rivers.

I am dreaming of light line rods, tiny mayflies and terrestrials, of bright sunshine and clusters of sulfurs sought by large, wild brownies often too cautious to take them. Good times lie ahead: warm bright mornings stalking trout in the mist, gatherings with the Fly Tyers Guild and Summerfest; perhaps another Rodmaker’s Gathering. I saw my first trico the other day and my heart jumped a bit hoping its the first of many!

If you asked me I would tell you I wished a Catskill summer might last half the year, for it is my favorite season. Though perhaps really having no greater duration than spring, summer has a permanence in the absence of the wild blustery weather that springtime brings. Sun one day, and snow the next – is it April? May?

I wish too that I might be allowed to program the rain: a quarter inch every two nights, taking the weekends off, should do quite nicely! Imagine how bright, lovely and cool our rivers would run!

I’ve a puck full of flies tied during this weekend at ease; ants and beetles, crickets and more, and there are lovely old rods waiting for their next opportunity to grow their histories. Though I do not know their past, it remains a source of wonder and content as I build upon their secret, individual legacies.

Will tomorrow bring rain or shine? I will greet it with a smile no matter how it dawns, for I rejoice in the opportunity to live another day among wild trout, bright water and the challenge of Nature’s magic!

Ah the simple joy of a summer day on a Catskill river with a classic Catskill rod in hand! Leonard’s 50 DF is certainly one of the all-time classic rods crafted by gentlemen who began the lineage. From Hiram Leonard’s shop sprang the fountain of talent that would define Catskill rodmaking and inspire all of those who came afterwards. The 50 DF is smoothness personified! Even cloaked in the workaday garb of the Mills Standard, the taper that some feel defined the classic Catskill dry fly rod is perfection on the water.

I had fished the rod with a five-weight line, the more typical choice, despite the advice from rodmaker extraordinaire Dennis Menscer that this model 50 was a four weight. Yes, an eight-footer for a number four line is my quintessential summer dry fly rod, so it is only fitting that I explore the master’s recommendation. Dennis knew this rod and it’s eight decades old bamboo, as only it’s restorer could. I should have followed his sage advice from the beginning.

Outfitted with a lovely little 3″ Bougle` and a new 406 weight forward fly line, the smooth and capable old Leonard became pure magic!

With temperatures climbing during this second week of July, our summer fishing remains dependent upon Nature’s gifts of rainfall, and hatches of fly have been meager to say the least. True to my roots, I knotted a little modified Grizzly Beetle to 6X tippet and took to hunting.

As I began to cast with that four-weight line, the smile on my face broadened into what my Dad might have called a shit eating grin.

I prospected the cover surgically, giving the fifty a smooth, delicate touch to ensure the little fly alighted gently on the flat water. One perfect cast in the shade would make my day. The beetle touched softly, and I tracked it’s drift by the subtle glint of it’s two turns of grizzly hackle. The bulge in the surface met it softly and I slowly brought the old rod up to engage my foe.

He was heavy, and irritated that the sweet little snack he had so quietly selected had bitten back! The lithe arch of bamboo urged him out from his sanctuary, just enough that his turn and initial run came clear of disaster. One does not force twenty-inch wild brownies from cover on 6X tippet!

This was the first time fishing the 3″ Bougle`, so I had not been treated to the timbre of it’s voice. Mr. Beetle-eater remedied that in grand style, with half a dozen searingly musical runs to the cusp of my backing. That wonderful old Leonard taper protected the tippet beautifully!

It is important to play my trout hard, to use my tackle to it’s limits, and there is great satisfaction when vintage tackle that has served anglers for more years than I have drawn breath does so with such aplomb. I snapped my photo as that fellow recovered on the bottom of the cold, bright water, and thanked him for his spirit!

Ah July! For many of my travelling years it marked the grand finale of my Catskill fishing season: the scenery and experiences, the ubiquitous West Branch sulfur hatch, and quiet times at West Branch Angler provided a glimpse of just how perfect life could be. Certainly, the fishing was challenging, but it was that challenge that lured me to the Catskills.

I remember sitting alone in the Troutskellar come evening, sipping a wee dram of Macallan after a long day of chasing wild trout, ending in a fiery sunset. The bustle and noise of spring lay behind, and it was time to reflect and appreciate the gifts of another season. Those emotions still surface at this turn of the calendar, though my season ends now in October.

I have been fishing summer patterns now since mid-June, so I have adjusted early to summer’s slower pace. The early beginning has left we wanting for the brightness of those fair yellow mayflies, and the supreme challenge of fishing to evolved wild brownies sipping amid their multitudes. July is here at last though, can the sulfurs be far behind?

The right fly this past week seems to have been the Isonychia, though I have not seen enough of them to capture and identify even one. My 100-Year Dun duped most of the trout I led into the net though.

There are new variations of sulfurs this summer, as well as a good stock of the reliable patterns from last year. I should count the twenties though, just to be sure they are fully represented in my boxes.

It is time to hang up my faithful fishing vest, to remove the fly boxes and re-sort the flies of the season into a pair of boxes that will nestle in my small chest pack. I always feel under gunned upon that transition. There is after all some psychological comfort to be taken from a vest full of flies to match all comers. Nature does visit little surprises upon Catskill anglers! There is always room for a stopgap, an extra box tucked into a shirt pocket, just in case.

That process of downsizing to lighter rods and fewer flies has the melancholy flavor of goodbye, a farewell to another marvelous spring, but it has another familiar flavor too. Catskill trophies are always hard won, and summer has provided a full share, so there is the taste of satisfaction to be savored.

The morning rain seems to have quieted now, though I hoped it would continue. The trout respond when the rivers are freshened. Perhaps the changing conditions keep them alert; so too the angler.

Bowhunting helped form the mentality, somewhat preparing me for my early excursions to the Letort and Falling Spring, but stalking trout was different. I will never forget my first vision of Letort Spring Run, thirty-two years ago. It was September, and I was fresh off a weekend of instruction from two angling legends: Ed Shenk and Joe Humphreys. I had purchased Ed’s book, “Fly Rod Trouting”, and read along during the evenings at Allenberry. I simply had to visit the stream that Sunday afternoon!

Shenk recounted the Bonny Brook meadow as his favorite reach since childhood, so there was little question where I would start my limestone spring education. I waded through the head high grass in the meadow until I came to flowing water. The stream was tiny, winding over and through lush weed beds and the intertwined trunks and branches of trees long fallen into the flow. The small, open rills of bright water sparkled as I crept near, gently enough I thought, quickly surprised as trout darted from bright gravel to weedy darkness. How in God’s name can I fish this?

The learning curve was steep, but I travelled to Carlisle as often as possible the following spring and summer. I fished at the hand of The Master and began to absorb the mindset of the hunter with rod and reel.

Those years were remarkable, and the lessons learned upon those gentle limestone streams have served me well throughout my fishing. I stalk trout as a matter of instinct now, whether angling in tight quarters, or wading wide expanses like the Delaware.

In summer, the hunter’s craft comes into its own. The great hatches of spring are diminished, and the wild trout are beset by low water and a blazing sun. They must eat, their metabolism demands it, so they hunt stealthily to take best advantage of what Nature provides.

I spent twenty minutes yesterday simply getting into the river to search for trout. Twenty minutes from first footstep off the bank to in position for the first cast, and I didn’t move either upstream or down. I have always admitted that fly fishing taught me patience.

Watching, making a few casts to test the known lies – is he there? Forty-five minutes, perhaps an hour, and I am twenty yards down river. The water quivers ahead of me and I tense my grip on the rod: there!

The cast drops lightly four or five feet upstream and I squint to watch the drift – yes, right there, six inches off the bank…

The ring is subtle, smallish, but the spotted warrior is betrayed by the morsel that attracted his attention! Surging, racing out into the flow, the rod has formed that lovely parabola as the line cuts through the water, and the reel spins with his power. He makes his runs at a distance, reacting each time I take a few turns on the reel handle, unwilling to surrender to the unseen pull affixed to his jaw.

The arch of the rod takes it’s toll on his strength at last, and he comes nearer, long and bronze, he turns when he sees me looming, but this run is shorter, more easily checked. At last, he makes the final turn before the net is submerged, but darts away when I draw him near. Once more he takes some line and then, he comes to me.

Two feet of glistening bronze and gold writhes as I twist the hook free, dip him beneath the surface, and grab my camera from the wader pocket. Released after the shot, he glides to the bottom nearby and rests. I give him a few minutes, then step closer so he darts away, and we both return to the hunt.

Monday brought some significant storms, pounding some watersheds in our region and skirting around others. It looked like no river was going to be fishable when this week began, for major storms were promised throughout. I lost one fishing day to that big lie and decided I wasn’t going to sacrifice another. If I got blown off the water by torrents of rain, so be it!

Look, I can only imagine the stress and handwringing the meteorologists go through, and they do a good job here in our Catskill region, though the truth is their batting average slumps in summer. Our weather gets more volatile every season, and in summer, we never know what we’re going to get.

Wednesday was a strange kind of day: threatening cloud masses, bouts of downright chilly breezes, even a couple of very brief peaks of sunlight. Today the forecast is smoke.

I visited a reach of river yesterday morning that I cannot usually fish in June. Water temperatures have responded favorably to the rainfall and cooler temperatures, but I still wondered if the trout had migrated out of this water during the extended hot dry spell earlier in the month. I had a plan, and I more or less executed it, tossing a couple of carefully chosen flies over some interesting water. I ended up with a couple of dramatic refusals and then a broken tippet, when something very large and silvery pounced on my innocent isonychia and kept it. Trout? I think so, but I missed out on the best parts of the engagement.

I drove on past several spots, expecting to see a few anglers at all of them and seeing none. When I did stop and wade into the river, I fished a particular bank pretty thoroughly without moving anything resembling a fish. Okay, so one good rain event and a cool down wasn’t enough to get those trout off the bottom of the deep holes I guess, but the water felt nice and cool. I can attest to that, for I ended up sitting in it as I tried to climb out!

I changed from two wet shirts to a dry one and checked some other river gages on my phone, deciding that a change of locale was in order.

I found another deserted access when I rolled up, smiling at my good fortune. The middle of the week has not been the balm for the solitary angler that it once was this season, and I appreciated the chance of a little solitude. Once more, I set about executing my plan.

I fished all of the prime water the elevated flow would allow, hooking one little fellow that shook off the hook when I tried to ski him in on the surface. I saw a few little rises over the course of a couple of hours, noting a stray olive or sulfur drifting past once or twice, but nothing else showed any interest in my flies. As the afternoon drew on though, I began to see a couple of larger mayflies at a distance. They weren’t yellow, so I reached for the box with my Isonychia patterns and knotted on a fresh 100-Year Dun. Soon, good things began to happen.

Scanning the surface, I watched an absolute goliath leap out of the water, just because he could it seems! Of course, I peppered the entire area with casts to no avail, but then I saw a trout swipe at a bug further out. I shot a long cast out to cover him and he ate my Iso like he was waiting for it to float by. This was a nice brownie, and he fought hard in the heavier flow of the rain swollen river. Not long after I released him, another drew my attention and a pair of casts and showed his mettle all the way to the net.

The active fish were spread out over a wide expanse of water, and none of them seemed to rise more than once to a bug, and then once to my fly. Number three gave me his worst for a good while, after I waited out a few minutes when the cold wind kicked up and had the water trying to reverse it’s direction of flow that is. He settled into the net at the nineteen-inch marks and brought a smile. Not bad for a crazy weather day…

The wind blew some more, but then it settled and the surface calmed. It was after five o’clock, and I had to wait for another rise. I wasn’t seeing any more big mayflies out there. There hadn’t been many of them, but the trout had certainly reacted to their appearance. I was wondering if that little flurry of activity was finished when I spotted a wide soft ring along the far bank. I saw one or two small, yellow flies, sulfurs I presumed, but the Iso had been so hot I started working that bank feeder with it. I gave him a lot of opportunities, but he showed no interest in the larger meal.

That fish may have risen two or three times I guess, but he appeared to stop after I had fished over him with the larger fly. Too late I thought, but I dug out a well-used little 100-Year Dun sulfur and replaced my faithful Isonychia.

I was getting cold from the water and that come and go chilly wind, and was about to head for the car when I saw another soft rise further up the bank. Did my fish move? I didn’t know, but as I worked into position to cast to that rise, I noted it was further out, closer to the main current line. I shot my cast above it and dropped plenty of slack to extend the drift. It was about my third or fourth drift when the soft ring enveloped my little fly.

After tossing his head back and forth while digging toward the bank, that fish shot out into the current and started my reel to spinning. He felt solid and strong, and kept using the current by making good runs downriver then turning his side into the force of the flow. There was no quit in this fellow, and he made run after run each time I worked him back and retrieved some line. Even at the end, thrashing in the shallow water close to my bank, he refused to let me turn his head around to bring him to the net. I think that fresh current felt good to him after weeks of skulking in low, nearly still water.

A heavy bodied twenty-two inch brown trout can put up a hell of a fight when he is feeling his oats, but the four weight Thomas & Thomas and I won out at last. Released quickly, he settled down to the bottom nearby, and I decided to see if I could get an underwater shot. The water was still a bit cloudy from runoff, and the light wasn’t good, but I could see him clearly there sulking. Damn those 100-year Duns, I think I heard him say, or perhaps it was just the sound of that cold breeze beckoning me home.

After a genuine stormy day yesterday, our Catskill rivers finally have some relief! I stole a couple of hours on the river until the thunder rolls chased me around Noon. The previous night’s rain had raised the flow only slightly, but the change did awaken a relatively dormant trout or two.

I guess that my actual fishing time clocked in at just about an hour, with the last fifteen minutes heightened by paying close attention to the distant thunder on the back side of the mountains. I quickened my pace when I saw an impromptu explosion downstream, as I was already taking furtive glances at the dark skies and working my way back in the direction of the car.

I was armed with one of my rainy-day rods. The vintage five weight Thomas & Thomas Paradigm earned that moniker for it’s impregnated finish, something offered as an option back in ’79 as one of the great rod companies marked their tenth anniversary. The Paradigm was known as the favorite taper of founder Thomas Dorsey. Some think it qualifies as parabolic, though T&T never described it that way. They called it a caster’s taper. I heartily agree!

Chasing that trout, I appreciated the Paradigm’s ability to reach out effortlessly, as I was trying to avoid wading too far out into the river channel. Half of my attention was focused on a quick getaway should those thunderheads make their way over the mountain.

I was fighting for visibility, wearing polarized glasses under those dark skies, and my low floating fly was difficult to track. I was straining hard to see it tight along the bank when my sixth sense told me it was no longer floating. I quickly tightened into a firm pull.

The trout objected immediately to his lunch biting him back, darting to and froe and turning those little underwater somersaults so effective in leveraging a hook out of the mouth. I had no chance to get him on the reel, instead playing him by hand with lots of fast stripping followed by some measured fingertip line control. Of course, that was the time the Red Gods picked to increase the volume of those now less distant thunder rolls. They were obviously getting closer to my mountain.

I pressured that brown into the net, wiggled him in line with the measurement scale, then let him return to search for a less belligerent meal. I reeled up my line and made tracks downstream, no longer concerned with stealth. The rain came about halfway back, though there was no lightning along for the ride. By the time I stowed my assembled rod in the back and started down the road, the rain beat down with some real ferocity.

Watching the storms come one after another from my nice, dry angler’s den, I felt satisfied. I had stolen an hour and a fine brown trout, and my rivers were finally getting the rainfall they so desperately needed. Can’t help but call that a good day!

I was sitting at my bench just now, tying a couple of variations on my standard beetles, when I let a thought find it’s way to the vise. At first, I palmered a hackle tightly up the hook shank and tried to put a flat piece of foam over the top. Uninspiring to say the least, and then the right concept crystallized, and a new fly design was born.

Though a little rainfall has given our rivers a breath once again, they dropped quickly, soon to return to the slow flows and low water clarity that has dictated the rules of the game in recent weeks. Our trout have been slow in recovering from the mad onslaught of our peak fishing season, these low, still conditions keeping them moody and loathe to feed in daylight. I wanted a dry fly that might just perk one up now and then, at least when the approach and presentation challenges of these conditions could be surmounted.

A good dry fly needs a strong image of life and, at times I think imitating life can be more crucial than closely imitating any specific species of insect. This morning’s idea may indeed fulfill that promise!

I liked the palmered and clipped hackle, for it allows the fly to fall lightly and to be twitched gently if needed to attract the attention of a resting trout. Rather than try to add some opaque body silhouette, I thought of allowing light reflections to pass through the hackle fibers intermittently. I had a short piece of Kreinik braid on the desktop near my vise, and I unwound the fibers to fray roughly 1/4 inch of it’s end. This would be my wing.

With light and dark versions, this fly may be presented as an imitation of some of the pale aquatic and terrestrial moths that appear during the summer, as well as any number of dark beetles and assorted terrestrial flying food.

Of course, like any fly, these moths could be an utter flop, but I have a good feeling about the design. The trout will tell me whether any modifications are necessary. In his masterwork Selectivity (Stackpole Books 2014) my friend Matt Supinski described the three phases of trout behavior intertwined in the mystery of selective feeding. He named these trout moods “Aggressive/Active”, “Selective/Reflective” and “Passive/Dormant”. As trout move from one mood to another in this order, fishing becomes far more difficult, as trout feed less and with greater care and discretion. “Passive/Dormant” fish may not feed at all until extreme fishing pressure or unfavorable environmental conditions change. The flies conceived this morning are squarely targeted toward trout stuck in Matt’s S/R and P/D moods.

I think a certain amount of attraction can be helpful in a trout fly, but it shouldn’t be too blatant. Thus, my idea of allowing a bit of flash to peek through the palmered hackle fibers for a glimpse of movement. I’ll let you know just how it fares…

The first day of summer and a chance to fish a couple of days with one of my best friends in the world: time for celebration! Yes, we are in a run of low water with little in the way of insect activity, but there have been a few, spare opportunities of late. Earned with stealth and perseverance, there were a few good trout that could be located and seduced, and I felt certain that we would find them.

One of the hard lessons about trout rivers having a case of the blues is the fact that fishing is going to get worse before it gets better. Of course, words like “worse” have a much lighter meaning when you’re talking about stalking wild trout in the gorgeous realm of the Catskills.

The weather was completely pleasant that first day, some sunlight, some clouds, the odd gentle breeze, and a temperature around 75 degrees. If you painted the perfect summer day for fishing, this summer’s premier would be your subject matter. We stalked a glassy pool slowly that morning, working our way toward one of a handful of widespread sipping rises. As we pass the peak spring season on these beautiful and very, very popular rivers, the trout finally get to take a breath after the onslaught of anglers. They are skittish, reserved; and low water like we have in abundance right now accentuates that mood. Often there is a lull in insect activity that coincides with these conditions, just like the lull we are mired in right now. Despite our greatest care, our longest and gentlest casts, none of those trout would even consider taking our flies.

We gave it time, hoping for a change, as just a small hatch of flies can bring an opening, but there was none forthcoming. We took a break in early afternoon, enjoyed the fine tailgate lunch my friend had supplied and talked of fishing remembered. With mid-afternoon looming, I suggested we try a pool I had passed by all season. Expectations weren’t high, but hey, we were enjoying the day nonetheless.

We found a lone angler, wading right through the water we had wanted to fish. He called to us upon our arrival, letting us know that he had only fished about 100 yards of river, leaving all of the further reaches of that grand old pool for our undisturbed pleasure. A nice gesture certainly, as John observed. I feel certain that he couldn’t have known that he had covered the same reach we had planned to fish, any more than he realized he was ruining his own chances with his wading.

We walked on upriver after thanking him for his courtesy and made a grand effort to will a trout to materialize out of the slow, clear belly of the pool. There were a few youngsters that consented to play with JA’s fly, enough to make him smile and joke about it, but each new cast felt as if our slim chances were diminishing.

That cheery fellow downstream made short work of the lower reaches, wading rapidly right out of sight and vanishing. We took our time, the conditions demanded it, for even slight body movements accompanying our casting strokes sent deadly ripples across the pool.

I had pointed out a place just behind that fellow when John and I arrived, mentioning that it had been a good holding lie in past seasons. Though we had fished down through all of the other places with stories to tell with no signs of life apparent, and as I resigned to suggest we head to the bank and home for supper, I decided to make one last cast to that lifeless old lie for, I don’t know, the sake of good memories I guess.

The Sweetgrass pent delivered a long, downstream cast perfectly as it had all day to no avail, and the fly drifted slowly into the shade. There was the slightest little murmur of a bulge, and I raised the rod to touch off an explosion! With nothing but shallow water all around him, Mr. Brown seemed to have come unglued, racing out and around, up and down while I stripped frantically trying to keep a tight line. I still don’t know how I managed to keep all of that rapidly stripped fly line from tangling on my vest, staff or other body parts, but I did. When I got him on the reel at last, he struck up the band! JA was fast on his phone, so I will let his photos tell the rest of the tale:

Welcome to Summer Solstice and the beginning of that grand old season of long, lazy days and soft, warm evenings. I am more than pleased to be here to enjoy it! This is actually my sixth summer here in Crooked Eddy, though 2018 was the year without fishing. I think of the milestone more appropriately as my fifth summer of stalking wild trout as a Catskill resident. I had no clear idea how long I would be around when I retired and am grateful for each of these little mileposts I pass. Living amid these mountains and their rivers and fishing and hunting has proven to be far better for my health than working ever was.

I was at my tying bench come half past four this morning. The flies have been tied and the tackle has been prepared for the day ahead. Just about now, one of my best friends is making sure his truck is loaded before turning the key and heading north to our meeting on the river. It looks to be another beautiful 75-degree day, the winds blessedly down: a fine day for stalking trout and sharing memories!

The rod I have chosen for this first day of summer is all Catskill, by way of Maryland and Montana. During the lockdown of 2020, I corresponded with Jerry Kustich about a couple of ideas I had for the perfect summer fly rod. We both have a fondness for pents, five strip bamboo rods that have a somewhat unique casting action. Jerry is just the man to put those thoughts into action. One of the founders of Sweetgrass Rods with Glenn Brackett, Jerry has been designing five strip fly rods for a couple of decades. He told me that a great eight-foot four weight taper was an admirable goal and accepted the challenge of designing a pent to fit my casting and fishing preferences. He did an admirable job! Glenn finished the rod at the shop in Butte, Montana and I have enjoyed the fruits of their labors thoroughly for the past two summers.

I trust that JA will be carrying his own eight-foot four weight, another amazing rod split, planed, glued, and wrapped by his own talented hands. The brownies don’t have a chance!

We are hoping that a few mayflies will make their appearance during the course of our foray to bright water. Bugs seem to have been pretty scarce on some of our rivers here of late. If they don’t oblige, we both have a bit of Cumberland Valley experience to fall back on.

Maybe I will tie a few more flies just to be sure…