Considering my typical schedule, today was my final fishing day for spring 2026. We’re just shy of summer’s solstice, but I started early, just like a summer morning. I was forearmed for a windy day. Forecasts tell us things like “winds 10 to 20 mph”, but a veteran Catskill angler knows they will blow 25 mph easy, with gusts significantly higher. I didn’t have a wind gage handy, but I will testify some of the gusts made it past 30 mph. Veteran one, forecast nothing.

Days like this one, I tend to carry a graphite rod. I don’t like side gusts cracking a fly against my bamboo rod, maybe putting a hook dig penetrating the varnish, perhaps even the cane itself. The rod I chose is honestly vintage, for it was made 37 years ago.

It’s an Orvis Henry’s Fork model, an 8’6″ for a number five line, and it is honestly more limber than some of my faster bamboo fly rods. I started out fishing the Catskills with the budget model more than thirty years ago. Orvis called the series Rocky Mountain, the same rod blank with simpler, less expensive hardware. Today, I fished the genuine article though.

I pleasantly found myself alone on the river, sunlight but not direct sunlight yet, at least not until the orb made it over the mountain on a cool 55 degree morning. The breezes stirred early enough, swirling the air before that sun came over, leaving one side of the river in shadow, just how I like it.

I was stalking up the opposite riverbank, and spotted a rise. I guessed the trout sampling breakfast was the same one I worked on that location the other day. He rose several times that day, but wouldn’t take. There was another angler then, and he had pushed too much water upriver when he walked. Most fishermen do. What’s the difference? I stalked into range for a long cast gently and took that brownie on my first cast this morning!

That was a good fish, a solid eighteen inch, highly colored fellow with tons of energy, and he put a big smile on my face. Perhaps I’m still shy of summer, but maybe now I’m close enough.

I put in a long day, working more than a half-mile of river. I was maybe half the way along my route when I saw another rise. He was too far for a cast, so I made a slow, stealthy approach and stopped well above he had risen. I started my casts upstream, for I know some of these fish are hunters. There was no hatch, so it was likely that trout wasn’t parked where I saw him rise several minutes ago, so I needed to fish my fly down to that location.

It turned out he had come upstream from the rise area, probably halfway between that spot and where my first cast touched down. When my dry did drift up to his nose a few casts later, he was ready for a meal.

I knew immediately this was a larger fish, and we danced for a good long while. Eventually, he found himself in my net, taken his hard-won breakfast away, and posed for his picture. The measure net told me that he was a bit better than twenty-two inches, one beautiful, mature wild brown.

Sure enough, today might be a little shy of summer, but brother, it was close enough!

Well, home repair and some ridiculous winds cost me a pair of fishing days this week, but I felt fit for duty and would have, could have been out there every day. It seems I am just about back to normal.

I cannot claim that everything is top shelf, for it seems my mojo has been severely depleted. My searching has been turning up very few trout. We all have dry spells, but it is tougher than one of those. My spring was almost completely stolen, and summer doesn’t want to fully arrive. I am not finding bugs, and I am not finding trout. I am certainly not catching many of them.

Since my retirement, I came to be interested in some of the bamboo fly rods of the venerable H. L. Leonard Company. I have learned a few things about their history and their principal rodmakers. Well, early on, just about most of the great bamboo rodmakers seemed to have worked there. That early history defined the legend of the fountainhead of the American craft. There is some later history too, though it hasn’t been taken down by the scribes. In truth, amidst in this literate culture of angling, no one has ever written a book about the H.L. Leonard Rod Company!

A group of devotees and collectors put together a gathering in September 2018, right here at the Catskill Fly Fishing Center and Museum. There were presentations and discussions by historians and including head rodmaker and co-owner Ted Simroe and Bob Taylor. Sadly, I was right here in the Catskills that weekend and never heard a word about it.

Someone set out to video tape Mr. Simroe’s talk, a great idea, but only the first half of his presentation was preserved. I have watched it three times, the last time keeping some written notes to bolster my memory. Ted brought some innovations, new rod tapers and brought significant growth during a time that fiberglass and the new graphite fly rods had eroded the bamboo traditions of our sport. The more of I heard from and about Ted Simroe, the more I became interested in the rods he made under his name after his years at Leonard.

When I was researching a very unique Leonard, a Model 66 ACM, a friend arranged an opportunity to speak with Ted. I truly enjoyed our conversation, and I decided that I would really like to learn more of his rods and perhaps acquire one. Seventy marks quite a milestone, more so to me than it is perhaps to others, to say nothing of how that milestone was framed by the challenges of this past spring. Through Mr. Carmine Lisella, I had the chance to fulfill my desire.

The 7’6″ T.W. Simroe rod pictured above had never been fished until I took it out on the river this week. I was impressed to be sure, for Ted’s fly rod is one of the finest casting instruments I have ever had the pleasure to cast. It is smooth and crisp, and capable of placing my fly exactly where I want it with a whim. Bravo sir!

I enjoyed how beautifully Ted’s rod handled every casting task presented by the day. Of course, the story, the day deserved a pinnacle. A wild brown trout of say two feet or better would be an ideal tribute to rod and rodmaker, but as I said, my mojo has been lacking. I did take a wild brown trout, one that he gave of himself with every bit of energy he possessed. He made me smile. I did not measure that trout, so I cannot relate accurately his physical size, though I would estimate that ten inches would be reasonably correct. That was a very important ten-inch brown trout to me.

Thank you, Ted, for your craft and your place in the history of one of the great companies of the pantheon of our finest fly rod makers. Thank you for our talk, and thank you particularly for rod #834, for it is magic!

It is just past sunrise, and it is 45 degrees here in Crooked Eddy. The second half of June begins, with an unexpected fresh chill in the air, and our rivers have freshened a bit too. Ushering the hot, muggy weather out, some thunderstorms have provided a bit of sorely needed rain. River levels are quickly seeking their former all too low flows, but the combination of storm runoff and yesterday’s cold winds have added some oxygenation.

I have some hope for good fishing as this half of June kicks off. The ten-day forecast includes just one day with an expectation to reach 80 degrees, and as much as an inch of additional rain might just help our rivers and angler’s spirits. I am looking forward to putting some serious time on the water.

I have re-shuffled one of the fly boxes residing in my summer vest and tied some sulfurs and Cross Specials to replace the March Browns and Drakes that filled it. I have filled some rows and compartments with fresh terrestrials in the green primary summer box as well.

I won’t be concerned with reaching the stream by dawn just yet on chilly mornings like this one, nor the stormy one expected tomorrow. Days like these, variable weather days, are perfect to take an easy pace, to spend a morning and a long afternoon watching to see what develops.

I would love to see a surprise, some little olives dancing down the edges of surface currents, or a few deep claret colored Isonychia duns. I have seen little of either of those mayflies over the past couple of seasons.

I’d like to find just a quiver near a well-loved log or rock along a favorite bank, with a surreptitious tiny rise ring when I drift my 100-Year Dun just right!

I have still a couple of hours to think about it; pack my gear, stow the rod, and pull my waders and boots on, and then take the leisurely drive to whichever haunt I settle upon. No schedule, no trying to work out just which hours of the day on which reach of river might bring activity, just taking the day as the river offers it.

Sunrise, and my first cup of coffee is waking me to action. I’ll find some breakfast momentarily, and then that second cup will finish the job. I have packed a special little bamboo rod, waist waders, my tiniest CFO reel, and a single small box of dry flies. A long span of years has passed since I have ventured toward any of the smallest waters for wild brook trout, and the High Catskills are yet an unexplored arena.

It was a pleasant drive on a bright morning, winding higher after leaving the Quickway behind, and I met my friend Chuck on one of those winding mountain roads as he reconnoitered the stream. We had chosen this one with the kind advice of Ed Ostapczuk, Catskill angling sage and author whose fifty years haunting these falls and hollows gives him a treasure trove of knowledge. Ed treasures the High Catskills and the lovely wild char native to these sylvan glides of bright water.

I am yet to get my stream legs, even least my mountain legs, and quickly found the challenges of angling in the thin flows which June provided. It has been nearly twenty years since my last brook trout fishing along Pennsylvania streams, and though I enjoyed the tiny six-foot perfect bamboo rod Tom Smithwick made for me two years ago, I erred in assembling the right leader. The 14 to 16-foot leaders I fish on our tailwaters have no place here, and the short leader I had put hastily together proved lacking a proper taper. My presentation suffered.

A dumped dry fly upon inches of water fools no wild trout, and I didn’t. I did enjoy the company and the scenery. Scrambling up the rocky banks, we took a break after a while to hike back to our cars and enjoy our sandwiches. I chose to head down from the heights and try the lone upper public access on the Neversink, while Chuck decided to stay with the highlands where he found success later in the afternoon. My luck failed to improve, as the lone public access and parking near Claryville was mobbed beyond capacity, with fishing impossible.

I drove on down and homeward, while my friend enjoyed the charms of our lone native trout.

I hope our Catskill Summer will feature greater gifts of rainfall than these past few, and we will enjoy another chance to visit the High Catskills with better flows! I’ll be sure to fashion a couple of short dry fly leaders which suit these environs, and tie half a dozen Fox Squirrel fur dries that fit perfectly here. We would love to find the day these bountiful caddis cases release their occupants to the profit of beautiful and hardy little trout, the true natives of these historic Catskill rivers!

I know it’s only early June, though considering so few days this stolen season has allowed me the caress of bright water, forgive me to have lost some sense of timing.

It is hot. The flows barely dampen the toes of my boots, and rain? Well, that seems another broken promise. I simply could not suffer a few more hours under that bright sun baking the stones beneath my feet.

Six o’clock, and the Leonard and I are stalking…

Whom might I find first off, but a single rise in the middle of the river. Visual recon betrayed a lone Drake drifting out there. These past two weeks, there have been a few, but the trout of my acquaintance have been cruising shallow water, busting those big wiggling nymphs just beneath the surface when one gets close enough. I have not seen a dun, cripple, or anything even partially on the surface been taken; not mine nor Nature’s. I guess the trout miss the good old days as much as I.

I tied on a smaller 100-Year Drake, size Ten, 1X Long, and I continued the stalk. I enjoyed the coolness of the morning mist, the soft relief from the closeness of the air in town and, every once in a while, I saw a lone drake drifting.

I was scrutinizing one particular reach, searching for any movement which might betray a trout up and looking, and there it was – a slow, soft rise where a drake had been drifting! I was too close to my shore, so I had to close inches at a time, easing upstream and angling away. God, it seemed like an hour to get in position, moving without a trace.

Finally, I had enough space for a back cast, and I made my first pitch, a few feet upstream where the rise had been, for I know searchers usually move. The second cast was more tense, as I set it down two or three further above where I had seen the natural disappear, and there he was, that big head gliding barely from the water to the air, opening his mouth, and softly sucking my fly in…

The spring was coiled too tight. In my soul I know how slowly a big wild brownie can take a drifting dun, it takes time, a moment in real time, but eons in the psyche of an angler starved of that magic. Too tight, and that spring tripped early. I snatched that fly right out of his mouth. I felt him, and he felt me and vanished.

If I try, I can feel that cold spring water leaching the heat right out of my limbs…

This would be a good day for smaller waters, somewhere with plenty of shade, enough canopy to hold the cool air close to the stream. I sought what shade I could find on the West Branch, though there wasn’t enough to both stand in it and cast into the water flowing beneath it. Our big, beautiful rivers are wonderful, but a hot day will invariably roast you in your waders.

This is the kind of day to have an in with a member of one of those classic Catskill angling clubs, up, upstream where the little rivers meander under the forest, where the history hangs in the air like the morning mist. I have just the thing, a beautiful Ted Simroe bamboo rod, seven-and-a-half feet of poetry! Never before fished, and waiting just for me.

I watched the forecast just a few minutes ago: hot, steamy and stormy. Might it be too early in the season to walk the waters at dawn?

I have spent many an evening passing on into darkness. So often the anticipation craves for a heavy hatch, or risers dimpling a spinner fall from bank to bank of a favorite pool, but Nature doesn’t bestow those moments as often the storytellers say she does. Memories are full of a few, crowded moments trying to place the perfect cast just so in front of a trout, when on the very next moment I cannot see either the trout or the fly so hurriedly cast.

Mornings suit me better in my senior years. Mornings linger where evenings do not, as tailwater fog keeps the light at bay well past the rising sun. The cost might be a second roll over in bed, a full breakfast, but a few hours of beauty and solitude, to say nothing of the chance to bring leviathan nigh, is easily worth the dues.

Sitting here I ponder the chances, for it is not yet time, but long hours in overbearing sun saps both the energy and the joy. A never day spent upon bright water is lost.

A second week in the books with my regular fishing routine. I feel a little bit stronger every day. Fishing has been tough, particularly tough with very low flows after a nice wet spring and full reservoirs. I guess the predictors who advise the NYC water misers expect another dry summer, for they turned the faucets to low just as soon as spilling ceased.

I failed to find any concentration of our larger Bug Week mayflies, few March Browns, fewer Green Drakes. I have not seen a single Isonychia. To tell the truth, I have not covered as much water during these past two weeks, though I did put in one later evening before water temperatures started to climb. Fishing was slow.

I know it will be a steady climb, getting my strength and endurance back. I am, diminished. There is no way to hide from that fact, yet I still believe that bright waters will heal me given time.

Tonight is time for a celebration, as one of my best friends will be acknowledged as a Catskills Legend by the Catskills Fly Fishing Center & Museum. John Apgar has led a resurgence in the life of the Catskill Rodmakers Workshop, pushing growth of the skill programs by reaching ever more those who wish to learn the details of the craft of split bamboo fly rod making. At the 31st Catskill Rodmakers Gathering, attendees showed strong positive feedback at the condition of the facilities and it’s growing presence as a vital hands on learning experience, touching the history of Catskill fly fishing.

The Catskill Fly Tyers Guild celebrates thirty-three years to keep and expand the style of Catskill flies and fly tying in 2026 with John steps into the Presidency with more than 500 members worldwide! John as Vice President and a varied group of Board members has continued the vibrancy led by three-term President Joe Ceballos.

Is it any doubt I am still waiting for an appointment to get JA out for a day of fishing?

For me, these special two weeks were the ultimate days and nights of the dry fly season. There were different opportunities, events, each time I wandered along a stretch of riverbank. Those were the days of wonderful hatches; different days.

I drove out yesterday evening, knowing that some of Sunday’s crowd of visiting anglers would have packed up and headed home earlier. I expected some would remain, though I found one soul as I walked softly down the edge of the great river, the scene belied the impression of the full parking lot.

I stepped into the edge where the shade of the high mountain kept the bright sunlight from my eyes and watched the wide, shallowed expanse of the riverscape. Just here and there, a bright spec told me a very few of the seasonal yellow mayflies, sulfurs and Gray Fox, appeared and drifted unmolested downstream. I had should have visited this water nearly a week ago, but that still adjustment to my increasing activity is limiting my time on the water. I felt good last night, vigorous and hopeful to fish the special hours when day turns to night. It was a beautiful evening.

Nearing the earliest moments of the witching hour, the sky was filled with thousands of Psilotreta caddisflies. A few good trout rose out there in front of me, though none established any feeding rhythm. Gray Fox, sulfur and an appropriate caddis had drifted through these lies ignored. I had not found the secret it seems. In the low flow, the current appeared a vast moving sheet, barren of the wonderful subtly active darting microcurrents which can give action to the right fly. Life I believe was the secret, the missing unseen player. Whatever insect prompting the erratic rises provided it’s own movement, it’s magic of life drawing life to it in turn!

No matter prepared for this first evening, I realized late I had forgotten my un-tinted glasses. Cannot see a fly at distance, nor drive after dark without them, so I walked out as the vast numbers of those caddisflies still swirled above my head, accompanied by my dreams…

At last, I found myself on a river for the past four days. Unless chubs are counted, I have nothing tangible I can show to prove some gain, but I feel it there inside.

I rolled over this morning and felt the aching in my casting shoulder and my knee throbbing a bit, to remind me that four days on the river are a sudden exertion compared to a long winter followed by nearly three months of convalescence. I reacted to the return of these old familiar pains by rolling over again for another nap, before getting to my feet to challenge the day. I don’t feel any of that pain in either my shoulder or my knee now, so that extra half an hour of sleep worked wonders!

I’ve talked with a few friends, those who were out fishing while I was constrained with recovery, and I know there were some signs of spring between the bouncing thermometer, lots and lots of high winds, and cold. I trust those few when they tell me they fished a hatch and took some nice trout.

I had hoped to be able to jump (well, not limp doesn’t sound good, but jump more than overplays the facts) and get right back into the groove. Stalking trout, spying big brownies sipping tasty mayflies, and then sending perfect casts bearing a choice dry fly, and jubilantly feeling the energy through that arched rod and delighting the music of the screaming reel. Well, it seems that I missed all of that spring promises. One has to find those big trout actually in the company of those mayflies. If they are out there, they seem to be in someone else’s orbit.

I did have that wonderful, classic moment on my very first steps upon the river, post-surgery, and I remain very, sublimely thankful for that. I hope that I will cross the paths of both trout and mayflies, both in agreeable temperaments, and feel that thrill again. Right now, it seems I have more dues to pay and time on the water. I’ve missed that more than you know.

Once more, Memorial Day seems to arrive too soon. I have watched from this cold, rainy fitful spring mostly from my window, so that certainly creates much of my mood, but I was raised before such important holidays were pushed around the calendar to create long weekends.

There were many years when Bug Week was truly spectacular! The stars were the Eastern Green Drake, those big, beautiful yet temperamental mayflies that thrilled both trout and anglers. I recall watching the water from the seat of Captain Patrick Schuler’s drift boat, homing in on one of those great winged paragons drifting along the placid surface, tingling to see one of those explosive fountains erupt around it. That day, I truly experienced just how an event Nature provided to crown the angler’s season!

For nearly twenty years I followed the Cult of the Green Drake, spending a fortnight, when I could arrange it centered on the last week of May and the first one of June, here deep in the cradle of the Catskills. I am fortunate to spend all of my days here now, though the event has dimmed through the passage of time.

There are still flies, at least on most years, but the great abundance that Nature spread upon her table seems shall not return. Floods played their part, water manipulations by men not interested in flies, fish and fauna, droughts, pesticides… too many things to ponder, too many causes to point fingers of blame. Man has found new ways to defeat Nature, though they cannot win, in essence they simply defeat other men who love her.

I am told that the chill and the rain will draw back, finishing this Memorial Day in sunshine and warmth. I shall step forth to take my place in Nature’s current display, her Bug Week festivities, whether grand or modest, and I will greet her with a glad heart, for I have known of the lack of her graces too long as this season progresses.

Angling bestows Nature’s magic to those who bow their heads and receive it. There are wages paid, in patience, time, understanding and skill. Wonder is free.