We are two days into the second week of October, and it is thirty-seven degrees here in Crooked Eddy. “Abundant sunshine” is expected after daybreak, though without the punch it has been packing. Our high temperature is expected to be a cool, breezy fifty-three.

The rivers have a little bit of flow this morning, and no doubt some color; the change is felt even here at my desk.

Tomorrow may bring the first freeze of autumn. The warnings have already been raised. There are no seventy or eighty-degree days in our ten-day forecast this time, no return to summer lethargy. The woods are calling, adding their entreaties to the rivers’ voices.

Ah, the gift of precious rainfall! It makes me want to stalk the rivers, to close my hand around the cork of a classic Leonard rod and cast a dry fly to a subtle rise. I wish to fill my lungs with the first chill air of autumn, to take the full measure of these last days of the season!

I have laid awake for hours overnight, listening to the rain.

I fished in my rain jacket yesterday, ready to welcome that life giving elixir, but though the clouds gathered and the winds rose in gusts announcing the arrival of the front, the day remained dry. Like it the evening brought no relief, and a last look outside before bedtime still revealed a dry landscape.

It was after one in the morning before I awakened to the gentle patter on the rooftop.

We need several days of this, long, gentle soaking rains to replenish the rivers and the aquifers that feed the high springs from which the rivers are born. Once more, we will not get what we need.

Fishing has been, well, about as difficult as it can be. On a few days I have seen no signs of life at all. Bright sun and low water is neither friendly to the trout nor the angler. Others, like yesterday, have proven that trout still swim in these ribbons of dampened gravel that pass for our Catskill rivers.

There was an opportunity, and that gave me some heart as I count the last days of my season.

I carried an old friend, my Thomas & Thomas Hendrickson. It is a favored rod, and one that has not seen too many days upon the rivers this year. It’s casting refreshed my mood, as the line glided gently far across the water at my beck and call.

I saw no more than a handful of insects, perhaps a caddis or two, but I did find a random rise now and then to my delight. The breezes seemed the most likely bearer of the gifts those trout rose to meet, and my first choice of a caddisfly found replacement with a beetle. That fly would be the choice… but only once!

My casts were searching, prospecting for a moving trout after repeated drifts to his rise brought no response, when one brought a hard, nearly immediate take. My surprise was telegraphed through the cork by my hand too quickly, and I touched nothing. No fish would make such a mistake again.

I kept at it for several hours, changing flies and tippets, scanning the wind tossed surface whenever the gusts swirled across the river, but there would be no encore, no second chance. With each burst of wind through the trees I ached for the touch of the first rain droplets, dreaming of a misty rain and tiny olives mayflies drifting on the surface. Dreams can delight, and they can torment.

The rain seems to have stopped now, leaving only the dripping sound from the eaves.

It is half an hour past sunrise on the second day of October, and it is 37 degrees here in Crooked Eddy. It is most certainly autumn, though yesterday’s high temperature well exceeded it’s forecast.

I fished yesterday, carefully and thoroughly along a long reach of river, though my flies found no interested occupants despite the prevalent cover. It has been such a year upon the rivers of my heart.

I carried my Friendship Rod, and it cast a long, beautiful line as I prospected the cover from mid-river, despite the breeze which switched compass directions halfway through the afternoon. Far off delicate presentations completely ignored told me a story: the trout were simply not there to be tempted.

I continue to read the same reports: olives; olives and Isonychia! Funny that my eyes see only leaves upon the surface of the river. On my last visit to the big river, the mighty Delaware, I had the reach selected mostly to myself, though my gaze was uninterrupted by the rise of any trout. Another day, another hour? Well, Nature is capricious we all know.

Usually come October I am haunting different waters, visiting after midday to catch a brief rise to sparse little olives or to toss a late terrestrial to a bankside swirl, but there is no crystalline flow through some of my favorite reaches, just sun-bleached cobble. The mind tells the legs to walk farther, but the body feels only the ache of age in those limbs without the spirit’s refreshment.

It is the kind of season where patience may not be rewarded, at least not in the way we seek. The reward may be as subtle as the glint of afternoon light on the river. I know better than to take October for granted. Regardless of the gifts bestowed, or withheld, it is the last heartbeat of the dry fly season.

Last week’s rain was a blessing, though the relief it provided was short lived. Driving through Chenango County yesterday, an area that received more rain than Hancock’s environs, the landscape looked dry. We expected more autumn color there than we have begun to enjoy here at home and were surprised when we didn’t find it. We did find great music, food and great craft beer at Hidden Springs Brewhouse on a very beautiful early autumn day. This morning, the reality of another Catskill drought has taken center stage.

I am here writing down my thoughts just after sunrise, with foggy skies and a touch of chill in the air. Summer is wholly behind us, though this morning reminds of many spent through August and September. Yes, of course I am thinking of fishing…

October sidles in on Wednesday, and there are thoughts of tracking grouse through these Catskill forests. It looks to be a cool day, flanked by more summerlike temperatures, a welcome to one of the sportsman’s favorite months. How many times have I dreamed of an entire year of Mays and Octobers!

Even though I am far more than well-stocked for any form of trout fishing, I tied more than two dozen dry flies yesterday morning. The Catskill Fly Tyers Guild was contacted several weeks ago by a group hosting the fly fishing equivalent of the Army/Navy Game, the Army/Navy Fly Fishing Championship. The commandants of the two military academies hand select their best fly fishers among their cadres of exceptional cadets to compete on the water it seems, and the organizers look to equip each competitor with a box of hand tied flies. I tied two-dozen, 8 each of three of my own patterns. I like to think those flies will help make a memory for those fine young men committed to serving America.

My vise is idle this morning, as I will soon set about the daily task of selecting the bamboo rod to accompany me today. Perhaps a fly line will require cleaning, or a leader may need a new tippet – the preparation is a major part of the ritual. With a look at once more dwindling river flows, a light touch will be welcomed, and my Menscer 3 weight is calling to me from the rod rack…

That rod battled a two-foot wild brown trout to hand just over a month ago, and I hear it’s eager whispers from the rack behind me. Finding another trout like that in skinny water with the autumn spawning season approaching would be a tall order. Favorite pools have appeared rather barren, and I avoid the river’s riffles as September wanes. Our trout have no chance to ascend spawning tributaries that are nearly dry, so Nature’s call must bring them to mid-river riffles, where anglers must leave them alone.

I watched a recent YouTube video while eating breakfast the other day, with some thoughtless guy catching tiny rainbows in skinny water on the Beaver Kill and whooping it up rattling on about the “nice trout”. He thought himself to be quite the fisherman. It looked to be summer, and in or very close to a protected reach that is closed to angling from July to September. I hope some DEC officer sees that clip and comes knocking on that guy’s door.

Extended droughts are survival time for our trout. We must put their welfare above our own joy for fishing. It is simple really: stay out of the riffles, pay attention to the river bottom where you do wade, and don’t fish for any trout you see crowded together in one location. Trout crowd near spring seeps when they are stressed, not to provide a fishing bonanza for some thoughtless plunderer.

Three years ago, I took my last dry fly trout of the season on a beautiful afternoon in late October. That hen fish rose daintily to a perfectly presented size 18 olive in a glassy pool. When I removed the fly I noted her worn and healed tail, clearly advertising her post-spawn condition. She was in fine shape, strong and gorgeously colored. It was another dry autumn, and she had clearly spawned in a mid-river riffle. Droughts seem to come more often this decade, and I felt that valiant fish was a sign of the times: adapt, survive and flourish!

Nature has finally offered a small gift under cover of a pleasantly rainy day. Are our rivers out of trouble? Sadly no, but at least the trout can take a breath for the time being. Color has begun to gather along the rivers and the Quickway, and at last, I shall return to the river.

My week began with doctors, chores and writing, and most anything besides fishing, the balance of it spent praying for rain that did not come, crying for the state of the rivers, and finally thanking Mother Nature for that small gift I spoke of. Today I will carry an old Leonard and a box of dry flies to see what she has wrought.

Thus begins the last race of the dry fly season, the race that might end at any moment. Early autumn is quite beautiful in these Catskill Mountains, but it bows to winter at the slightest provocation.

I still have hope for a grand finale, and a wet and wholly replenishing winter; that the mayflies absent this season may reappear for the next, and the hungry, worried trout find abundance and grace.

I tied a few flies this morning, not that I needed any, but more to pass the morning hours in my own way, to keep my own traditions. The summer vest remains well stocked with most anything I might find upon bright water at this time. The sun can be expected come afternoon, but the day seems perfect for a flannel shirt.

The old Hardy wears a freshly cleaned double taper, it’s leader bearing a good tippet, and needs only to be carried to the car. It is a comfortable fit for the old Leonard, both of them more than half a century old, but fit and ready for the rush of a well-hooked brown!

I made a few very good friends decades ago in my little Cumberland Valley, Pennsylvania fly shop, and two of them have become intertwined in the legacy of a very special bamboo fly rod.

Meeting Tom Smithwick came as a result of a guide trip, hosting an angler who fished one of Tom’s quadrate bamboo fly rods during our day on Falling Spring Branch. Tom would eventually find his way into my shop himself, leaving an amazing one-piece bamboo rod behind. Years later, Tom moved to nearby Shippensburg, PA when he retired, and I got to spend some time with him and cast many of the rods he made over a number of years. I got in the habit of calling Tom The Taper Wizard, being highly impressed with the casting qualities of the rods he made.

John Apgar visited Scotland, Pennsylvania while working on some hi-tech hardware for the military. When he was told about the new fly shop in the village, he made it a point to stop in. The natural comradery between anglers and fly tyers took hold, and we became fast friends, fishing together during the evenings as often as we could. When John’s job location changed, we lost touch, but rekindled our friendship when I retired and moved to the Catskills. We both had developed an interest in split bamboo flyrods to the point that I was fishing bamboo most of the time and John had signed up for the class at the Catskill Fly Fishing Center to learn how to make his own.

When John told me he was looking for a taper for an eight-foot four weight rod to build during his second CFFCM class, I thought of Tom. We messaged and talked about it, and Tom sent John a taper he had designed using convex tapering techniques. I had the chance to cast John’s second rod during a fishing apart session on the Beaver Kill during the Covid lockdown. My impression was quite distinct.

We had finished our fishing and traded rods for a bit of casting. I idly pulled some line off the reel and made a cast, finding the rod to be extremely smooth and sweet tempered. Per my habit, I continued pulling some more line out and extending my casts, with the width of my smile increasing steadily. The rod didn’t feel powerful, but it just kept rolling out smooth beautiful tight loops of fly line further and further out into the river. Eventually I looked down at the reel spool and, seeing just three turns of fly line remaining on the arbor, assumed that John had a cutoff fly line on the fairly small reel. When I asked him about it, he told me it was a full-length line. That’s when I realized this smooth four weight was casting some ninety feet of fly line and leader, with basically no effort. Taper Wizard indeed!

During the next few years, John attended two more classes and made two more bamboo fly rods. After the last class, Mike Canazon, his instructor and steward of the Catskill Rodmakers Workshop at CFFCM, was impressed enough to ask John if he would be willing to serve as an assistant instructor during the following season. When Mike tragically passed away in late 2023, he left his recommendation with the Museum Board that John be named his successor.

After Mike’s passing, his best friend and a friend of ours, Tom Mason gave John some of Mike’s rod making tools and a few culms of his select bamboo. John decided to use one of those culms to make two more of the Smithwick taper eight-foot four weight fly rods, one for Tom Mason, and one for me. Mason was touched and thought this special rod should be called The Friendship Rod. John agreed and numbered the rods TSS-001, TSS-002 and TSS-003 to reflect Tom Smithwick’s taper design.

Tom Mason did not get as far as making a complete cast with his Friendship Rod, pronouncing it “perfect” on his initial back cast. My rod was finished and presented to me at the 31st Catskill Rodmakers Gathering, where the four of us spent some time talking about this amazing taper and John’s beautiful execution in making the three rods. Tom Smithwick was very pleased with the name and the way this rod taper had intertwined among our small group of friends. It was fitting that the rods brought all four of us together at the Gathering, as Tom Smithwick has been a part of these events since the beginning, one of only two men with that long association.

Seeing as the Gathering was our occasion for coming together, our Friendship Rods were offered to other friends, rodmakers and Catskill Fly Tyers Guild members to cast. The taper immediately began to build a group of serious fans, and anglers began to ask about making a rod with the Wizard’s miraculous taper. John’s list of expected serial numbers now runs to TSS-014, the numbers to be finalized only upon completion of each rod by it’s maker.

The hallmarks of character shared by these two men, Tom Smithwick and John Apgar include both an abundance of kindness and a giving nature, and outstanding creativity. The lines cast by the Friendship Rods seem poised to continue to intertwine Smithwick’s special bamboo alchemy through the lives of many more anglers and lovers of the split bamboo fly rod!

In his lovely work on the history of America’s most famous trout river, The Beaverkill, Ed Van Put documented various non-fishing recreational activities popular during the growth of the region’s tourism reputation. Porch sitting was one of those enjoyed by visitors to the fresh air, bright waters and mountains of New York’s Catskills.

When I founded Anglers Rest here in 2018, the first order of business was the reconstruction of the front porch. I labored alone, in a summer far too wet for fishing, and have since regularly enjoyed that historic activity. An ice cold craft beer typically accompanies me.

During the past decade or so, the Catskills have become a craft beer destination! The Roscoe Beer Company was the first microbrewery of my association, inaugurating a serious movement. Catskill Brewery in Livingston Manor followed in 2014 and now has a new neighbor there in the name of Upward Brewing Company. There are many more across the region today, including Hidden Springs Brewhouse, one of my favorites near Chenango Lake in Norwich, NY. These fine establishments add a shine to my evening porch sitting, already flavored by the sunlight, fresh air and view of eagles circling Point Mountain.

I find that kicking back and enjoying the late afternoon sunshine to be the perfect relaxation to reflect upon the day’s angling. Such moments are most poignant now as these last precious days of summer carry hints of autumn on the breeze!

I stole three hours of fishing from other responsibilities yesterday, as the seasons’ first cascade of yellow leaves wafted down to kiss the river. It made for a lovely time there, but did little for fishing success, as every other cast hooked a leaf when I picked up my spent line for another cast.

Alas, the seasons’ turning comes with the realization that Catskill autumns are as brief as they are beautiful. I have not known the dry fly season to survive October! Autumn arrives just two days hence, and I am not ready to surrender my fishing days. The new rods, the Friendship Rod and my Anglers Rest Special compete for my attentions against the whiles of the classics, each wishing for one more day upon these bright waters.

September slips past me, and at last summer comes to it’s inevitable end. The days are shorter now, the morning chill lasts on into early afternoon, and the rivers keep no secrets beneath the thinning curtain of their depleted flows. A rise is an event on days like these.

Season’s end perennially comes too quickly, and autumn, sweet autumn, is brief in these Catskill Mountains.

I struggle to keep thoughts of winter from intruding, from taking my thoughts away from the simple beauty of these last weeks of the dry fly season.

I drove along the Beaver Kill Saturday morning, my somber visage reflecting my deep concern for the health of the great river. Flows have dropped even lower than last summers’ base flow conditions, and I fear for the onset of winter without Nature fully bolstering our meager rainfall throughout the last kiss of autumn. The torrents of May gave hope for the replenishment of the highland’s springs that give birth to all rivers, but September tells the tale… false hope!

My routine beckons: check the river gages, choose a battle plan and select my tackle for the day. Drive the melancholy thoughts from my head and look to savor the last hours of Catskill Summer!

It seems another very dry September has settled upon the Catskill Mountains. The ten-day forecast shows not a drop of rainfall in the offing, and rivers are already shriveled.

The weather has been beautiful, save for the drought, with pleasant sun-filled afternoons and chilly nights. These are perfect days for fishing.

I spent a little time with friends last evening, wading in the shadows of evening in search of a good rise of trout. My friends had enjoyed good action the night before, and we anticipated a similar outing, but the Red Gods kept the mayflies’ numbers sparse as to awaken a rise just here and there. The company was pleasant, the scenery sublime on a clear West Branch evening; as we anglers often say, the fishing was lovely, it was only the catching that was somewhat lacking.

It has been a number of years since I faithfully haunted these rivers at sunset. With the luxury of retirement, I fish in daylight, enjoying all the beauty and wonder of the Catskills – mountains, rivers and sky! In my traveling days I would often fish through each day unto night. Well, at least during my younger traveling days.

Summer evenings are beautiful, though a wealth of my recollections of bygone days reveals many when it was the catching that paled amidst the vast wonder of the outdoor experience.

My first hatch, and the first to capture my heart was the sulfur hatch. These small yellow and orange mayflies were the premier hatch on the Pennsylvania limestone springs, and they entranced us most often at twilight. As the skies neared full darkness, the hatch reached it’s peak and fishing became a frenzy. Time is short, and the time is now!

Those nights are the province of memory now, for my twilight fishing is rare in my later years. I feel that same excitement in daylight now, stalking a soft, barely noticeable dimple in the shade…

The 31st Catskill Rodmakers Gathering convened on September fifth at the Catskill Fly Fishing Center & Museum with enthusiasm high! As always, there were a variety of rods to cast and admire, tapers and techniques to discuss, and old friendships to renew.

This was just my second Gathering, having attended in 2022 as an aficionado, then peeking in last year to enjoy Dr. Peer Doering-Arges’ presentation on Lo o bamboo. This year I qualified, having completed my first hand-made split bamboo fly rod just a week earlier. I enjoyed the chance to have several of my mentors cast my rod and offer their impressions.

My long time Pennsylvania friends and influences, the guys I have referred to as the two Toms, Tom Smithwick and Tom Whittle, both bestowed their approval upon inspection and casting. I met both of these gentlemen in the early 1990’s at Falling Spring Outfitters, my small fly shop in Pennsylvania’s iconic Cumberland Valley. Each has influenced and supported my immersion in the world of split bamboo. My rod was made to a taper designed by Tom Whittle, and he was interested to experience the result of combining his design with the new Vietnamese Lo o bamboo, which has different physical characteristics than the time-honored Tonkin cane.

My dear friend John Apgar, the Steward of the Catskill Rodmakers Workshop as chosen heir to the legacy of the late Mike Canazon, was my primary guide and instructor during the eight months I worked on my rod. Our friendship traces back to Falling Spring Outfitters as well, and this was his first chance to see the finished rod and give it a cast. He offered full approval as I spoke of the magic of that first trout taken on a rod born in my own hands.

We were treated to a number of presentations, both historic and practical. Virginia classic tackle dealer Paul Kearney of Thornton River Fly Tackle gave a thought-provoking talk centered upon the year 1915, making a substantial case for the events of that year marking the birth of the modern fly rod. Angler’s tastes were changing, and rodmakers such as H. L. Leonard and F.E. Thomas were responding with shorter, lighter and faster cane fly rods to meet their demands. The fever for the dry fly was spreading!

Legendary rodmaker and author Hoagy Carmichael delighted us with reminiscences of his time with Everett Garrison, and spoke about his experiences with several of the other masters of the craft. Mr. Carmichael remains one of the most knowledgeable collectors of classic tackle, and displayed an array of gems including a pair of $10,000.00 Garrison rods!

Several of us enjoyed good fun by participating in the casting contest sponsored by the Bellinger Company. I borrowed a unique vintage Leonard Model 66ACM eight-footer and took my shot as the winds blew. I set no records for distance, but chided the scorer that there should be extra points awarded for consistency, as my four scored efforts landed side by side within inches of 66 feet. He told me he had never seen that before, but I replied that I am a fishing caster, a discipline where consistency counts more than maximum reach!

The Catskills seem caught in a cycle of cold nights, and warm dry days, looking and feeling like both summer and autumn. A little rain teased us during the Gathering weekend but worked no magic for our trickling rivers. The magic in the air was all provided by comradery and a deep interest and passion for the craft of split bamboo rod making. Can’t wait until next year!