It has been refreshing these past two mornings, with temperatures in the fifties and that first breath of autumn’s preview. The rivers continue to drop, and I write this morning wishing the overnight rainfall we were promised had given them a freshening as these two mornings have given me. Maybe today the promise will be fulfilled…

There is a special rod that was conceived for extreme low water conditions such as this, a rod I asked simply to do the impossible. My idea was an eight-foot three weight, a taper to fish fine and far off with my battery of summer flies with the greatest delicacy, a rod that could handle trophy fish without risk to the fairy light tips such delicacy of presentation requires. Who else but the Catskills’ master rodmaker Dennis Menscer could accomplish this feat?

When Dennis presented me with the finished rod last February I was shaking, and not from the cold wind whipping snowflakes from the skies. The anticipation built all through spring until summer and it’s most demanding fishing conditions arrived. The rod passed the test last summer, bringing browns of twenty and twenty-one inches to hand and I was ecstatic with it’s combination of grace and power.

Yesterday presented greater challenges. A cool breeze came intermittently, with gusts to challenge so light a rod. The Red Gods played their games, and I missed two good fish as I tensed watching wind shortened drifts. The sun finally made a full appearance as midday approached, and the water grew quiet.

A week ago, I had watched a few scattered rises, unable to find any trace of insect life on the surface. I glimpsed a brace of small mayflies flying above the river, too distant to even hope to identify. Later, at my tying bench, I considered the writings of the late Ed Van Put and his steadfast reliance upon the Adams dry fly any time he found trout rising over a miraculous angling career. I tied half a dozen of my poster style Adams dries, visible to my aging eyes at distance with the reflective properties of their pale gray Antron wing post. Standing in the river wishing for even one small rise in the diminished flow, I thought of Van Put and his Adams, and tied my little poster to my tippet. It seems Ed sent me a little of his Adams magic.

Cast near the bank I had been fishing without response, the tiny fly drifted perhaps a foot before the head of a large trout splashed up and devoured it! I was caught off guard, frantically wrangling loose line as the light rod assumed a deep, throbbing bend.

Oh, it was a wonderful show, that great brown running hard and pushing a bow wake in the shallow water once I turned him away from the deeper cover. Dennis’ perfect taper worked him hard yet protected the fine tips of the bamboo while the St. George regaled with it’s chorus!

So how does a three-weight bamboo fly rod handle two feet of wild Catskill brown trout? Perfectly if it’s Menscer’s masterpiece!

August has been hard to figure out. For a terrestrial fisherman like myself, high summer is the time for Nature’s trout food to get bigger. Trouble is the water is shrinking and I have been sitting here at my bench this morning tying shrunken patterns.

Usually, I am fishing the larger versions of my stable of summer flies, with the exception of flying ants, but their productivity has trailed off. The trout tend to range at this time of year as water temperatures rise and flows decrease. That seems to be amplified due to the general lack of summer hatches. I have seen very few of the once prolific summer sulfurs, none of the little pale olives, and no tiny spinners. Common sense says the trout should be eager for a substantial meal, yet here I am tying miniaturized versions of my summer killers.

Rod work has gotten in the way of my fishing too, as I race to finish my bamboo flyrod project in time for the 31st Catskill Gathering just after Labor Day. Divided intentions don’t lead to the perfections of either quest.

Better weather is coming they say, with a week of true Catskill Summer weather ahead. Those kinds of days are conducive to longer angling outings, giving me a break from the heat as well as the trout. Sadly, there looks to be just a trace of rain in the ten-day forecast.

Hard to imagine it, but we have passed mid-August already. Despite a glorious beginning, the days turned hot, and rain came barely at all. As river flow declined, so too the fishing.

One event certainly commanded my attention. It was morning, crisp and cool, though not as early as I would have liked, as I stalked upriver in another hopeful search for a hunter. There was a sudden rustling in the brush, followed by gentle rippling of the water behind me, and I turned to see a young fawn in the shallows. Without warning, the little deer began bounding through the river straight toward me, veering just in time to pass me by four or five feet, running straight through the loops of fly line trailing in the water. Amazingly, the fawn avoided tangling it’s legs in the line and bounded quickly straight across to the far bank, vanishing amid the foliage of the forest’s edge. I didn’t check my watch for my heart rate… I didn’t need to!

The month has become zero hour for my rodmaking venture. Thanks to the vagaries of Mother Nature, the tasks spilled from winter through flooded spring and on into summer, and now the Catskill Gathering is just three weeks away!

Last Saturday JA and I attacked the project anew, mounting ferrules and tiptops, after checking dimensions and cutting the four rod sections to their final lengths. I wrapped the epoxied ferrules with dental floss and headed home, with finishing to begin on Sunday morning.

The hand rubbed application of Tru-Oil gun stock finish produces a very nice rod finish and is more achievable for those of us who lack the proper work area for varnishing. A few days’ time is required, as JA recommends some fourteen coats. I realized when removing the dental floss on Sunday that we had both forgotten the straightening needed on one rod tip, so the finishing process began for three rod sections instead of four.

The first coat was applied Monday at five o’clock, then the second through the sixth coats working early mornings and evenings. Sanding was accomplished yesterday at the Catskill Rodmakers Workshop. I had stained the curly maple reel seat spacer to bring out the beauty of my favorite wood’s figuring, so the work began yesterday with epoxying the spacer onto the butt. Once cured, the preparation and basic construction of the custom cork grip proceeded with individual cork rings being selected and filed to enlarge the bored holes, fitting each to the tapered rod butt. Fitted and glued, the rings are fitted to the clamp and tightened.

This Saturday morning, I began the second phase of finishing (the first on that laggard, just straightened tip) which will include two coats with a light sanding between.

JA is featured fly tyer at the Museum today, so I’ll visit and give him some good old-fashioned encouragement by kibitzing and arguing that his beautifully tied Thunder Creek Streamers won’t float worth a damn. If you are in the region today, stop by and watch a master at work! I have seen JA tie these flies before and his work is not to be missed.

Long hours and distance have been the main ingredients of my summer fishing. It is wholly a down year, with little in the way of summer hatches, the predictable low water conditions, and very few fish showing any evidence of their presence. I shared the water with an eagle yesterday, and even he looked a bit worn from extra hours of hunting. It was a week for fishing out of the way lies and changing tactics.

The trout should be hungry, but I believe many are ranging wider than normal due to the scarcity of flies. I think back to the morning I watched a little water snake get devoured in a terrific boil. Haven’t seen that before, not in more than three decades of wandering trout waters. Low water makes the approach all the more difficult, and casting distance and delicacy paramount.

It’s easy to get sloppy during a long, hot day, powering the rod too much for the distance so that the presentation suffers. I tend to do it when I get tired. Bamboo makes it somewhat easier to self-correct, but it still takes concentration to diagnose one’s failings and correct them. In tough conditions, you may get only one chance, and it is painful to blow that opportunity with a poor cast.

I went down to a three-weight outfit yesterday, a T&T graphite rod graced with a lovely little Hardy reel, and coached myself to ease up on the power. Faster, stiffer graphite rods tend to make casters punch them, and that really isn’t the answer to more distance.

I chose the three-weight to suit the conditions, and once I forced myself to maintain a light touch, I found what I was looking for – a chance to spin that little Hardy and make some of that special English chamber music!

Yesterday was sort of a training session for Dennis Menscer’s 8′ three-weight masterpiece to come on deck next week. There is no appreciable rain in our ten-day forecast, and the coolest day in that run is advertising a high temperature of 83. Fishing is not going to get easier.

An old acquaintance could make an appearance as a backup too. Back in the day, Orvis was the last holdout to move to manufacturing fly rods with stiffer, faster actions and higher modulus material. The debuted their “PM-10″ rods in lighter line weights when I owned my fly shop, including an 8′-4” two weight that I eventually had to own. If the wind blows a bit hard for bamboo, that 842 might be reintroduced to the Catskills.

I was late to the river, life taking my full attention earlier in the morning, and the sun had already warmed away most of the mists and clearly defined the lines of light and shade. I had chosen the sweet, old St. George to accompany the vintage 50 DF and felt the balance was about perfect in my hand.

As I have learned more about the legacy of old Hiram Leonard, I have recognized a definite preference the rods demonstrate for a classic double tapered line. The reel however wore a modern favorite, one of Airflo’s Tactical Tapers, so I turned away from the intended water to make a short cast to see if the old rod approved. It turned over all sixteen feet of leader perfectly, so I took the fly in hand and waded gently into the river’s flow.

One of the lessons decades upon bright water teaches is the importance of drift lines. These are not the main current paths with their seams and chutes, their lurking boulders beneath. Consciousness of such are among the first lessons an angler learns. The drift lines I speak of are the subtle, minor currents, those traces through a pool which may only appear to the observant. They are revealed sometimes by nothing more than an occasional glint of light, a few specks of leaf matter or foam. Time has taught me to observe and consider this evidence.

I chose one such line of drift for my first fishing cast of the day, and the sweetness of classic bamboo placed my chosen dry fly in the heart of it. There in the early shade the little hopper drifted four or five feet and met another lurker interested in that same, subtle line of drift.

There is nothing to quite compare with the voice of a classic Hardy click check when a good trout runs for his freedom. It is a sound that thrills my soul!

August has arrived with that lovely morning chill and sunny, warm afternoons! Summerfest has come to the Catskill Fly Fishing Center and Museum this very weekend, and I wandered the tents and tables with glee for yesterday’s opening. I even tied a fly at the Guild’s table! Casters were working their best for the Hardy Cup and vendors offered much in the way of classic cane, vintage reels and memorabilia. Master hackle grower Charlie Collins brought down a beautiful assortment of capes for the fly tyers to covet. Of course, I bought a couple myself!

July bowed out last week and blessed us with a day of rain which cooled off our boiling atmosphere, leaving August’s dawn delightful. I wandered the rivers, shivered just a little in the early morning breeze, and found an unexpected hatch.

A few tiny sulfurs drifted where a riffle tailed out, and here and there a larger mayfly could be seen. I fished with the more plentiful small sulfur, but the better rises seemed rather strong for these mayflies. No trout touched mine, so eventually I got the message. Though barely a handful of larger sulfurs emerged, those were what the best fish wanted!

A size 14 100-Year Dun, a pattern put away since May, replaced the 16, and a strong rise began a long engagement with a beautiful 20-inch brownie! I slipped him back after retrieving my fly and he shot away back to his lie. Looking for another? Such gifts are usually brief, but to be there for the right half hour can be sublime!

I tied a couple more of those canted wing fourteens early yesterday morning, after donning an insulated shirt to ward off the 50-degree chill here at my bench. Taking it easy on this Sunday morning I added another to re-stock my summer boxes, along with a CDC dun variation and a trio of my Pale Isonychias.

My tyers log stands at sixty dozen, just a month past the halfway mark for 2025.

Sitting hear and dreaming, I can still feel the last of the morning chill, though we are headed past eighty today.

It is more or less the mid-point of our dry fly season, and I hope that this second half will be fruitful. Driving along Route 17 in yesterday’s morning mist I asked that September be a little cool and wet as opposed to the hot, dry, low-flow riverscapes of recent years. Good, cold river flows might just stimulate some more surprise hatches like those sulfurs! Sometimes I wonder if Nature holds a few in dormancy when unfavorable conditions predominate. There is still much we do not know about her magical control of our ecosystem.

Between enjoying the prime days of midsummer, there is much left to do at the rod shop, for the Catskill Gathering is barely a month away!

I had one of those far too rare chances to fish with my buddy the other day. It was a nice, misty morning that warmed into brilliant sunlight on bright water. I had high hopes for success, but of course realize that doesn’t come around whenever we want it to. It is enough to go fishing…

We fished on through the mist and into the brilliance of full sunlight without a hookup. Our plan was to fish a couple of pools, one early and one late, and JA was moving to the bank as I came slowly down river. I took a moment to make a couple of critical casts.

A long cast was sent on it’s way, the line mended judiciously to extend the drift, as I watched the Grizzly Beetle float down, down, down into the promised land. There was no take that I could discern, but a sudden soft bow in the line told me something was afoot, and I tightened into a state of nirvana.

The river was cold this early and this trout was feeling his oats, ripping the line in mad dashes so that my little Hardy Bougle` was screaming, shattering the morning silence as we danced. JA made haste in his photographer mode while I gave the old boy all of the muscle the eight feet of vintage Colorado cane could spare. Finally tired from those runs, I led him close enough to slip the net beneath.

There are not too many things more beautiful than a gorgeously colored wild brown trout in the glow of Catskill morning sunlight. I eased the fish into alignment with the measuring centerline of the net and smiled as all two feet of him splashed a bit of that cold water in my face; and then the bubble burst.

I spotted my reliable Grizzly Beetle right there in the top of his neb. Had he taken the fly and spit it out by the time I noticed the line movement and tightened? Or had he come up and bumped the fly once a hint of drag betrayed it as a fraud? I’ll never know the answers, just as this wonderful brownie will never grace my log as a fair catch.

This has been a difficult season to say the least. Such are the wages of angling, though I am thankful for every day, each hour that I am graced to wander these Catskill rivers. Perhaps Mr. Neb and I will meet again. A bit of leader adjustment, a modification of fly, or a change in casting angle may prove to be the key to success…

July is almost behind us; the second half of the season begins slipping away…

My thoughts are clearing slowly this morning, looking to focus on my trip to the Rodmaker’s Workshop in a few hours. More strong coffee will be required before I am ready to meet the challenges ahead.

July has been as consistently hot as advertised, it’s fishing up and down as has been the character of this 2025 season. But a couple of days have brought the pleasant weather I know and crave in the lovely images of memory: Catskill Summer.

Fishing has meant some long days, rising well before the sun and stalking the mist, then extending my search through the bright, steamy afternoons. The body feels the strain, as age is relentless. I feel what I have always considered to be a good tired, one borne of a fulfilling and noble pursuit, but the dues increase with each passing year. The work of angling though, has not been without it’s rewards!

On one long summer’s day I turned the tables, adapting to a new season of change. I fished an afternoon reach just after daybreak and found a worthy adversary. He charged from cover in a rush as the steel found it’s mark!

Long runs highlighted the battle, until the pull of the arching cane led him ultimately to hand. Just shy of two feet, he was beautiful there among the meshes, quickly returned that he might recover the great energy expended for my benefit. With turnabout working I migrated to a morning haunt come afternoon and was blessed to encounter his twin as the winds stirred the summer air!

There seem to be additional dues to be paid for such successes this year. I missed a fine trout at week’s end, changed the fly and cast again. Unbelievably he took, though our association ended just as quickly in a broken strand of fluorocarbon. Another hour of searching brought this days’ search to a bitter end, when a backcast collapsed, the rod broken summarily at the ferrule.

I have several rods out of commission it seems: one broken along with my heart, a loose ferrule here, chipped varnish there. Of course, the clock is ticking on my own rod making project, a call I must answer today.

Make no mistake, the joys of this Catskill life are many, but the dues paid have proved stiff this season. On my last visit to the Rodmaker’s Workshop, I found one glued up rod tip ready for finish work, the other though mysteriously uncured. Alcohol removed the gooey mess of the faulty epoxy, and the tip was reglued thanks to John’s persistence. Today’s trip will reveal whether this second effort brings success. Much work remains, as I wish to complete the Angler’s Rest Special for the 31st Catskill Gathering in early September.

When a big fish beats you, its pretty much expected that a return engagement is warranted. Ma Nature and her trout don’t always allow another opportunity of course, but some of us that remain impassioned by this grand game tend to seek them anyway. I have been guilty of carrying that to extreme, maybe even obsession.

With one day of fishing remaining last week, my thoughts were centered on that trout that didn’t rise, yet managed to keep my Grizzly Beetle at the early ending of our surprise encounter. The forecast was bleak: rain and thunderstorms, winds 15 to 20 miles per hour, with a side of hot and humid despite the overcast. Of course I was going fishing.

I made one concession, taking along my old Winston BIIX four weight, yes a plastic fly rod, as I didn’t wish to get my choice bamboo soaked when the deluge came. I know how the Red Gods think, and I figured I was due for another soaking.

The little Winston has mojo. It served as my everyday rod on the Cumberland Valley spring creeks for a good run of seasons. Winston even put my name on it. In my humble opinion, the mid-2000’s Boron II X rods were the best of the boron/graphite fly rods that Winston made. They had a really nice flexing medium action, particularly that little eight-footer that could do everything required on my spring creeks.

So, mojo in hand I set out that afternoon to find the forecast was about 180 degrees off course. Hazy, hot and humid ruled, with nary a drop of rainfall and a fair amount of sunshine. The trout seemed to be elsewhere as I worked the same plan of attack as I had the day before. The Red Gods did have something in store for me though.

I was getting close to the location of my non-rising, tippet breaking foe when my solitude was interrupted by a terrific splashing and rustling near the downstream shoreline. I quickened my wading to the limits of stealth, but I was going to come up short of my target. Three wader clad individuals emerged from the bushes with an electroshocking rig, fine meshed nets, buckets and assorted gear, courtesy of New York State. They were just far enough downstream that their sloshing about hadn’t immediately sent waves across the river toward the primary lies I had come to fish, seeking a rematch, but they began to move upstream.

I managed to get into position as the seconds ticked away toward disaster, wading deeper and with poorer footing than I had planned, and started casting the venerable Grizzly Beetle toward fate’s doorway.

I was watching my casts and my drifts, and looking over my shoulder to check the progress of disturbance, with my nerves getting frazzled. Turning back with my line retrieved for another cast, I caught a streak of motion beneath overhanging cover, and then a soft wide ring opened and radiated outward. My arm dropped and I sent a side armed cast low and gently beneath the lie’s ceiling, checking my wrist to drop the fly downstream of tippet, leader and line. I watched those little barbs of grizzly hackle catch the light, and tracked them right into the spreading rings of another soft, wide ring of the rise.

A pause, a solid strike, and then I was backing away and stripping line to draw the trout from the cover he had so effectively used to defeat me. Avoiding a dunking when the precarious footing sought to betray me, I managed to control the big fellow and get him headed downstream against the drag. No teeth would cut the tippet this time.

In the net at last, he was a gorgeous, heavy and uniquely colored brown taping 23 inches. I found no fly in his mouth save the one still attached to me and my little Winston. The same fish? I cannot know with certainty, but the chances are good. Caught just in time, before the Red Gods new little twist of fate could rob me of the chance!

Hot weather has dominated these Catskills for the first half of July, there is no question about that. There is a little relief in the forecast, but for the most part the heat will continue.

Usually, July’s hot weather brings good fishing, but this first half for 2025 has been hit or miss. The summer heat is good for my style of fishing, stalking trout out hunting for a good meal, but just when things started to pick up in that regard, those trout seemed to vanish. When the fish change habits, the old angler has to change his tactics. I did that yesterday, though I probably should have tried it a week ago.

I went deep into stealth mode, dressing for the afternoon heat, wading deep, and downsizing flies. I worked some water that looked more than simply inviting but offered no signs of life. I kept at it of course, moving with agonizing slowness and placing long, delicate casts where my instincts said they should go.

Wild trout play their part in tune with the Red Gods of course, and they couldn’t resist taking a few jabs at my psyche. Fifty yards into my deep-water creep, I heard a little plop back upstream. Ah, so there is life up there… This wasn’t the situation which allowed me to back track, so I kept working, sticking with my plan.

I was a couple of hours into my hunt and made several casts to an old favorite haunt. No sign of life once more. My mind wandered back to the early years of my retirement, when this place was red hot. I took some great fish during the hatch season and even more when summer arrived! There seemed to always be a big old brownie in this location. I didn’t always catch one there, but there was almost always one there to match wits with. The spot had gone cold a few years ago, and I mean ice cold. I had not seen any evidence of a trout using that hide for something like five seasons. I often wondered if there had been some bit of unseen cover that had washed away in high water, some way that Nature had changed that lie to make it unattractive to trout.

All of this history ran through my mind as I creeped along and worked my casts around the edges and then deep into the hole. Nothing. No surprise. One cast drifted my fly along the edge very tight to the bank as I squinted in the high sunshine to follow it’s drift. I never saw a take, but slowly saw the long leader start to bow as if the fly was no longer floating free. Tightening gently, I felt resistance and raised the rod to a boil in the calm surface.

This was a big fish, and I got him started toward me. When he bulled against my pressure, I made the fatal mistake. I held my ground and reeled up the slack line to get him on the reel, and he used that moment of stalemate to wrap me around something. I felt the tippet break and the line go slack.

I do like to play big fish from the reel. Loose fly line has a knack for tangling on anything available, even itself. Line management is one of the little difficulties of fishing fine and far off. Getting that slack line back onto the reel and out of trouble is important. Did I break a Cardinal rule? Well, everything in fishing has some flux depending upon the situation, but it usually pays to keep a fish coming away from any cover you hooked him in. I thought I had him in a safe spot, but I didn’t.

I have never given up on that particular trout lie, despite five seasons of wondering why the fish seemed to have abandoned it. Maybe time has let me take a few things for granted, and maybe I wasn’t giving my fishing the full concentration required in the moment. I will be looking for that cagey old fellow the next time I fish that reach of river though! You can bet on it.