Trestle and Thanksgiving

My favorite place to fish is this spot on a local stream called the Trestle Pool. No matter how much I doctor the picture it does not do it justice. 

Hope you all found the time to wet a line on one of your favorite streams this Thanksgiving weekend. I'm thankful for many things; one of them being having all of you around. 

Enjoy the Holidays.

Mike

The Honey Hole (epilogue)

Days turned to weeks as the insatiable need to return to the Delaware became too much to bear.  Such things happen when one loses a large trout and then proceeds to lose not only sleep, but also numerous waking hours thinking of said fish. A day off between the two of us back in mid October proved to be all The Mick and I needed to make our trip. It would consist of a two and a half hour drive up, a fishing window of 6 hours, and the reverse trip back.  Would you wake at 3:30 A.M. knowing you would drive a total of 5 hours to fish 6? I believe this might be considered by some to be a form of mental illness but there are those who regularly do these kinds of trips on actual business so, hey, who's calling who crazy? 

It was a relaxed day of fishing with a quiet approach that produced success in both of our nets. As fate would have it, another big guy got off on this fine autumn venture.  This time I saw him, though, as he hung five or six feet from me for what felt like an eternity as I attempted to get him to net. I couldn't reach him and I couldn't horse him. But I saw him. He was glorious. 

I will get out fishing. Maybe Thanksgiving, maybe Christmas, February,  March,  I don't exactly know. But the fish that I hooked on the Delaware late in the game this year have both settled me and fueled me as I anticipate the next fishing season. 

Thanks for sharing my Delaware journey with me these last few posts and I wish you all visions of tight lines as the short days are here and the cold follows behind.

The Honey Hole (Part 2)

Gentleman's hours.  That's what we'd been saying for about a week or so before we made it up to Roscoe.  No more waking at 4 a.m. to fish in the dark after sitting around a fire pit until 1 a.m.  We had done this plenty in the past and we'd proven nothing. Time and experience begin to prevail on any number of things in life and sleeping until 7 or 8 on a fly fishing trip is one of those things.  The coffee was good and hot as we suited up quietly for the morning outing.

"Tom," I said, "you're with me, brother. Gotta get down to that hole and get you on some fish."

He replied softly as he glanced up from buckling his wader belt, "Sounds good, man."

We worked our way down the stream in the grey morning.  A couple of gentle rises in the large pool just down from the bridge proved too hard for me to ignore.  Tom hung back and puffed a cigarette.  The purple smoke hung tight to his head in the dewy air.  I cast carefully to the wake of the rises.  Not carefully enough.  Nothing doing.

"Screw it, man, let's go," I grumbled.

He laughed.  I don't like to lose a challenge and my brother knows it.  Ah well, those that know us best...

We trudged across the barren stream.  More rock than water at parts.  I looked at his set up and adjusted it a bit.  Not much was being said between us but what was, was important.  We'd been through something this past year and he's been through more so the sentiment was appreciated by both.  It's funny that even brothers in their forties can have growing pains.  More rock than water at parts, I guess you could say.  It was a simple moment and I don't wish to dress it up as more than it was, but I am still thankful for it.

On to the "Honey Hole" that I had found on the previous day.  We were going to nymph it and we were going to nymph it hard.  I handed Tom his rod and described the drift, the angle, the flip, the repeat, the whole nine.  He stepped up like a champ and began to prove himself a quick study.  A fish was on within the first couple of casts.  An immediate smile burst through the cold slate background.  The rod bouncing and dancing, me coaching, The Mick shuffling quickly upstream to take in the action.  And then, fish...off.  Shoot.

"Alright," I said, "get back at it.  Hook another one."

He did.  It didn't take long until we had a fish in the net, the first ever on a fly rod for Tom, with more to follow.  It was, as the kids these days would say, epic.  Soon downstream were Big Jimmy and Jay as we all began to line up at "The Hole".  We caught any number of trout  between us that morning as the rain began to happily fall.  I don't think any of us felt a drop. These guys had been coming up here once a year for the past three years with not a whole heck of a lot to show for it only for the dam to finally break.  It got to the point that The Mick and I were competing on hook ups to net ratio...I mean, who's ever had this opportunity?   Not us.  This was an embarrassment of riches and we all appreciated the bounty. The fish, for the most part, were small and feisty, and were barely out of the water before we could get them back in and they would dart back to the depths.  We wondered out loud if it was the same few fish and every once in a while a "brute" would barrel down on our nymphs just to put a thump in the hearts of us and either break off or just bury themselves and spit the hook.  Lots of "the one that got away" fodder for the Bloody Marys that followed back at the cabin.  This window of time on the water was something I know I might never witness again but it will play on "repeat" in the mind for as long as I can roam the streams.

After the late breakfast the rain came harder. The boys were full of bacon and eggs. The breakfast beer paired nicely with the meal but I knew my limit. There was a full day of fishing ahead, and, as you might recall in my last post,  I asked you to decide if the Mick and I were just passionate or straight up fishing junkies, well...

The car rolled out with just the two of us and the "Big D" on the brain.  The wide waterway with it's promise of fat fish in the riffles had us travelling over sodden hills and through farming valleys on the back roads of the Catskills.  I hadn't ever witnessed as many deer as I had along that day's adventures. We'd try a spot where we'd park in NY and then enter and fish from PA. We huddled under the rear hatch as the water pounded down.  It was a quiet business like approach. I made reference to Gierach who once stated something like "some people wouldn't think this was fun."  Of course, who of us, writer and reader, wouldn't?  I always think of that when fishing in the rain and chuckle at the absurdity.

The Mick starts to pound the runs with what he calls "trout candy", a big yellow and brown stone fly with rubber legs, and is rewarded yet again with two handsome and hard fighting browns.  As the rain begins to tame, he decides it time for a stogie and props himself up on a rock for a bit with a subtle satisfaction.  I'm having one of those outings where I'm constantly introducing my ass to my elbow so I might finally know the difference.  I'm happy for my partner but, as it goes, his success becomes my demise.  I am rushing and moving too fast, and at one point I snagged the fly off of my line and probably fished a straight split-shot for 10 or 15 minutes because I was being too lazy to check the rig.  Upon making the realization that I had been fishing a completely useless setup I proclaimed to the hills across, "Like I needed the practice?!?!" to which The Mick bellowed with laughter.  I decide it is a good time for a break as well.

There is the unmistakable wafting smell of camp smoke rising through the trees about seventy five yards or so behind us.  Glancing back I catch a glimpse of a makeshift civilization with trailers, tents, and tarps abound in no particular order. We are close enough to the site to sense that it's inhabitants must all be huddled somewhere just waiting for the weather to break and soon enough a couple or three kids come bounding to the bank upstream of us and begin hurling rocks into the river. They have claimed their freedom from their parents and from the rain and they shine with the essence of childhood curiosity and grit.  We were fishing in Pennsylvania, parked on the NY side, but it felt like we parked in 2014, and were fishing in 1957.

The drive to the spot we had been the previous evening was laden with the scenery of the Delaware.  Low lying sun broke through the day's worn out rain clouds and glimpses of the river through the windshield reflected it's golden glow as dusk quickly approached.  It was a longer ride than either of us figured but there is something comforting in driving along on a fishing trip when no one is expecting you. The guys, we would find out later, had fished some on the Willow and had napped some.  Their only concern of our arrival was whether or not we would be replenishing the Roscoe Beer supply.  We would be.

Our destination had arrived with little time to fish but the Isonychia were soon spotted. I was thankful to end the day with the dry fly and combed the water up and down until I found some risers.  The light was nearly gone.  After fishing nymphs all day, the sensation of snagging the bottom becomes one of muscle memory.  So much so that when the trout hit the dry fly, my brain told me that I had snagged bottom.  I quickly re-calibrated the thought and soon decided that I had a large fish on.  Upon my realization he made a tremendous splash in the dark water and then burrowed down to the bottom.  This fish was powerful and he let me know it.  His runs were purposeful. He peeled line, stopped, hunkered down, and waited for me to walk downstream.  He did this about three or four times and I never even got close to him.  The Mick was fishing downstream from me and at one point, my bicep aching, I looked up at him with the rod doubled over and yelled, "I don't know what to do??"  I was outmatched.  Upon finishing my sentence the line went slack and the fish was gone.  I bellowed out one sweet and clear profanity into the night sky. It was a heart breaker.

We rode home down Route 17 back toward Roscoe.  Trout Town, USA.  The kind of place where both "Honey Holes" and "heart breakers" exist and they are both sealed in in my memory along with the backdrop of laughter of friends and family, both here and gone.

As always,  I can't wait to go back.

  

The Honey Hole (Part 1)

The water was low but spirits were high.  We arrived in Roscoe on Friday morning with all reports saying to steer clear of the Beaverkill and Willowemoc.  Tough to do when a group of six guys is bunking on the banks of said Willow (www.creeksidecabins.com).  Our annual trip is always full of fishing surprises, the nature of late summer/early fall fishing, and this would be no different.  We'd explore new waters this year but our boots hit the Willow immediately.

The sun was brilliant that morning.  Almost as bright as the laughter which began while suiting up and would run its course throughout the weekend.  Trout were spotted from the top of the Hazel Bridge, lazily finning and sipping below.

"I'm gonna go catch those fish", my brother in law stated as he hurriedly wrangled into his waders.

"I'm gonna watch and laugh for awhile as you spook the hell out of 'em, Mick", I replied.

He grinned as if to say "screw you" but we both knew that this would most likely prove to be true.  We had similar conditions last year and those same fish under that bridge were nearly impossible to catch unless there was low light and fine leaders.  Or better fishermen I suppose.  Be that as it may I couldn't blame him.  To walk away from fish that you can see takes a certain amount of willpower that neither of us carry.  Only reason I wasn't hanging around was because he called it first.  That and I was enjoying a post road trip cigar.  Ah, the simple things.

Two of us, my longtime friends Phill and Jay who were already at it, had arrived before The Mick and I and two followed shortly after.  They pulled into the dusty lot just as my partner had headed for the stream and I had snubbed out the smoke and began to suit up.  They were my buddy Jimmy and my brother Tom.  It should be stated that the only "religious" fisherman (or junkies...you decide) are the aforementioned Mick and yours truly.  The other four have varying experience with fly fishing but it is fairly safe to say that they basically fish about 48 hours a year; the Roscoe trip.  Not exactly easy to string up and throw a fly line into the Catskill waters without any homework or water time but, hey, the beer (Trout Town Amber) is cold and the fire pit is warm.  Still and all there were two guys left within our hodgepodge group of "Roscoe 6" misfits who had yet, in three previous annual trips, to catch a trout.  One of them was Jay, a guy who'd give you his right arm even though yours was fine, who recently ventured up to the East Branch of the Croton back in August with me where I was able to help him net his first brown.  He's slowly becoming a student of the sport and I think the experience of a bouncing five weight on the Croton will sure help things along up here.  My brother, Tom, has never felt the bend of the rod in any river, excepting maybe the bottom of the stream bed.  I was hoping to change that.  He's the kind of guy that really fulfills the old adage that my Dad used to say, "catching fish is a bonus."  I honestly think he could care less about "catching" but one wouldn't know that until they knew what it was they didn't care about.  Get it?  Either way, I needed to get these guys on fish.

That is where the "Honey Hole" comes in.

Big Jimmy has a knack for well timed dirty humor that is paired with a perfectly sweet kind of "you know you love me" smile and after a few of his famous "guffaw" ribs at me I was on my way.  I had a hunch about a run that I am familiar with just downstream so, smilingly, off I went.  I made it to the general vicinity of where I wanted to fish but before I got to the "spot", I saw a boulder protruding in some shallow riffles that I wouldn't have seen in higher water.  A flip of a nymph just behind this rock brought up a nice feisty wild brown.  First cast.  Wow.  So much for the Willow being "unfishable".  Perhaps it was an accident, I thought.  I should confess that as many fish as I have been fortunate to tangle with, whether on a dry, streamer, or nymph, they still all have the feeling of at least being "partially accidental".  I promptly snapped a picture in amazement and released the small fish quickly.

I ventured a little further downstream with not much success and eventual texts from the others about my whereabouts and whether or not we could get into the cabin and what was for lunch.  I'll tell you the truth I could just about fish all day and forget that I'm supposed to check in or supposed to eat, piss, crap, what have you.  The texts were helpful.  I decided to venture back upstream.  On my way I saw another run that had never existed to the eye before in higher flows.  This was bubbling, shallow, fast water, followed immediately by a plunge pool with depths of about 5 feet or so and the length of maybe two and a half bathtubs.  I figured that with all of that oxygen and all of that cover there had to be trout down there. The Mick had just come downstream to report on all those fish he spooked up in the gin clear shallows as I was throwing a splitshot or two on my rig.  Again, within the first or second cast up came a slender and long rainbow who put up a nice fight.  Boy, this trip was shaping up.

Mick and I discussed those picky fish he was after as we slogged our way back upstream and that perhaps we could get them at dark on some streamers.  We decided as well that I had stumbled across a good small stretch of water and we should get some of these guys on this run at some point.  Lastly, we discussed how low the water truly was and that the Beaverkill would be no different.  We'd gotten some good advice from some friends "in the know" earlier in the week that was sealed solid when we spoke to Dennis over at Catskill Flies upon entering town via exit 94 that morning.  We needed to fish the Delaware.

The boys cracked lots of smiles and a beer or two over "catch up" talk as the early afternoon arched to mid afternoon and pulled pork sandwiches from the slow cooker back home warmed the scene.  The vibration in the fishing lodge at that moment could be summed up readily by a Robert Earle Keene tune that we play up their religiously called Feelin' Good Again and we sure were.  On to the business at hand, though, which was letting the guys know that we'd be travelling a half hour or so west out to Hancock to try our run at some "Big D" rainbows in the riffles.  We'd leave soon and be there 'til dark.  All were game.  We geared up and peeled off.

There is something exciting about venturing to new water.  I guess it goes hand in hand with fishing on a whole; a constant quest for the unknown.  Throwing a line in the water on the off chance that you might find and bring up something on the other end is the crux of the matter and doing it on new water deepens the experience.  Driving to the Main Stem of the "Big D" had me both excited and curious and feeling about twenty years younger than I am.

After a few directional misfires and some confusing signage that led to a section that we were told had solid riffles, we finally arrived.  My brother in law is a no nonsense kind of guy.  He goes about his fishing in as methodical a way as anyone who carries a fly rod.  He doesn't get ruffled and he knows how to laugh at himself.  Something I aspire to.  We make a good pair on the streams and I was really following his lead on this mammoth of a river.  He marched through the pines and onto the bank, he looked carefully yet swiftly at the seams, picked his spot, tied on his stonefly, and he was on fish in no time.  The guy always manages to impress me and then downplays his success.  One thing we do share in common is rooting for the other guy.  We have what can readily be described as a friendly competition with each other but both of us more like to push the other guy than to root against him.  With that said, here he is on a brand new river that's twice as wide as the largest river we've ever been on, and he's got two handsome wild fish in the net, a brown and a bow.  Impressive to say the least.  The sonofabitch.

As for myself, I am moving up and down the river and fishing a nearly identical rig as the Mick, all the while ignoring the fish that are rising around me and wondering why I am not finding the same success.  I start doing everything wrong with my subsurface attempts.  I am moving with no purpose, getting a bit frantic and just plain thinking way too much about the whole business.  I decide to stop and snap a picture of Tom, who fishes just downstream from me.  With a backdrop so quietly beautiful behind him, I am immediately aware in that moment that our father is there in those mountains and that he is pleased.  Now if I could just stop fishing like an idiot and remember why I am really there.  I need to take my cue from my brother and not worry so much about the "catching". 

After giving the proper thanks that this moment has afforded me, I begin to finally listen to my instincts and I change my set up from 4X nymphing to 5 and finally 6X tippet and a nice looking, locally tied, Isonychia.  These big insects were drying their wings all along the stream top but it seemed that the fish were only keying into these bugs in certain stretches of the river.  I wandered around for a while looking closely for what I had ignored upon my arrival; a solid pod of rising fish.  I finally found one and began to go to work.  These were what some would call "smart fish".  I am not sure about this popular theory but I do know that one thing is for sure, and I had just proven this to myself; there are most certainly dumb fishermen.  

After a couple of hours slipped by along with the late afternoon glow, the evening soon arrived.  Tom, Jimmy, and Phill called it quits not before an admirable attempt at trout as the others of us stuck around.  Phill had some important business to tend to and that was, no doubt, prepping and cooking one of his now near "legendary" status lodge dinners.  I have known Phill for more than forty years.  I can't remember all of my life but what I can remember, he is a part of.  To capture our friendship in a couple of sentences would be all but impossible but I can say that he truly gets enjoyment out of others' enjoyment.  Whether it is food, music, or what have you, Phill is there hoping that you are enjoying the experience.  He is also a world class ball buster but he meets his match in the other five of us.  Good clean fun.

Back to the Iso which is proving to earn some interest from the fish around me but I have trouble getting a take.  When I do, it is unquestionable.  The aerial jumps that this beautiful Delaware rainbow makes are numerous and flamboyant.  The fight feels like it is happening in slow motion.  The water droplets that fling off of the airborne trout catch the sunlight as if a photographer was inside my eyes and he had slowed the shutter speed.  I will not soon forget my first trout on this famous river.  I will also never forget the trout I would lose the next evening on the same stretch...

I missed another couple of fish as darkness fell.  We packed up the car in the cool dark evening and headed back up the winding road toward Hancock.  We stopped under the florescent buggy lights of a souped up gas station/mini mart for what might have been one of the best cups of coffee that Jay, Mick, or I had ever tasted.  It was a subdued and satisfying ride home.  When we reached the cabin we were greeted by that warm fire pit I mentioned, good music, great laughter, and a promise to fish tomorrow.  Hell, what more could a guy want?

To be continued...

Rules of Thumb in Fly Fishing

When I arrive at the West Branch of the Croton River at about 4 o'clock in the afternoon, I expect to keep driving.  A recent two day heat wave and the only substantial summer weather we've had in weeks has me doubting that the water temperature will be safe for trout fishing...it's got be 70 or up I think.  I park the car at a pull off just over the Butlerville Road bridge and head toward the stream.  I can hear some commotion and it's not long before I spy a bent rod in the water held by a twenty something kid being coached by a fifty something angler.  Actually, there is one coach in the water and one on shore.  The shore man is impressed that I have nothing but a thermometer in my hands and the water coach comes stomping over as soon as the kid lands and releases the fish.  I can't get down to the water well enough to get a proper reading so the wet wiry guy grabs it and offers to do it for me.  I hand it over with thanks as the guy sitting on the bank, who wears slacks and a button down and drinks wine out of a red solo cup, compliments me on the forethought of taking a stream temp.  Not many guys know to do that, he says, it's good to see.

The lanky water man and the wine man shout back and forth at each other about water temps and insect hatches as the twenty something seems somewhat quietly relieved that he is being left to fish on his own.  He doesn't seem to know how to cast a dry fly very well but, hey, he did just land a fish and I wonder what he landed it on.

He stripping nymphs?  I ask.

Nope, says the solo cup, he's got a Steno on.  You know the Summer Stenos? They're coming off a bit now.

I pretend I do.  I don't know why I pretend to.  Maybe because I feel a lecture coming on if I claim not to or maybe because I want to appear to be a better fisherman than the kid in the water.  Let's face it; all fisherman pretend to know more than they do at one time or another.  It's the ones that always pretend they do that no one likes.  This is just one little slip up for me.  Eventually though, I lose the facade.  Probably because it appears that these two guys are extremely knowledgeable in between all of their loud and splashy ribbing of each other.  That and the fact that whatever this "Steno" is just caught the novice caster a fish.

In the meantime the wiry man in waders is back on the banks with my thermometer and a reading of 66 degrees.  That's up there but that's still good water to catch and release trout in without doing too much harm to them.  Whatever I don't know about stenos to these two older experts is made up by what I do know about water temperature.  It's stated again, "It's so nice to see someone come up to the stream with just a thermometer.  Good for you."

What can I tell you, solo cup, I know what I'm doing.  Now about those stenos...

It's basically a Light Cahill fly, a cream colored sort of yellow but not too yellow fly says the wet wiry man.  Jeez, I think, you couldn't have just said Light Cahill, huh?  I know what those are.  Gotta make a guy feel dumb.

They weren't trying to make me feel dumb.  As a matter of fact they were trying to help me.  Another thing fishermen can be besides pretending to be smarter than they are; too proud for their own good.  Well, I'll check both off the list for today.  The good news is that I caught myself and with one authentic glance from the solo cup man I knew I had to listen to what they had to say and that, as loud as they were being, they were genuinely trying to help me (the thermometer genius).

I tell the guys to enjoy the rest of their wine and that it is nice to meet them and thanks for the tips.  I head back to the car with wishes of good luck.  By the time I gear up, here they come again headed back to their own cars.  What the hell, I think as I shout, "So one of you guys mind looking in my fly box and tell me which fly to use?"  Here I went from too smart and proud to a common beggar all in the stroke of a few minutes.

They descend on me and my pathetic fly box with big chatty smiles, still ribbing at each other along the way.  The solo cup a more steadfast demeanor to compliment the wiry man's goof sense of humor.  These guys clearly make a good team.  They point at the Cahill or two I've got in the box but say it's just too big.  Solo cup ducks into his trunk and appears back in an instant with his own tied Steno fly.  Wiry comes up and wants to snip it to perfect it's shape and they now start in on their fly tying abilities.  Abbott and Costello would be proud.  Between the two of them, it is snipped to their liking and I am thankful and gracious and they are really on their way this time.  Hey, I yell, 6X?  Solo cup yells back to use 7X to which I say something that I'd rather not type but starts with an F and ends with a UCK.  Wiry looks back up and hollers over, don't you have any?  I answer that I do but that I hate the stuff.  He tells me to use a good 30 inches of it as he holds his bony hands apart.  He tips his proverbial cap and they are gone.

Down on what looks like a good stretch of water I begin the arduous task of adding tippet to my 9 foot 5X leader.  My magnifiers are on but the glare is brutal and the wind is not helping.  The 6 gets added to the 5 with general ease but now it is time for the 7.  I've already spent a half hour with my new comical and fly fish pro friends so I'm really down to an hours worth of fishing time, an hour and a half at most.  My patience for knots is directly related to my window of fishing opportunity and if you add a couple of rising fish, you have a recipe for some interesting stream side language.  This is just what happens too.  I must've cursed that 7X the same amount that the old tennis pro, John McEnroe, would curse a line judge.  Every once in a while I would look up from my profanities to see if anyone was witness to my madness.  At least, I figured, they wouldn't dare ask to fish up or down stream of the pool with me.  Silver linings, ya know?

Finally the set up is good to go and the little home made Steno begins to fly.  It is a nice long leader and the fly lands ever so gently each time it touches down.  I can see fish fin up to it and refuse a couple of times to my bewilderment.  They are interested though and I am once again appreciative of this gesture of knowledge from the shore line stand up routine.  One fish tries to take the fly and I am too soon on the set and miss the fish.  I see a good splashy rise down stream between two downed trees that create a "V" of water.  It will be a tricky task but I prove up to the challenge.  I put the fly where I want it and I am feeling good about myself when I decide to let out even more line.  Hitting the spot again with a good drift but no takes I strip even more line out.  Wow, I think, this is the best I have placed a cast since--what the??  DAMN BACKCAST!!! And just like that I am in a tree behind me, and my fly and my 7X are gone.  The 6X is frayed as well so I will have to cut it back to 5 and start all over.

If only my nippers didn't fall into the stream and drop into four feet of cloudy water.  Yup.  That just happened.  More expletives.

I am down to an eight and a half foot 5X tippet for spooky trout.  Not good.  I have no nippers.  I knew I should have gotten a new retractable nipper holder after the last one broke instead of having to keep bringing it in and out of my vest pocket.  Hindsight being what it is...

Fish are rising around me.  My teeth are not cutting the line.  The only fly I have left is a large Cahill, the one that they said was just too big.  Do I have anything that can help me make any of this work??  I dig through the vest...

A lighter.

Hmmm...I tie up the large fly on the 5X shorty leader.  I burn off the tag very carefully.  I then proceed to burn the hairs back on each side of the fly and just a bit burns off the tail.  The smell of singed hair in the air and on my fingers.  The fly, although fairly balanced in it's burnt state, looks ridiculous with it's blackened outline.  Hey, at least it's the right size I think as I start to chuckle at the idiocy of it all.  I could have just packed it in and went home.  It's just about time anyway.

I actually say out loud, "Imagine this is the damn fly I get a take on", and wouldn't you know it, I do.  I hook a beautiful 10 inch brown trout on the ugliest and smelliest fly I've ever used on a leader that a small-mouth bass might have passed up.

It is hammered home again to me today that there are always unknowns in this wonderful sport and that there are no "rules of thumb".  That, and a couple of funny new friends on a 66 degree stream are just a few of the many reasons that I love this sport so much.

Tight lines.

Neil Young and Fishing in "A" minor

Cue music:

A flannel shirt covers me for the first time since April as I stepped out into the dark of this crisp August morning.  The coolness of the summer season this year brings with it a curiosity as to whether the past damning winter ever fully let go of her grasp on things.  At least, as they say, it's been good for the fishing.  It has.

My last trip to this stream was in late July when the river seemed as "turned off" as I guess it might have been all season long.  To see the stream top being slurped at by trout was refreshing this day.  I decide to watch a good while before the boots hit the water.  A gray slate sky hangs high above the trees.  The odd brown leaf, another sign of things at the crest of change, blows down and sweeps by.

A decision.  The Blue Winged Olive comes out of the fly box and I tie it on and quickly spook the nearest fish, one that I had spotted and watched from my perch, just by walking along the bank where the fish was feeding.  So much for my stealth approach.  I wade in and decide to cast at another trout in the middle of the stream.  On the first drift the healthy sized trout fins up to my offering and then turns coldly.  My heart skips then settles.  Another decision; smaller fly.  I waste no time in changing down a couple of sizes and the brown wastes no time in cooperating.  One of those things I've learned along the way, changing the fly is mostly about size and not pattern, especially when the fish show interest.  The take was aggressive, the reel peeled off instantly, and the short fits and high energy of the fight had me soaring with smiles and that kind of goofy laugh that fishermen have when all alone on a river and a trout on the line.  Like the two of you are playing some kind of school yard game of tag together.

The next hour or so proves to me that my casting abilities are lacking.  To what degree I am unsure.  There are fishermen who can cast better and fishermen who cast worse but the fish that I didn't catch on this fine morning tell the real story to me.  I swear I heard one fish say, "Seriously, man??" as I sloppily dragged a size 20 across his zone.

I did have a chance to dance with another nice fish, this time on an Elk Hair Caddis in the fast water.  Again I produced a large attractor version of this fly only to find a fish that showed interest but darted back down.  As soon as I changed to the small fly the trout nailed it.  Fast water and small fish...I'll take it.

Things slowed.  The time showing about 9:30 A.M. and the low sun now sheening off of the currents.  The dimples of rises all but gone and I step out of the stream.  Once again I find my perch above the stream and let the boots drip over the edge as I watch.  The coolness of the breeze off of the water has my inner thoughts converging over to fall.  This whole morning has been a sure sign that the edge of autumn is here.

Soon enough I will take my annual trip with a group of fly fishing misfits up to the hallowed town and waterways of Roscoe, NY.   We will emerge ourselves into the orange hues of the world where that harsh but sweet chord with its earthen tone will marinate the fishing and camaraderie.  Purple wafts of cigar smoke will wash with the smoke of the fire pit and the laughter.  And that laughter will bellow into the dark where the last of the crickets will absorb the sound of it and of Neil Young's guitar.  

Soon enough, I'll be fishing in A minor.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CcwKXltUvFo

A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words