A Wintry Mix

The stream has been cold.  The banks all but void of fishermen.  The line searches the frigidness and comes tight only to snags of rocks and iced over branches.  A new stainless steel coffee thermos, a gift from my wife for Christmas, the only hint of warmth as I sit on my perch and watch the winter water drift by.  This has been tough going.  Dead of winter fishing does a couple of things to the mind.  It is a lonely venture in one regard but it is laced with reflection as well as forward thinking.  Possibly the only time of year on a stream that bends the mind in both directions and this may be the only reason I get out there at all.  I don't even know that I can call it "fishing" with a straight face.  The local reservoirs are full of tip-ups and jigging rods and the opportunity for screaming drags but I guess I would rather freeze my ass off alone with less prospects.  Winter is a busy time of year for me in which I am being pulled in a hundred different directions so the cold solitude is a welcome reprieve I guess.

A bright spot in a gray season a couple of weekends ago was a visit to the Fly Fishing Show out in Somerset, NJ.  I have wanted to attend in previous years but hadn't had the opportunity until this one came around.  I took the drive with my brother in law, whom you all know as "The Mick", and my buddy Chris from over at Juniper Fly Fishing.  Chris and I have never met in person but have been in frequent touch over the past couple of years.  The day proved true to me my assumptions about the guy; that he is a kindred spirit in things such as fishing, music, and beer.  A good hour plus ride out had the three of us talking the Croton Watershed, the Catskills, and the Farmington.  It was joyfully painful to talk technique and tactic as we all agreed that a trip to a fly fishing show was only a distant second best to a trip to the stream.  You take what you can get.

Out at the show was row upon row of gear, tiers, artists, lodges, you name it.  If you could dream it up, you could pretty much find it here.  A Catskill Conservation group sold raffles to raise money to their worthy cause and offered free casting "tune ups" in which I took part.  This was coupled by a fantastic demo later in the day by a gentleman named Gary Borger.  The tips I took away from these experiences will hopefully stick with me until the spring makes its anticipated return.  "Whatever the end of the rod does, the line must do as well."

At the show, I had the pleasure of meeting Matt Delorenzo in person, a guide on the famous Ausable River at the Hungry Trout Resort.  Matt and I have a mutual friend in common, Frank DeGrazio, who guides in our local waters as well as the Catskills and is affectionately known as Hendrickson Spinner.  Matt told me to bug Frank about getting me up to fish with those guys on the Ausable.  Hint, hint, Frank old pal ;)  He really was a good guy and it was neat to have my "online" fishing life merge with reality at the show.   We even ran into Pete Kutzer from The Orvis Company.  Pete does some great casting lessons for Orvis and a slew of them can be found online.  Talk about a laid back demeanor and a "trout bum" tone.  Pete was a cool cat and when Mike and I asked him to say hello to "Uncle Tom" for us, he laughed and knew exactly who we meant.  We dubbed Rosenbauer with that nickname a couple of spring times ago on the just- before-daybreak banks of the Willowemoc while we slung streamers to much success thanks to one of Uncle Tom's helpful podcasts.

One of the highlights of the day was sitting in on a seminar in which 90 year old Lefty Kreh gave us his freshwater tips.  We joked that it should have been called "Lefty's Life Hacks" because he offered a lot more than just regular old fishing tips.  His sense of humor alone was admirable but his ideas shared on simple things like 'putting your name on all your gear' to 'strapping luggage to a car roof' were a solid way to spend an hour of our day.  He spoke with Mike after the presentation about Mike's upcoming trip this May to the Florida Keys to do some bone fishing.

(Me with legendary Lefty Kreh)

The pinnacle of the day for me was meeting John Gierach, the famous fly fishing author out of Colorado.  We said hello to him at his table and he was a pretty unassuming guy who seemed a bit out of his element and we decided he might just hate doing these things.  I was pleased to think that this was probably the case, at least the part where he had to read aloud a chapter of one of his books to about seventy people in a conference center ballroom.  He seemed genuinely tortured by it but loosened up once he cut himself short and just took questions from the crowd.  I was fascinated to listen to the man that kept me a fly fisher throughout all of those years where I never touched a cork handle or waded into a stream.  He kept me there, on the streams of my youth with my father by my side, and he eventually brought me back to this sport that I love so much.  Someone asked him which he considered himself, a writer or a fisherman first.  He answered that he was a writer who loved to fish.  It was interesting to note.  He also admitted that he fishes for reasons that we all do but he would never presume to know how to capture the grand scheme of "why" one fishes in his writing.  He hoped that this would just come through in his stories.  It does, John, it most certainly does.  I was inspired by the man that day and I hoped for him that it would end soon and he would find himself driving up the mountain from his Colorado home with a fly rod in the bed of his pickup sooner than later.  But not before a picture with me.

(A giddy fly fisher with John Gierach)

I hope all of your winter meanderings are keeping you close to the streams.  Whether by foot or by thought.  We will be in the warm light of spring before you know it!

Shall We Gather at the River

In 1864, Robert Lowry wrote this hymn. In church this morning, it brought me to the river.

"Shall we gather at the river,
Where bright angel feet have trod,
With its crystal tide forever
Flowing by the throne of God?

Refrain:
Yes, we’ll gather at the river,
The beautiful, the beautiful river;
Gather with the saints at the river
That flows by the throne of God.

On the margin of the river,
Washing up its silver spray,
We will talk and worship ever,
All the happy golden day.

Ere we reach the shining river,
Lay we every burden down;
Grace our spirits will deliver,
And provide a robe and crown.

At the smiling of the river,
Mirror of the Savior’s face,
Saints, whom death will never sever,
Lift their songs of saving grace.

Soon we’ll reach the silver river,
Soon our pilgrimage will cease;
Soon our happy hearts will quiver
With the melody of peace."

With thoughts of tight lines on Sunday mornings of springtime -- Mike

Reflections of '14 and Forward to '15

I have not had too many recent outings late in the game of 2014.  Once in November and once in December, and, other than sight fishing to a picky trout just a couple of days ago who nosed up at a few different offerings, I have a skunking to show for both trips to the stream.  Be that as it may, my boots were in the water and that, to me, is medicine enough.  This is, of course, a time for reflection for so many of us and a bit of solitude certainly helps that along for me.  I've had a pretty darn good year, fishing and otherwise, and I look to the new year to continue to grow; as a fisherman, writer, husband, father, friend, etc. etc.

So, here's a visual look back at what was.  With it, I thank you for stopping by, as always.  Wishing you a happy new year full of tight lines and bent rods, with friends and family by your side.

(Photo courtesy of Mike Batiste)

(Photo courtesy of Mike Batiste)

(Photo courtesy of Nick Boehme)

(Photo courtesy of Mike Batiste)

(Photo courtesy of Mike Batiste)

(Photo courtesy of Mike Batiste)

(Photo courtesy of Nick Boehme)

(Photo courtesy of Mike Batiste)

(Photo courtesy of Nick Boehme)

(Photo courtesy of Mike Batiste)

(Photo courtesy of Mike Batiste)

Cheers to all and Happy New Year!

Fracking Banned in New York State!

Governor Andrew Cuomo banned fracking today in New York.  This, in itself, is worth a sleigh full of holiday cheer.  I'll leave this one to the pros.  You can read about it here:

NYS Bans Fracking and the Wild Rainbows of the Delaware River Jump for Joy

Ok...so I had a little fun with the title.

Happy Holidays to you and yours!!

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.