Tough day in the Catskills

This is it.

This is where it all began for our great nation of fly fishers, and this is where it began for me. The Beaverkill River weighs heavily on my heart, and every turn of it reminds me of my youth. Fondest memories begin at the cabins way out past Horton, where once upon a time on a family vacation I first witnessed an angler fishing with a fly rod and reel. 

He was waist deep in a rapid, casting across and down toward a wall of rocks on the far bank. His line looked like thick day-glo orange yarn and it didn't seem to be attached to anything. Not anything that resembled my clumsy spinning reel. There was no obvious machinery to what he was doing. No clear indication that his actions, or his  intentions, had just a simple hook attached. It was a whispy back and forth motion followed by total concentration. And he was pulling rainbows out, one after another after another. And then tossing them to the near bank, which was sand and smooth rocks, for his wife to collect and toss into their creel. It was the year 

nineteen hundred and eighty five and I was thirteen years old.

Now I visit this very special place as often as I can, in part for the legend that it seems to uphold, trout season after trout season, and in equal part for my own reasons. And also it holds some of the most wary, hungry and famously beautiful, perfectly adorned, and strong trout that I have ever seen.

So on a recent and rather warm spring day I set out on the two-hours-and-ten-minutes drive from New York City to Roscoe, just to see if anything was happening. To my satisfaction nothing was. Even the fish were laying low, probably just as afraid of the warmish water temperature as I was of the gas prices in Liberty. Despite this a steady hatch of Stoneflies was on, thought it did not

do a thing for the trout's spirits. I did get a tug on a large and weighted hairball of a nymph right away, but I couldn't possibly call it an official take because the line was just hanging loosely in the water as I pondered the the meager contents of the Stonefly box. It was a long day. I started fishing just after the top side of eleven in the morning and at four 

in the afternoon I reeked of desperation. I was driving from pool to pool with my waders and vest still on, looking like a very weird man frantically seeking an inch of my own water. The downside to the Beaverkill is that it sometimes draws a crowd. And I didn't want to have an audience that particular day. I drove downstream, passing on the Horton Bridge pool (very big audience) and finally settled way downstream, where the water opens up nice. Long flat sections followed by skinny sections of fast water that hold the strong swimmers.

I plugged away for a while with absolutely no luck at all. I experimented with hoppers, streamers, wets, dries, big and small (some real big, thinking I would just aggravate a trout so much it might strike) but despite

the clarity of the water there was not a trout to be seen. I consoled myself by insisting that this outing was for practice and that next time I would have it down pat.

But you know, I couldn't give up. I got in the car with waders and vest still on, and headed south to the Willowemoc. Which under the circumstances felt very much like

approaching a supermodel in a SoHo bar. Very dangerous to the humility. The Willowemoc can crush your spirits after a good day on the Beaverkill. After a bad day it can send you into

to a downward spiral of obsessive fly tying. But I knew a good spot and I felt like it was about time I landed a Catskill trout. I knew they were in there, somewhere. So I pulled into the little streamside lot, squeezed my car in between two others and said hi to a traveller who had just pulled off the highway for a nap. All the way from Ohio he drove, and damned if he wasn't tired. He knew nothing about fly 

fishing and he didn't care where he was. But he was polite enough to ask how the fishing was going, and just as polite when I complained for ten minutes straight about the lack of any visible insect activity and just what size nymph might work at which depth. He rolled up his window and I got to the river. And, as planned, someone was standing knee deep in the pool I was aiming for. And he was fighting a trout. It was around five thirty and I figured if I got back in the car and did seventy three miles an hour on route 17 I could be back by nine o'clock. 

Maybe the Yankees  would be on the radio.

I stopped at the dirt lot just

south of the Catskill Fly Fishing Center to see what was going on. There were four anglers just under the little suspension bridge that leads to the Center's grounds. The water was running narrow but it was breathing in perfect rhythm. This was textbook trout water. Then all at once there was a fish at the surface, and then another. I zipped instantly back to the car and fiddled for the vest and the rod. Good thing it was lazily disassembled! Then, for the first time that day, I had a section of water to myself. And suddenly there were clouds of Sulfurs in the air- the big ones! They were everywhere and the trout were feeding madly in every nook and cranny. Sadly, I had nothing resembling a big Sulfur in the dry fly boxes. In fact I had nothing but tiny gnats, olives, caddis, little size 22 things that always catch trout closer to home, nymphs (boring), and I tried every wet, dry, midge, suspender emerger spider, giant streamers (sometimes works on rainbows and steelhead), attractor, badly tied parachutes and you name it until the sun was nearly gone.

It was almost dark and goddamit and I hadn't landed a trout all day. And gas is $4.45 a gallon.

And then I remembered where I was standing. Fifty yards from the Catskill Fly Fishing Center, right in the backyard of Theodore Gordon, Lee and Joan Wulff, where the dry fly was once invented, then perfected. The place where everything I have ever held dearly on Earth was baptized, born and raised. I decided it was time to suffer my penance, and after a few minutes searching through boxes of flies in the vest, I found a few Quill Gordons from a few seasons ago. I chose the most elegant of the bunch, tied it on and set it down gently on a tailing riffle. As it disappeared within the upwards splash of a perfect rise I managed to say, "thanks," and landed an eighteen inch Brown Trout under the bluish light that seems to only exist beneath the shadows of a Catskill mountain at dusk.

High Sierra Trout, May 2008

This mid May brought the second installment of a heavy wedding season for Joan and I. Lucky for everyone involved it was happening at North Lake Tahoe, California. And one cannot possibly resist a trip to Lake Tahoe. So, being of sound mind, I packed the travel rod, the packable waders and a fly vest, newly loaded with what I guessed to be Western style flies. I would be in pursuit of the alleged rainbows, browns and legendary cutthroat trout of the Sierra Nevadas. I researched the local fly shops and Californial blogs and forums for the best possible fly fishing waters, finding out that because of "runoff," many of the local waters were running high and discolored. Runoff is what happens when the snow melts in the higher altitudes, then runs down the mountainside and into your favorite trout stream, ruining the fishing. I had a few options, I would fish regardless.





Our trip began with a five and a half hour delay at the airport, which led to a five and a half hour delay arriving in Tahoe Vista. It was going on 11pm, and quite dark. There was nothing to see in the darkness, so we checked into our cabin and went to sleep. Thanks to the three hour time difference, I was up and driving into town at 6:45 am. It was a beautiful warm morning and I needed a California fishing license. I passed by the Truckee river on the way, and it was boiling over with the runoff and not at all clear. In fact it looked dangerous to be around. It's a funny stream though, because above the section where water pours into it from the Boca Reservoir, it's low, clear and almost completely lifeless. No sign of insect, trout, minnow, beetle, nothing. There was a very convenient bike path following the upper section of the Truckee though, which provided plenty of weekend cyclists, young and old. They did not like my back cast whisking right over their heads. I did not like their tossing rocks into the pool I was trying to be stealthy in.


I gave up on the Truckee and moved the whole operation to Donner Lake, which is named after the Donner Party, a group of explorers who once upon a time tried to cross the Sierras and wound up getting lost. I heard they didn't all make it. It was a bad party.

Donner Lake was pretty, but crowded with boatists and people sunning themselves on public docks built just for that purpose. Extremely windy too. Hard to cast. I was the only one on the lake with a fly rod. I started to get bored. So I stripped the line in quickly to change flies and got a big slam on the nymph. Turned out to be a small stocked rainbow, but it had some fight in it. I released it, tried again. Got no strikes for 2 hours. I must have gotten lucky the first time around. And Joan was happy to get some sun.

On the way back to the cabin I pulled onto a dusty road that apparantly lead to something called Martis Creek Lake. It was a like a big section of desert in the middle of high snow capped mountains. Very strange. The lake was a dark, dark blue against the sagebrush and dusty earth. There were eagles in the sky above. The water was absolutely perfect. And after about five casts I hooked, played and landed my first real wild California trout. And it was a wierd one! Turned out to be the rare and endangered Lahontan Cutthroat. Long, strong and gorgeous. Measured up to about sixteen inches. I released it without harm and took a deep, deep breath. My hands were shaking a bit. This was turning out to be a blue ribbon fishing day.

Two casts later I was into another sixteen inch fish, this time a copper hued wild brown, stronger than the Lahontan and a joy to behold. Joan took some quick pictures. I released the brown and tried again. A fish hit the surface. Then another. Another. There was a hatch on alright, something ridiculously small and impossible to immitate. I tried Henryvilles, small Caddis, and emergers of all sorts. All failures. I was a bit desperate to land another trout, especailly on the dry fly. It would not happen on this fine day. But I was content, I had my fill with the Lahontan and the wild brown. I did however make Joan promise that we would return to Martis Creek Lake someday.

East Branch Croton, Brewster NY. May 2008.

This April was long and full of unusually warm days, yet in early May I found myself standing knee deep in ice water on the East Branch.


The air temperature was about the same as the water. It didn't seem to matter to the newly stocked Rainbows there; they were hitting the surface pretty hard. The "bathtub" section was low- too low for fish, but just above, under and below the Sodom road bridge the water was boiling with regular risers. Their choice for food was a minuscule midge. Too minuscule for imitation. I tied on a #20 Griffith's Gnat with high hopes that a trout would decide to seize the opportunity. No luck. No lookers either. For the next 25 minutes I changed flies and false casted without a single rise in my favor. Then I remembered a sunny day in early May about 10 years ago with similar water conditions on the very same section of the "EBC." Lots of stocked fish taking tiny flies off the surface but no one was fooling them. There were a lot of anglers on the water that day and I remember tying on a #10 bucktail just to see what would happen. First cast, across and down, one swift retrieve and whammo. I landed fish after fish and infuriated every other angler within 200 yards.
So I tried it again. And it worked, again. This time I landed four or five of them before I decided to move downstream to find something bigger. Something a little more challenging. A holdover. Two season fish are very selective on the East Branch. But they have to eat, don't they?

So like I said, I was knee deep in ice water, freezing in every extremity. My knees were locked in place. My toes could have fallen off, I wouldn't know it. But I was determined to land something besides a cookie. I tied on the 50/50 nymph, a little split shot and went into the faster, deeper water. Cast, drift, repeat. Cast, drift, repeat. For two hours. Same spot. Over and over again. The occasional weed bed or twig would yank the line to provide me with an occasional twirl, and twice I brought my fly to hand to find it had a small living pupae or nymph wrapped around it. So I knew I was on the bottom, and I knew there were insects in the river, and I knew for certain that I was thinking too much about it. These goddam East Branch trout would be just fine without my company. Their loss, I thought. I decided to waddle to the car. I played the "5 more casts game," and as the indicator picked up speed through a thin eddy, two tiny twitches brought me out of my daze and I yanked the rod sideways- a fish! A good fish! Not a long fish, but a fat fish, and a bit of a scrapper, too. I landed him. Took a picture. Reeled up my line, clipped the fly and stowed it in the little Wheatley nymph box. I lumbered up the trail as if I were a stone man, started the car and tried to thaw my knees. The Yankees were on the radio. Then I drove home.

Amawalk River, April 2008

I hate to spill the beans so early in a story, but this river, stream, brook, tiny capillary of the Croton Watershed, has got to be one of my all time favorite places in the world. No wider than a Cadillac in most stretches, but absolutely chock full of wild brown trout. It's stocked each year- yes, but there are large beautiful fish hiding away in hard to reach corners, fish that display a totally different color scheme than that of the obviously stocked brown trout. Perhaps they're holdovers from last year or the year before. But there's something about the larger Amawalk brown that seems so virgin and ripe that I just can't imagine they came from a hatchery.

And on this fine day in mid April, large green Drakes were hatching regularly and the fish were looking up. I'm impatient though, I went down. I tied on a "50/50," which is 50% Gold Ribbed Hair's Ear and 50% Pheasant Tail. The "50/50" also means it's a toss up on which part plays which role. You can tie the thorax with pheasant and the back with hare's ear, or reverse it. Either way works splendidly. It's best tied on a #16 or 14 dry fly hook with no weight added. A small split shot just above the fly, maybe a foot and a half, is alright in deeper waters, but this fly works best while bobbing around at various depths, even close to the surface. When fish see it, they take it. You just have to find the fish.

So I crept upstream until I caught a hint of trout activity- the early season kind where a single over eager fish hits the surface once every forty-five minutes. Could also be a twig that fell from a tree, which is something I can't help but think as I wait for more risers. Forget dry flies today, these fish are eating in. Strike indicator affixed, I nymphed.

The first fish was a bruiser. Gave me a big obvious take, went right for the deep water to fake me out, then took off downstream. I got a look at her as she flew past my legs, which were knee deep in the pool. I quickly and confidently measured her up at about (or at least) 18 inches. Quite a heavy fish for such a tiny stream. Never had a chance to get the tape measure out though, because she took off like an underwater bottle rocket before taking me deep into the backing then finally broke off and disappeared. DAMN! Deep breath, look up at the sky and be glad for the fight. I've never gone into the backing on the Amawalk before.

Very next cast I hooked, played and landed a 16 inch wild brown. Her yellow belly was like bubble gum. This was a good day of fly fishing.