I almost didn’t go fishing today. First, there was a luncheon in Rhinebeck; then I had to walk the dog, load the car and get gas. My negative side complains, “It’s a long drive, the water’s been high, the hatches are off, I’ll get home late and be by myself.” It is not good to be alone, late at night, in the boonies of Delaware County...
Ramblings of a Catskill Flyfisher
I’m not inclined to tell fish stories, but there are times…
April 1, opening of trout season in New York State, arrived in my neighborhood with bright sunshine, a stiff wind and a reading of 21 degrees on the thermometer. A little later that morning, I spoke with a friend who lives near Roscoe who said, “It’s snowing.” When I asked if he was going fishing, he laughed.
This morning was the first morning I heard a robin’s song. Many months have passed since the robins last sang; it was a cloudy morning with a warm rain, the perfect time to go fishing. The beginning of that day was like so many other days that I recall so vividly from years ago.
As fly fishers, we all have favorite rivers. Sometimes, one or more of those rivers plays a significant role in our lives, a role that isn’t evident in the first years. For me, that river was Amawalk Outlet.
Some stories are harder to tell than others. They can be harder to write, too. This is one of those stories.
Listening to angler friends toward the end of each season, one hears some interesting dialogue about the changes in trout populations. Most of the commentary centers around theory, not fact. Yet some of the speculation does have merit and is based on common sense, logic and what anglers observe while fishing.
Fall in the Rocky Mountain West arrives early, especially at elevations above 5,000 feet. So it was no surprise to find aspens along the banks of the Henry’s Fork in southern Idaho ablaze with yellow when we arrived in Island Park. It was mid-September.
A long time ago, when I was a 19-year-old lad, I pounded the Hound all the way from White Plains across this great land to Missoula, MT, where I enrolled at the university there. My adventure began when a high school chum stopped to visit over Christmas and explained he was a student at the university there.
This story is about the little sulphur May fly, Ephemerella dorothea, and all of the frustration it seems to create for Catskill anglers. But before I tackle that dilemma, it would be good to discuss all the flies that are called sulphurs.