Have a Happy and a Merry!

June in the Catskills

One of the benefits of belonging to and participating in a Trout Unlimited Chapter is the friends you make and the places they take you.

Joe Odierna and I went up together, Mike came alone, and Stu and the other Mike came in his truck. Our plan was to fish the Neversink Wednesday and Thursday, travel to the Roscoe/Horton area on Friday and fish it until Sunday when we would head home after some morning time on the water.

Stayed at the Best Western in Monticello (best in town) the first two nights which has an Italian restaurant and a diner next door making it very convenient. It is about 25 minutes from our favorite pools which we fished the first day.  Stayed on the water late, checked in and went to dinner, no fishing afterwards. 

The lower Neversink was Thursday, fishing until 3. We had rising fish all day with only one being hooked by Joe.  My fly line cracked, and the hinge made it impossible to cast – not making excuses but that’s how it was. To facilitate some evening fishing, we went back for a nap and early dinner. Had a good night on the water above Rt. 17. Fish at each spot but not all that easy to hook.

The smoke from the Quebec forest fires is thick in the air, like a dense fog, gagging us and making the air dangerous to breath.  It did, however, make for a most amazing late afternoon and evening sky – orange to red to rose with our sun but a ball of light swimming in it.

Friday, we head to the Willowemoc at DeBruce.  The boys went down, and I went up.  The river is so different from when Jerry and I fished it.  I walk up to his favorite spot, and it still has good pockets and holding water, even in this low water year. I spooked a big fish and that was it for me.  There has been no rain and there was no snowpack.  The rivers were low in April and are lower now but still cool and fishable, although the fish are pretty picky given the limited cover. August may be deadly if we don’t get significant rain.

Joe and I went to Roscoe around 3 as the others continued to catch fish downstream, Stu a couple of big ones. I bought a new AirFlo fly line for my 4-wt. from Joe Rist at Trouttown Flies. The old line was really old. The new line is colorful and casts a mile.

The BBQ at Riverside begins the LITU outing. It is great to see everyone – 28 in all. Rick came, the first time in 5 years. Sal Pal is here, the first president of LITU (1972) and former president Chris stopped by on his way to the farm in Margaretville. All the usual suspects except Boyd, TLo and Sean, who had obligations, are here. Mr. Pepe came with Luke although he had a disagreement with TU over their not putting Columbus Day on the Calendar.  I understand his feelings and wrote TU a letter on his behalf.  Add it to the calendar next year or I won’t be donating for it either. Good that he is back. It is a community, a family.  We are fortunate to have each other.  This was the 26th year of the outing (not counting 2 years during Covid). 

That night we fished Cemetery Pool which has become a tradition for Joe and I when on the LITU trip.  It did not disappoint.

Early Saturday morning, as is my way, I walk to Sunoco for coffee and then down to watch the river and whoever is fishing it.  A beautiful way to start my day. Breakfast is scrambled eggs and French toast.

Joe and I went to the Beaverkill Campsite as Stu, Mike and Mike went to Staler Street and walked to the 206 bridge – a tough walk! Lots of fish for them and enough for us including my best fish of the trip:

We started under the covered bridge to warm up.  I like to fish the pocket water that runs in a fast drop from the Bridge pool on down to the long stretch leading to the big bend. There are kids fishing above us on some kind of an outing and having a good time, including throwing a cast net and walking in the cold water. One late teen was fishing the run from the other side having taken his shoes off, wading across with his spinning rod.  We chatted. He said he brought the wrong tackle, a Texas rig, but he found a spinner in a tree and switched to it.  This was his first time fishing a stream.  I gave him a few tips on where there is deeper water and made my first cast with the Hares Ear Parachute Joe tied for me. Bang. A 16-inch brown on.  The boy’s eyes open wide - he is more excited than I am, which is pretty excited. I know they are here and have caught them before but first cast? He asked if he could come over and see it but as he comes the fish launches himself out of the net. We talk more and I suggest he give fly fishing a try, that he can get an inexpensive used rod and begin the adventure. I wish I had a book to give him, but I left them home this trip. I did give him my website address. He asks if it is okay if he just watches me for a while.  I make a few more casts with no takers and then say goodbye and good luck as I head down stream.  Nice way to start the day, especially at the same place I was a kid with a spinning rod wondering what to do.

There were people downstream but Joe and I find a spot by the Hemlocks.  No action in the skinny water.  I move down and out of sight. After a while Joe turns the corner. This run is one of the more beautiful places in a beautiful place. I have a few refusals and let Joe know what and where, as I move down a bit. He ends up with a large brown and more followed, not a lot in the net but enough rises, hook ups, and/or refusals to keep it interesting. Next, he goes up to the big bend hole and has 4 on and off. What a day.

Always finding new places up here. On the way back to Roscoe we take a wrong turn and drive through some nice country which ends up on Rt. 30 at the head of the Pepacton Reservoir.  Massive amount of water for a thirsty City. We meet Mike and Mike at the 206 Bridge and chat, comparing notes. Stu is still fishing.

Dinner at Riverside was fun and delicious, not to mention very filling.  The Belmont Stakes is always run on the Saturday of this trip and while Stu and Joe go fishing, Mike, Mike and I watch the race with Mr. Pepe telling us of his time as an investigator of the racing industry.  I kept my racing business stories for another time. When picking the horses, I tell them the 2 to 1 favorite was not going to win.  That Sue told me, and she knows.  He came in 2nd.

Afterwards, Pepe wants to fish a little, near-by.  I go with him to Barrel Pool just to watch (and to be there in case he falls as we are all more likely to do these days at 70+) but he didn’t.  He has a nice fish, one of only 2 that are caught by the 8 or so guys lining the bank and constantly banging the water. Joe has the good sense to take it easy.  Rest the water and make long, drag free drifts.  Joe and Stu did well at Painters Bend along with a new guy named James. Most everyone on the trip had rising fish wherever they went.

Nice thing about this group is how we all pitch in to make people feel comfortable and help them catch fish.  There are a few who play the “secret spot” game, but we are not among them:

In the 1990’s, Jerry and I met Roger whose farm borders the East Branch and from whom we bought maple syrup he made (a Letters to Mack story). He told us of the spot at the end of his road in the state forest.  There were three places to park and no signs. We had it to ourselves.  A few years later, maybe 10, we arrived to find 3 guys suiting up.  Still pretty empty most of the time.  I brought Joe there and he caught the most amazing brown trout – there is a YouTube video on my channel. I brought others there, not swearing them to secrecy but expecting that they would be circumspect about who they shared it with. Years later we went and found someone was making an improved parking lot and had put up a signpost with no sign.  The next time we came it was a DEC fishing access, still not known too many.

Coming out from dinner Saturday night a fellow who is coming to eat with his wife asks how the fishing is.  As we chat, he tells me of this great place on the East Branch… in a forest. I thanked him for the information.

I am not sorry for passing the place on to my friends who got to fish it before the crowds.

Sunday morning was pancakes which, as Michael of Art Flick TU knows, are my favorite. We say our good-byes and head to Painters Bend with a second stop planned for Rhododendron Pool, my traditional exit-fishing when on this side of the Catskills. There are others fishing the water, both fly fishers on our side and spin casters on the other.  Plenty of water for everybody.  Rising fish all morning and maddening refusals as we worked through our fly boxes.  They respond to light colored flies but refuse to take mine.  Joe has a few on the line, then off.  The bright sun may have played a role in their detecting the metal inside the hair and feathers. I have to admit that it is just as fun watching these magnificent creatures come up with mouth open only turn and go back down as it is catching. It is a sight to behold, and we are fortunate to be in a place where we can witness it.

I tell Joe this is my last fly, but then try two more before we head out.

On the way, we pass two young fellows, one of which just caught a nice brown on a Grey Fox.  He is holding it on the beach and tells us it is for dinner as he takes out his knife.  I recall my early days with creel and knife. We wish him luck.  Hopefully he will move though the stages of a fisherperson and come to the realization that these fish are too valuable to eat for dinner, stocked or otherwise, when in a wild stream.  I wonder out loud if all the discussion of the high mortality rate of released fish has colored the attitude of new fishers and enabled them to rationalize killing the very thing that gives us so much pleasure.

We are tired, more like exhausted, from a great trip and skip part two of our plan for home.

If you haven’t already joined TU please do, and if you have the time and inclination, give the chapter meetings a try.  It just may enrich your fishing life beyond what you can imagine.

The Neversink needs your help!

https://mountainkeeper.good.do/Protect-Our-Water/no-megawarehouses/

Below is Stu at Rock Pool

Montauk Blitz

Ah Ara Wack

Quiet. On the beach. No wind so the cold doesn’t penetrate. Sun.

Tide’s low exposing the beach with the rocks and pebbles that he detested when first introduced, brought up on the fine sands of the south shore. Now they welcome him with more color and texture than the south could offer. And treasures. Beach glass, shells, flotsam, and once in a while a fishing lure.

He hears a clammer’s rake banging against the side of his Garvey, the first sorting of what goes back and what to market. The box will be next, and he hears the clattering of the hard shells on the sorting pipes. Turns to look and the boat is easily a mile away, yet the sound carries, the Sound so still.

The winter ducks. Ah-Ara-Wack, Ah-Ara-Wack is their tune, if you can call it a tune. He is not sure of the proper name of this visitor, but they have been here a few weeks. Their song mixes with the seagulls who are dropping shells on the parking lot, screaming at their competitors to stay away from the opened mollusk.

They walk to the point without much thought to the weather or the time of year, him and his dog. Just a nice day to be outside, on the beach. He looks up from time to time to see if any other visitors are about. Sometimes a harbor seal, sometimes a snowy owl. Whales have been sighted. None show themselves today. Not yet.

Watching the last of the water draining from the sand, the tide reaching its turning point. The bright sun reveals the sparking water moving, running. A ritual that repeats itself daily, twice a day. Forever. Always. Rearranging tiny pieces of the earth, moving them along its continuum. Moving to where she wants them to go.

The town will bring sand in the spring and the bulldozer will spread it, trying to give beach goers who prefer the finer grit some to sit on, for a while. Nature will do the sorting. The moving. Always. Forever.

Ah-Ara-Wack – the birds muster and swirl in the water, some chasing, others diving. Ah-Ara-Wack. One pod forces another from its roost. Ah-Ara-Wack. They seem restless as many of us must seem to them.

Not him. Restless that is. He is at peace now, enjoying this time of retire. He has time before nature takes over and starts moving him to where she wants him to go.

Ah-Ara-Wack.

Art by Maurice Mahler

On Fishing and Catching

(Caleb Smith BEFORE the Dam broke in August 2024)

September 21, 2023

I have been yearning to get to the Nissequogue at Caleb Smith State Park.  I vividly recall my early days in the 70’s when this park was such an adventure for me and Clark. I called for a reservation and only beats 4 and 5 were taken.  This is usually the case since they stock the fish at 4 and catching odds are greatly increased for those who want to catch fish. I would rather fish in the sense that it takes knowledge, technique and experience to coax a trout out of the nooks and crannies of this river down below or up above the stocking point.

The challenge and joy of the sport, for me, is overcoming the odds that an unstocked section presents.  Once a fish is located and perhaps caught, it is still a fish that was once stocked but had the instinct to move away from the crowd and learn to survive by sharpening their awareness of the dangers of the river where we are not the prime predator. It is fly fishing as a sport rather than “mopping” up the pool of stockies and being excited to tell of catching multiple fish: 5 – 10 – 15?

I took beat 7. The registration gal said she told someone that she has a regular that always takes beat 7 (me) and the person just could not understand why.  That made me smile more while feeling bad that so many fishers are still counting fish rather than experiences.  Rather than pride in gaining skills and overcoming odds. Sure, everyone wants to catch fish, but it is so much sweeter when you have to work for them. 

I walk in at 6 and slowly work the water with a Black Nose Dace and then an Ant when the weeds proved too challenging for a subsurface presentation. I take my time - I hear a rise. It was a loud gulp. Just one. Under the bush.  I try to move my Ant over there, which is tricky with the weeds, over-hanging branches and the current, when another gulp comes to my right, on the opposite bank. I move the Ant again. No takers.  I sit on the bench and fiddle with my tackle while scratching my head. Gulp. Gulp. Gulp. They are here and are feeding but on what? I had a few new Joe Stacks tied a bit tighter and tie one on.  Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?  It is nice to see the fly I am fishing as the Ant is invisible, but they are not interested. Gulp.

I start looking in the water in earnest to see what’s going on.  First a small Cahill like dun went by.  Could be the source, but loud gulps? I put the one I had on but no reaction. I move down toward 7 and see something I have seen before – a caterpillar or worm. Only an inch long and dark colored, squirming in the film. Would that bring a gulp? Naturally I had just cleaned out my fly boxes and limited the number – nothing that would look like this little guy is among them. I will tie some tonight.

I move to my most productive spot with slow, soft steps, get under the tree for cover and again try the Dace, letting it drift by and then sink back.  It was a little weighted and quickly caught a root and was lost. Another, smaller one with no weight did better – but didn’t complete the mission.  He hit it and was on for a brief moment and then not. Whew.

I took out a Sully’s Darter tied by Bill Smith and after a respectable wait, put it in the hole. Resting the water is critical down here. He liked it but managed to slip the hook as well, it being difficult to keep a tight line when dropping it back. Another with some weight was lost to the roots and then the Iris Caddis came out. Now in the past this was the fly. Especially here.  Dry or sunk it can be deadly, but I have already over worked the hole. I left to try 6 again after a brief time below which did not reward the effort although I always think it might. There are fish below the weir.

I sat on the bench at 6 and they are still gulping although not all that often. I didn’t see any more worms, but I am bringing some next time for sure.

Time was up and I headed out having had a great day of fishing at this extraordinarily beautiful park. Last day to fish it this year is October 15 so come on down! If you need to catch, try to get beats 4 or 5.

Tom’s Op-Ed

The fishing has been ruined by the constant influx of mud with every rain event as well as in the normal flow.  This will likely continue for many years if the river is allowed to reestablish its natural course even with the green regrowth as there is 200 years of silt under the stream bed. Dredging the former pond and rebuilding the dam should limit the downstream mud intrusion and return the trout fishing relatively quickly, as well as restore the boating and warm water fishery for the community. BTW the brook trout will reproduce in the upper river as they have for years, either way. The migratory species will continue to be blocked by multiple other dams - either way.

The Bench by the Beach

Sitting on the bench, just Beau and I

Watching the bright blue sky.

An Osprey on the wing

Soaring with grace,

Searching on high.

Looking for prey in the white capped sea

While we watch, just happy to be,

Be here that is, here and now as they say,

Surrounded by clouds and a fish hawk this day.

Peter Dubno, co-editor of the newest edition of Trout Fishing on Long Island’s Spring Creeks, on the Madison’s Moon Scape

Low tide slowly turning. Waiting for the bite to begin.

Chuck’s Golden Darter

Yellowstone Meadows

Montauk during a blitz

Sue with her first Bonefish off Key Largo

Photo by Bob Lindquist - Iris’s on the Carmans

Joe Odierna (of Joe Stack Fame) in the Neversink Gorge

Fishing With Paul McCain

Paul runs fishing trips just about every week of the year be they groups or individual, for free or fee. His shop RiverBayOutfitters.com in Oceanside is Long Island’s fly fishing club house! Check him out.

Iris Caddis

In many of my stories I promote the virtues of the Iris Caddis.  It is a fish getter that lays in the film and fishes like a dry but is also very effective when sunk at the end of a drift – and maybe given a little tug or twitch. Or even a swing. Give it a try.

First bought at Blue Ribbon Flies in West Yellowstone MT around 2005 or so. Very effective and simple fly I thought to be invented by Craig Matthews, owner of Blue Ribbon.  On an Orvis webinar with Tom Rosenbauer and Tim Flagler, it was revealed that the inventor was John Juracek who worked with Craig. John’s website is www.john.juracek.com.

My tying method – the simpler the better

Hook 18 - 16 – 14 emerger or dry fly style

Thread to match dubbing

Short shuck-like tail of brown/tan/amber at the bend

Body of Hare’s Ear dubbing tied messy – other colors can be inter-changed

Wing is a loop of Zelon, or other like material, tied on one side of hook and brought around to the other so it lays flat on top of body, helicopter-style, with the loop just at the bend

Head can be just thread or more dubbing.  I tend to just use thread - Simple

Favorite Fly for Stripers!

Clouser Minnow

Simple to tie and durable, I like it in a Chartreuse and White combination. I have found this to be a fly I can put on in May and take off in November and fish it with a sinking or sinking tip line. Bass can’t resist it when it’s on or near the bottom (in-shore) so be sure to let it have enough time to get down there. Cast and point the tip down and towards the fly – count to 5 or ten, whatever it takes to get it down then strip it, in jerks, stops and starts, as well as long darts. Don’t take it out too soon at boat (or beach). Make sure to strip set when they bite.

Good luck!

Some things just make me smile.

Fishing with Capt. Dave…

For Northshore Long Island fishing at its best -  

Fly Fishing or Conventional:  

Contact Captain Dave:  http://northislandfly.com

631 935-5719

Jason’s Blue on a popper with Capt. Dave below:

August on the Salt

Close to home, fishing the beach with poppers after sunset. Joy in just being here watching the moon rise with friends Walt and Dennis. A fish of unknown species provides my first action, ran a bit of line out, tugged and turned soon freeing himself as I shouted “fish on” with glee.

Made my day!

Chuck Neuner presenting me with my new 7’ 5 wt. bamboo he made.  

Carmans River Rod Company

Manny on the Willowemoc

April 3 – Closest I could get to opening day…

not that there is an opening day anymore. This generation wants what they want, when they want it, so year-round open season for trout has been in place for a few years. April 1 – October 15 is a better solution - for the trout’s sake and the rivers, not to mention the fish eggs being stomped on before they have a chance to hatch - but I am just an old fart who doesn’t like change. I fished in most months of the year so my grump is a bit hypocritical, but it is the way I feel about it, my actions aside.

Went to Connetquot with the Project Healing Waters group. No new folks showed up, so my volunteer guiding was not needed. Had the day to fish myself. I had decided to wear waders today before I arrived which worked out as they had a project underway on the upper river. I rigged the GLoomis 9-foot 4 wt. which I truly enjoy. Ted Bany pulled in next to me. Good to see him out and fishing. He is in the middle of a medical treatment but looks good. Dave, Dan, Bill, Ed and others were there, a good group.

I walked down-river first fishing upper #12 which rewarded me and my Black Nose Dace with a strong fish who must have been hiding among the recent stockies. Gave me a ride and ended up freeing himself. Next was an even tougher fish – at least I thought so – but I had snagged his fin. Was able to release him without the net.

I wanted to fish dry and headed downstream to #11 with a size 20 black midge with white wing, the proper fly name unknown to me. No one cared. At the top of #9 I put on a size 18 CDC winged BWO and got a nice splash but no hook up. Then a second hit but no hook up. I stayed with it too long as it seemed to attract them. Took a break and ate half of my PBJ. (Did you know that today is National Peanut Butter & Jelly Day?)

The river is full of visible fish laying on the bottom, mid-stream, as the osprey shadows pass over. A mop fly would mop them up but that is not my game. I went through my box and took out a size 18 Renegade – that is a Bi-visible with a peacock hurl middle and a gold tag. Again, an immediate big splash making me think it will work but it didn’t. Moved up and back twice before I put on the reliable Iris Caddis in a size 16 – probably too big but another splash. I guess those that do choose to rise are hold overs who know what a real fly looks like.

Well, I gave in and put on what I always put on when nothing else is working – A Joe Stack. This one was well worn but I straightened out the hair and greased it. It is tied in a Sparkle Dun style, but I thought the tail (shuck) too long so trimmed it. There was a fish rising at the bottom of #10 near the right bank, under the bushes. I had put the Caddis in there with no reaction. I side armed the Joe Stack in and on the third attempt got it close to the bank. Bam! A spunky fish took it in and out of the bushes and then around the log I found when I went up to see if I could find the fly he broke off.

No fly to be found, must be in his lip. I only had one Joe Stack left in the box. This one was even more beat up with the dubbing frayed and the hair splayed in every direction. Did what I could to dress it up and hooked a mid-stream fish and then a tree as he released it under pressure.

Time to move down below the sluice which I consider a sure thing, but it wasn’t. They have cleaned up the river from top to bottom and took the brush pile that held my fish. With no response to the Joe Stack, I put on a Dace and fiddled with it, but my heart wasn’t in it. The other half of the PBJ helped once the sugar kicked in. My alarm went off meaning 30 minutes left and I am 15 minutes from the car. With the Joe Stack once again attached, I walked up to find Bill on lower #15. We chatted. I told him I had lost the original Sully’s Darter he gave me to a bad knot. It’s a great fly and have 6 more but that was the original and I felt bad about it.

At #16A Dave was untangling his line. Bill headed out and I took a few drifts on lower #16A with no response. Time to go. I thanked Dave and headed out.

It was a beautiful day with daffodils, geese and mallards, swans and deer, all crossing my path as well as a muskrat or two. One swan got very territorial chasing two geese all the way downstream before stopping to groom himself. Most encouraging were all the bait fish (or were they young of the year stream-bred rainbows?) that were schooling around my feet as I dangled them off the dock on #9, hundreds of them. More were to be found as I moved up and down. I had not noticed any of these miracles on the other beats. I recall back in the day there were muddlers all over the bottom on every beat. They are few and far between now. Nice to see these little fellows.

I had enough fish on the hook and more than adequate opportunities, making me smile while reminding myself not to get too intense on days like this. Opening Days, that is.

April 20-22 – Bugs on the Beaverkill

I heard the Hendricksons were hatching, and the weather was going to be nice, so I jumped in the car Thursday. When I got there the water temperatures were below 50 degrees, low 40s upstream. I stopped in at Trouttown Flies (aka Catskill Flies) and Joe was very helpful giving me an overview of the hatches when and where. There are some mid-day, as expected, but others later, after 5 until dark. Can surprise you given our crazy weather patterns! They also just finished stocking the lower river with rainbows, but he was looking for holdover browns. Me too.

I planned on upstream fishing but having learned to follow the advice I ask for I headed to the big Beaverkill. Drove old 17 checking the pools. The river is low, especially for this time of year. Piano Rock is well out of the water which doesn’t bode well for the coming season. We need some rain. At Cairns two guys are sitting on the tailgate of a car from NJ waiting for something to happen.

I stop at one of my favorite pools and am leisurely suiting up with a fellow fisher on each side of me. The one on the right came over and said he was looking for a particular pool and I assured him that this was it. He said thanks and drove on.

I made my way to the top and started searching the edge of the eddy and then the rushing riffle above, just to get started. After a short while a rise, a good one, just downstream. I watch and he comes again. I shuffle down 20 feet and get ready while checking for my box of spring flies - but it is not there. I select something from my day pack that might work. A fly comes off, then another. The fish get active. Next a heavy hatch develops, between 2-4 o’clock (Water temperature near 50).

Lots of rises...I could go get my Spring fly box in car but didn’t want to give up my spot at top of pool. There are three guys eyeballing the action in front of me. Tried a number of flies and varied presentations and finally got one on a pair of wets. (Afterwards I made sure to put my Hendricksons in my pocket.) As it quieted down, I headed further downstream, for warmer water and, hopefully, more active fish - but it was over. Had one small brown on. Back to the motel for a shower and dinner at Raimundos which is still Raimundos.

Hockey playoffs on the dish TV and I was good for the night.

Saturday, I knew the fishing would be later, so I had some Roscoe Diner breakfast as all the other places were empty and I hate eating from a cold grill in an empty room. Mid-April which is usually cold with high water doesn’t usually draw crowds. Next, I toured the shops – Trout Town was first to report my findings to Joe Rist and thank him for the tips. Next Dettes, and then Fur Fin and Feather. Sue Post has retired, and a fellow named Ryan now owns it. All new signs on the highway and entrance. It is back to selling used hunting rifles as well as flies and tackle.

I drove up to De Bruce to check my favorite spots and stopped in at the newly re-opened Davidson’s General Store. Originally opened in the 1940s, you can get all kinds of stuff there including farm fresh eggs. There is also a small display honoring the original owner -fly tyer Mahlon Davidson – one of the good old boys you may not have heard about. The Rose Cottage is next door and next to it the shell of the original DeBruce Club of George LaBranche fame. He was said to be the first to float a dry fly, the Pink Lady, in the Willow where the Mongaup comes in.

Time to go fishing.

I went to the Beaverkill Campsite for ole time’s sake knowing the colder water will have delayed the hatches I left down river. I fished the downstream water, crossing over and walking to the bend. Easy cross by the way. Lots of midges and BWO’s but no fish on them. I could count the number of Hendricksons and other large May flies on one hand, but I have it to myself and it is just beautiful.

On the way out I fished upstream of the covered bridge to significant rises. These fish tease you and are difficult to fool but I hooked a monster - that broke me off. Had to be a wind knot as my casting had gotten a little sloppy, it being the end of the day, although I had just checked the tippet. Hmmm? – maybe it was one of those sharp-edged rock shelves that keep the big fish there that cut it. The act of fooling one of those trout with PhDs in Covered Bridge Pool made the whole trip worthwhile, even if he did get off.

My buddy Mack calls Roscoe one of those charming towns with all you need when upstate fishing and he is right –almost. It has managed to avoid the gentrification some other upstate villages have gone through, especially with all the NYC folks moving up there during the pandemic. It still has a bit of a sad demeanor despite the hard work of the Chamber of Commerce, mostly due to The Little Store, which I loved. They went out of business years ago yet it sits there like a dead corpse. The motels still have that 1950s charm and all that goes with it. New owners are working on the Roscoe Motel bit by bit. It’s Roscoe. It has it’s highlights like the new breweries, upgraded camping (glamping?), Creek-Side Cabins and, of course, fly shops with friendly people to guide you.

Rough sleeping due to all the water I drank, as well as the Rockland House prime rib I couldn’t even finish and the room heater which went on and off all night with the temperatures falling. Anyway, I awoke at 6. Had some in-room coffee that was good and packed the car breaking down the rod. Weather went from high 70s yesterday to 40s, rain and wind this morning so I just got going.

Next trip is to the east side of the Catskills. Stay tuned.

May 18-21 Eastern Catskills with

Joe Odierna

East side of the Catskills is less popular than the west with its Delaware drainage.  Both sides have famous streams with histories we all read about and have benefitted from but those in the east have suffered from man and storms more than those in the west.  So why go?  Because they are there and have mysteries of their own to be unfolded for those who look for them.

Joe and I planned this trip last winter and knew what we were signing up for.  We stayed in East Durham where I caught my first trout on Catskill Creek around 1955. It has a special place in my heart but as a memory rather than as a destination trout stream.

We started on the Esopus at the Boiceville Rail Trail Park and had rising fish greet us as soon as we walked into the river. (Bring your NYC Water Shed Permit). We didn’t run into another fisher until up toward Five Arches Bridge.  I guess we had one or more each but nothing to write home about. This is always interesting water and can hold some amazing fish, just not all the time.

At mid-afternoon we moved to a new DEC pull off upstream which is a wide section of shallow water with a troth along each bank. Upstream the water gets deep and below it trails off into a wide riffle.  Enjoyed searching the “new” water and bagging a fall fish. It was easily wadable, but the Esopus flow is moderate with the Portal closed. It’s hard to tell how good the fishing (and wading) would be with more water or during some bug activity as it was quiet at this time.

Returning the next day, we followed the Schoharie upstream to Prattsville where there is a low dam to keep the bass from the trout water.  This is also where the Batavia Kill enters the river. There are a number of good fishing spots between here and the Art Flick Monument. We followed the river all the way to Hunter where the access is on the other side (so cross over and follow the river). Certainly lots of fish holding water but you are looking up at the backside of the town buildings.

Back at Prattsville we did the same with the Batavia Kill.  Interesting river with some dramatic spots down steep banks but much of it is low gradient silted water.  At Jewett we found a long stretch of accessible water with multiple pools, but the silt gets a chance to drop out and coat the bottom.

We searched in earnest for a spot that called us into the water on both rivers, but none did.  As with most places if you spend the time, you will find the fish.  We just didn’t have enough time this trip.

A short trip over the mountain and we worked some productive water where Joe had a fat 18-inch Brown, and I had a jumping Rainbow – three times, at least 2 feet out of the water. Wow!

On the way back we investigated the West Kill driving to the terminus of the road where a short walk treats you to a waterfall.  Pretty water at the top and interesting throughout but small. It deepens a bit as it approaches the junction with the Schoharie in Lexington where we stood debating its potential.

Next day was to be the Catskill Creek and Joe suggested a walk across a farmer’s field and to the stream – about a mile in waders through tick invested un-cut hay.  I need to be honest – it is where I caught my first trout and I want to see it but not at that cost. We drove the river instead and ended up at the headwaters where we found ourselves not too far from that 18-inch brown – so we returned to have rising fish all afternoon.  They ate the March Browns and Gray Caddis.

A local with an Ugly Stick caught an unbelievable sucker – had to go 10 pounds – which he was ecstatic about and carefully released. Nice fellow.

Day 4 was clean up, pack and head for home.

It was good to see the West Kill of Art Flick fame all the way to Diamond Notch parking at its end, as well as the Schoharie and the Batavia Kill.  As everyone knows, they are industrialized and stripped by storms over the years (Hurricane Irene). It has made them less of a destination in spite of the history. Esopus was the way to go in the eastern Catskills and even it has been affected by too many storms and engineers. BUT - If you want some uncrowded fishing and don’t mind working for your fish these streams each offer plenty of water for you to explore.

Past His Prime

We made it to Roscoe in time for breakfast, then headed for the fly shop. Dennis was on the quarried stone stoop having a smoke and greeted us with “Uh oh, look who’s here.”

“What’s happening?” says Jerry.

“Not much. The rivers are high.”

“Any action?”

“A little yesterday, more the day before, hard to tell with this water.”

Action means flies and sometimes you hit them and sometimes you don’t. It doesn’t alter the joy of being here, at least not much. We come every year and every year it is different. Moving inside, Dennis takes his place at the tying bench where he greets all, whether buying or not. Jerry watches as sulfur emergers fill a cup next to the vise.

He tells Dennis what he has been torturing me with for the last few weeks. “First time since 1952 I missed the Hendrickson hatch.” It is already June. Drakes, Isos and Sulfurs, maybe a left over March Brown. June. “1952. Damn.” Dennis admires his tenure. “You must know every rock in this stream by now.” I countered, glancing over my shoulder, “He’s past his prime.”

It blurted out. I didn’t mean it harshly, just jousting with him as we often do, but the words struck me as unintentionally cutting, probably because there was truth in them. This man who taught me so much, my mentor and friend, has lost his edge. He can’t see the drag of the fly, his tremulous hands keep him from tying a blood knot, and tying on even a size 12 is difficult.

He doesn’t react to my words. We buy some weighted stoneflies for the high water and say our good-byes. As we are leaving I ask “Where should we start?” We both know the answer.

Earlier this year Jerry was in the ICU bedridden, attached to more machines for monitoring, elimination and nutrition than I care to think about. Nothing was working. He looked me in the eye and said “I don’t think I’m going to walk again.” A plain statement. No real emotion or search for sympathy. Just his professional assessment of the situation, being the clinician that he was. I stumbled for words. “You need to think of a place you want to walk to, get the image and hold on to it.” He looked at me as his wife listened to the plan. One word came out of our mouths at the same time, “Barnhart’s.”

Sometimes people go suddenly, unexpectedly. That is more difficult as you are left with this wretched void, totally unprepared. Watching someone go through the later stages of life, the decline, is difficult in a different way. It is better than the alternative but you find yourself marking how close the nearest medical facility is and thinking about how you would get him there. He gave up river crossings some time ago. I knot on a fly or add some tippet, give him the first shot at a rise. All of us who fish with him quietly do whatever we can to make it easier without being obvious about it – but he knows.

We play out the roles.

Just last spring the two of us worked Barnhart’s from the riffle at the head, down past the portal, all the way to the big bend toward Horse Brook Run. He quit when we hit Hendrickson’s and made it on his hands and knees up the steep bank. No small feat. Leaning on the guard rail, watching, he cheered the catches and misses as I fished the other side. That was just a year ago.

Later that summer, on Slough Creek, he got upset with himself like never before, frustrated and cursing at hanging a fly in a tree on the first cast after struggling to tie it on. I turned and made like I didn’t see. That image haunts me.

Barnhart’s is where we went after leaving Dennis and he walked in with no assistance. It is something we have done a hundred times over our 30-year partnership but this time it was a big deal, his walk in, manifesting the image he had conjured. He cast his last fly on the Beaverkill the fall of that year and caught his last Catskill trout, falling as he swooped it into the net on Sunoco Pool.

Once home he drove himself to the Nissequogue where we usually close out the season together. He called that evening making it clear that regardless of what he was about to tell me, I need to know that he thoroughly enjoyed the day. He had walked to the lower beats, the path not in sight of the river, and got turned around. “Stumbling through the woods, I broke the tip of the Granger, suffered a few significant scratches from the underbrush, and once I found the river couldn’t even fish.” Sure, he enjoyed it. He was in his element.

That was over a decade ago.

Last year a buddy used a walker to cross the West Branch at Stilesville. Another lost his balance at Ferdon’s and feared he might drown, not being able to get up. Manny didn’t remember the wild Delaware rainbow that broke him off a few hours before, he too is gone now. My legs don’t feel like they used to. Stamina no longer allows for more than a few hours on the stream. The hike into the Neversink Gorge is out of the question. Rock hopping, once a natural act, is suicidal.

We know when we pass our prime. It is obvious. What is difficult is knowing when to hang up the boots. Like the cowboys of old, most of us hope to go out with our boots on. Friend and short story writer Richard Dokey and I were planning a trip to Silver Creek when his son called. They found him in his waders. He had just published his final work – Fly Fishing the River Styx.

So keep those boots on as long as you can, even if only to be in your element, like Jerry on the Nissequogue. After all, being in one’s prime is not the point, being there is.

Family and Fishing

This is the man who took me fishing. Thanks Dad.

On Lake St. Catherine in Wells, VT - circa 1950’s