Blue Boat - Winslow Homer

Bamboo Days

Memories of an old rod builder

by Jerry Kustich 2025

I met Jerry at the Somerset Fly Fishing Show in 2015 or so.  I was a new author having just released my third book and had secured a place at “The Author’s Booth” at the show thanks to the kindness of Ben Furminsky. Jerry was welcoming and immediately supportive of my efforts and, along with Bob Romano, showed me around the Angler’s Book Store, introducing me to other authors and publishers. His brother Rick was there as well having recently released the sequel to their book on Great Lakes Steelheading. That is when I began to pick up his books.

At the River’s Edge was first and it set the scene for what has been an extraordinary life as a lover of wilderness and fishing. Born in the late 40’s and a child of the 50’s and 60’s we shared a state - NY (although at opposite ends) and a time of life. He has been able to live a fishing life while I was able to go fishing while living mine. Next was A Wisp in the Wind telling of his rod building career and love of bamboo. He shares with the reader his favorite streams and more fishing adventures while commenting on life. Around the Next Bend gives us his views on so many important issues facing us and our sport and Holy Water underlines his commitment to the rivers and the fish, fighting for them in concert with all stakeholders, using the strength of his spiritual foundation.

In all of them he opens himself and his life to us. He says that Bamboo Days will be his last book and uses it to tie together so many places and people. It is also filled with some new surprises like his time in Kamchatka or sitting on a bucket in a snowstorm on a frozen lake. His love for and loss of his wife Debra echoes throughout as it should. Reading it brings up so many memories of my own; so many rivers and people and fish and adventures. Reminds me of life’s path and how we don’t really get to choose it as much as live it.

Jerry and I correspond occasionally and follow each other on social media. I consider him a friend and compadre. We walked different paths to the same places, and I am richer for knowing him and his books. We both now spend more time closer to home fishing for east coast stripers, somewhat humbled by the aging process, but comforted by the memories…and the books.

You can find his books on Amazon, new or used, as well as from other booksellers.  Get a copy of Bamboo Days– then go looking for the rest. You won’t be sorry.

To get a signed copy for $25.00 (includes shipping) contact him at: booboy724@gmail.com

On Fishing at Caleb Smith

(BEFORE the Dam broke)

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

I have been fishing Caleb Smith State Park since the mid 1970’s.

Since the dam broke in August of 2024, the fishing at the Park has been ruined by the constant influx of mud in the normal flow and especially with every rain event as well as from the heavy deposits of mud which occurred during the dam break.

This will likely continue for many years if the river is allowed to reestablish its natural course, even with the green regrowth, as there are 200 years of silt under the stream bed. Dredging the former pond would help and rebuilding the dam, as proposed, would limit the downstream mud intrusion returning the trout fishing relatively quickly (as well as restoring the aesthetic, boating and warm water fishery for the community).

However, ponds do cause water to warm, breed bacteria as well as algae, and often become choked with invasive water plants. As the County considers this situation, they also need to consider ways of limiting the pond’s eventual eutrophication, perhaps by dredging, aeration and even periodic emptying.

In addition, the County and State need to consider remediation of the mud deposits in the river at Caleb Smith and Givens Park which limit safe access as well as continuously leech into the flow.

I selfishly admit I’d like Caleb Smith to run clear sooner rather than later given how many years I have left to fish it and a 2026 rebuild of the dam would accomplish that.

In any case, an EIS (Environmental Impact Statement) on the rebuild should be done.

In my opinion the brook trout will reproduce in the upper river as they have for years, either way. The migratory fish will continue to be blocked by the downstream dam - either way.

Fishing Partners

We were to fish the Conny today but it’s cold and windy so we went to lunch instead.  He asked where we should go and I suggested Mundays or Main Street.  We decided on Main Street – he went to Mundays.  It all worked out and we had a good chat. 

Joe has been my friend since we met as roommates on an LITU weekend in 2006, the year Jerry went to Italy. He became the third leg of the stool after that and when Jerry passed, he became my new partner although I didn’t admit it right away, the pain of losing one of 30 years still too fresh to bestow such a title on him. But he was. And is.

Life is continuing to change and turn and twist and it has become complicated in different ways which will and is limiting my ability to commit long term to trips and outings. Joe brought it up.  He said he won’t bother me by asking but will always respond to my request.  Nice way to open the conversation.  I appreciate what he is saying but countered with “You need to buddy up with someone.” He said he has Luke, Stu, Tlo and others he can go with.

It occurred to me later the gravity of what transpired.  I fired my partner, well, put him on a hiatus at least. A good partner.  One who I am very comfortable with and who I enjoy.

Maybe life will work out so we can plan in the future.  Only time will tell.

Thanks Joe. You are a true friend – and one hell of a fly fisher.

Fishing the Conny with LIFR

I have not been fishing since last year.  Instead, I have been busy loving Sue and doing what I can to get her through a difficult time. No overnight trips or even day trips until yesterday when I joined the LI Flyrodders at the Connetquot. 

It was a beautiful morning, and the parking lot was filled with members, most of whom I do not know.  I have not been to a meeting for a long while as nights are better spent at home these days.

I came prepared to wade or walk and with 3 rods to use, although I would only use one.  I decided to walk.  I did set up the 3-wt. bamboo that my friend Mark Wayne fixed for me – the tip is rotten and keeps breaking at the joint.  He just did a fast re-insert into the ferrule, and I loaded it and cast a bit to see if it would break again.  It seems solid but I won’t know until I catch a fish on it. Not today. 

Today I am going to walk the river up to Beat 27 by Bunces Bridge.  I took a new rod Chuck Neuner made me of Lamiglass.  It is beautifully put together and is a 7-foot 4-5 wt.  I used the 5-wt. spool on the Hardy which needs a new leader, but I figured I would use streamers until the day warmed up a bit so didn’t worry about it.  I saw no fish at 20, 21 or 22.  Unusual. I spooked 2 on 23, one a big girl. 24 was barren as was 25 although I gave it a try, fishing blind.

Beat 26, past the gate, by the outflow, was not only fishy but a good size rainbow jumped 3 times as I stood there, although I could see nothing on the water. I switched from a Dace to a black leach pattern on a jig hook with tungsten. They liked it and competed for the bite – but turned at the last second – or was it that I struck a little too soon?

On to 27, leaving the lower platform for later I crossed the bridge.  I looked upstream and a big one was hanging close to the bushes alongside the bridge, possible presentation from the platform on 28 would work but I only saw one and knew there would be more on 27. I left the black jig on and worked the run and the sweep with no luck.  Switched to a Joe Stack which always works here but lost it on a root. I had a white woolly worm on my patch and gave it a try.  Nada.  Back to the Jig, I changed techniques from a drifting fly to a dapped one.  With the tungsten it dropped directly to the bottom in the back eddy by the platform and was quickly grabbed by a good rainbow bigger than 12 and smaller than 20. Catch of the day.

My alarm went off meaning I had only an hour left and a long walk (time went by so fast) so moved back to 26.  I played with those fish again, but they were on to me.  Changed to a Green Woolly Bugger and hit a surprise big boy who was hiding in the depths.  He was on and then off.  “That counts” I told myself.  A few more attempts and then moved down to see if those fish on 23 were out and eating. They were but I spooked them again. I quick dip at Rainbow Bridge and then to the car and home. 

A very refreshing and fun morning.

Friends of Connetquot Outing

It’s a fundraiser.  $80 for a day of fishing and lunch featuring delicious Acorn Squash soup from the local restaurant whose name I cannot recall at this moment, but it will come to me…Snapper Inn! I had not signed up as scheduling things these days is difficult, and I am getting tired of cancelling commitments at the last minute.  The notice came on Facebook – still openings available (They limit the day to 25 folks, and it is usually sold out by now.  Times are changing.) I signed up Wednesday and went Friday. 

It goes from 7:30 am to 4 pm but that is too much for me at this point.  I got there at 9 and decided to just walk the trail from Beat 20 to 30 and take photos of each beat in case I ever want to update my zoom presentation on the park which has been on YouTube for the last 5 years with over 6,000 views but is a bit out of date. 

I enjoyed looking for and watching fish.  I would assess each and determine what fly to use and how to approach them but only in my mind.  Then I would move on to the next.  I didn’t wet a line until Beat 26 where I had fun with some fish last time.  They were less cooperative today.  I moved to 27 again taking photos and doing more looking than fishing.  At the bridge platform I put on a Joe Stack and had a nice rainbow in a few casts. I walked to Beat 30 continuing to take photos and fish in my head while enjoying the day and the place.

On the way back down, I stopped and stepped down on to the few rocks that are reasonably supportive of a casting fly fisher. Usually.  I tipped over and fell slowly, stepping in the water and taking on just a little water in one boot, a finger a bit bruised.  No real harm done other than to my ego and awareness that I am aging; these things need to be considered as I go forward. Better to accept my limitations than to fight them. When younger I could figure it out, correct it, endure it, work my way to a better state.  Not anymore.  What I have now is less and will probably continue to decline.  Just a fact. I won’t stop coming, I will just modify my goals and expectations for the day while keeping my balance as best I can.

More photos and imaginary fishing all the way to Beat 17.  A class of kids, in fact a bunch of classes, are all over the place.  So good to see them being exposed to this beautiful place and the outdoors. I headed for lunch at the club house. I was the first one in the door as others tried to squeeze a little more fishing in before breaking bread.  I recall being that guy.  Come to lunch late, leave early, fish, fish, fish.  Janet Soley was there, President of FOC and a friend.  She greeted me with a smile.  She introduced me to a tall young fellow who came in behind me who is fairly new to the sport.

I guess there were 10 or 15 fishers at the outing rather than 25 and Janet invited the park staff to lunch with us rather than just giving them the leftovers.  Nice. I sat with some people I didn’t know but who seemed to know me.  One guy was holding court, lecturing and showing photos and offering his opinion on anything anyone said so I just listened. Stump Pond came up, and I was surprised that they want the dam rebuilt, fond of ponds. I’m not the only one.

The new fellow asked the group how they fish the Park’s Main Pond followed by all sorts of suggestions for rowing or kayaking it, where to anchor, where to fish, secret holes. As I went to leave, I quietly told him I would be by the pond if he cared to join me.

I was on Beat 1 platform when he arrived and showed him how I worked that spot with a Joe Stack but soon lost it in the tree.  My casting is very rusty. As I got untangled, I suggested he get in the water and fish the apron of the outflow with a Bugger.  He did and had two fish in short order.  I switched to a Bugger and did the same until it too ended up in the tree. I told him I was moving to the pond. 

I had two fish on in two casts, before he joined me.   I gave him the spot on Beat 3 and went to 4. He had three fish, one monster that got off. Then he hooked another big one and this one ended up in his net.  I was able to video him and the fish using Airdrop to transfer the film to his phone so he could show his son, also a fisherman.

I congratulated him and said good-bye after gifting him a Joe Stack. He said thanks and was anxious to tell his son that he was fishing with a famous fly fisher – I blushed and smiled. Maybe there is hope for the next generation to keep this all going.

What a nice day.  A couple of fish, a nice lunch, a new acquaintance and old friends.  Home to a hot shower and a nap, dreaming of water and fish and friends.

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

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 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