‘Ah yes, I remember it well...’

Some will recognize the title of this column, a ditty sung by Maurice Chevalier in the film, “Gigi.” Hermione Gingold played the part of Chevalier’s old flame, who had to gently remind him his memory was a day late and a dollar short.

On the evening of June 4 the Theodore Gordon Fly Fishers (TGF) honored two old timers, Phil Chase and yours truly, the Tangler, for their efforts to preserve our cold-water fisheries. After receiving our plaques, the floor was thrown open to the attendees so that they might gently roast the honorees. Terry McCartney, the TGF conservation chairman, gave me first crack at Phil.

I reminded him of his kindness the first time we met. I had been interested in fishing the Mongaup. On a USGS map Phil penciled in the parking areas and the names of the better pools. It was more information than I had expected. Larry Solomon, a past president of TGF, spoke of when they needed flow information on the Delaware, and Phil was their go-to guy, he said.

When I was called upon to receive my award, I could barely control my nervousness. Prior to the dinner someone had written in the TGF newsletter that Phil and I were living legends in the field of conservation. For a short while after that, whenever Barbara Ann would take me to task, I would remind her that she was addressing a “living legend.”

That line lost its effectiveness when my dear wife pointed out that Webster’s dictionary defines a legend as “a popular myth of recent origin, that may or may not be true.” Her research deflated my balloon.

Terry McCartney led off my roast by telling the attendees that when he took a Trout Unlimited fly fishing course some 20 years ago, my exciting way of describing the joys of fly fishing ignited his desire to become a fly fisher.

Judy Van Put told of the first time she was introduced to me, on a Department of Environmental Conservation electro-shocking survey. She still remembers my irrepressible enthusiasm while working with the crew that day.

Larry Solomon spoke of my presentations (often passionate) at TGF directors meetings.

“Clem would come on breathing fire and brimstone like an old time revivalist preacher. When he finally wound down, it was difficult to disagree with his position,” Solomon said.

Cliff Albertson reminded me of how a letter I had written long ago had helped to save an Orange County trout stream from degradation.

Mark Romero, a long-time member of the TGF conservation committee, stated that I was the individual that inspired him and Misako Ishimura to become heavily involved in conservation efforts.

Paul Tootleman, Bill Wills, Mark Ruza and other friends told of how, one way or another, I had brushed against their lives, leaving a positive memory. Several times their words caused my eyes to moisten.

Over the years at TGF annual dinners, I have watched and applauded as one or another truly great fly fisher received an award from the Gordons. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that one day I might be in that position myself. This is as good as it can get folks. I am certain this night will burn brightly in the memories of Phil and me for the rest of our lives.

Monday evening (June 6) found me once again knee deep in a Catskill stream. At 8:00 p.m. those delicate little mayflies, which anglers refer to as Pale Evening Duns, began to hatch from the river. Shortly those transitory rings caused by feeding trout began to form on the surface of the pool. The curtain was going up, the players were entering from stage left and stage right.

Thirty minutes later this actor was a frustrated lad. How could this be? The feeding trout were spurning Mike Bachkosky’s orange-bodied “unusual” pattern. A change of flies was in order.

I tied on a fly Mike has named the “Phunny Emerger.” Mike is getting quite cute in his old age. The fly is so named as the nymphal shuck and abdomen are tied using the brownish fibers from a cock pheasant’s tail, the short emerging wing from the hair of a snowshoe hare’s foot. The thorax is the color of the emerging fly, in this case yellow.

I slowly waded upstream, seeking to find another feeding trout despite the rapidly fading light.

Ha! I heard a rise. However, in the dark I could not locate the ring formed by the rise. Once again, I heard the sound of a champagne cork popping. This time I saw the rise form. Stealthily I tried to inch a little closer to the feeding fish—not too close or I’d put him down.

Show him the fly now. Was that float over him? Maybe a little short. Pull off another yard of line from the reel. Pitch to him again.

Damn, that should have done it. A RISE! Strike! Yeehah, fish on.

This struggle ended with a 14-inch brown trout in my hand. Bachkosky had struck again. If this keeps up I may be moved to leave a sixpack of Heinekens at his doorstep.

If you aren’t getting any because you don’t have Mike’s patterns, stop whining. This is your last chance. Contact Bachkosky at mike@rainbowsendflies.com