Little rivers

Tuesday afternoon, June 16, found me feeling old and weary after working all morning in our flowerbeds. If I was to soak my tired legs now in a trout stream it had to be nearby. Callicoon Creek seemed a reasonable possibility. Off I went, wondering if there were any trout that the bait fishermen had missed.

I found the creek to be flowing strongly, the stream temperature being only 66 degrees. For Callicoon Creek in mid June, that was surprising. There were indeed trout in the brook. They rose to my dry fly, but it seemed they were only teasing this old fly fisher. I must have suffered at least nine rises without once hooking a fish. It made no difference whether I was showing them a large fly or a tiny imitation. I left the water feeling frustrated and tired. Then again, there was always the chance to try again this evening.

After dinner, I rolled along down Route 97 while planning my revenge. I knew exactly the pool I wished to fish and where half a dozen trout made their feeding lies. These fish had teased me all afternoon. Now, I intended to teach them some manners. After parking the car, I picked my way slowly along the path to the spot where I intended to enter the water. There was no need to hurry. The fish would be right where they had been this afternoon. I hoped that instead of just playing around, they would be dining with gusto.

I was pleasantly surprised when I reached the water. The number of mayflies and caddis flies flying in the air was astounding. I had not found this many insects on any evening on the East Branch or the Willowemoc. I waded in carefully. I had to remind myself that there are no old, bold wading fishermen. Only the wise and cautious still wade trout streams at 79 years of age.

Ah, look there, fish are rising everywhere. The trout in this pool are gourmands this evening. With shaking hands, I tie my first fly to the tippet, a little creation composed of brown pheasant tail fibers for the abdomen and tail. The thorax is a bright spot of yellow rabbit fur as the body of an insect emerging from its nymphal shuck. The wings are two turns of pale gray hen feather. This makes a good caricature of the actual insect. These trout are doomed to taste the sting of Norwegian steel.

Look there, that looks like a reckless diner. Let us float our fly over him and see if it eats it. The cast is made. The fish rises. I strike. Nothing. This scene is repeated half a dozen times. It is a reprise of this afternoon. In despair, I sit down on a large, flat, midstream rock. There are flies everywhere. Fish are rising constantly. Some 15 feet away a large mayfly hatches. It hops into the air, falls back onto the water and then takes flight, narrowly escaping the jaws of a trout. In my fly box, I have an imitation of that fly. So, snip off the old fly, on with the new fly. Rising to my feet I measure the distance I have to cast. The fly is sent on its way and alights on the water. There is a rise. I strike. Fish on! This is no dink. A very heavy fish rushes toward the head of the pool. I can feel him shaking his head trying to rid himself of the hook. Easy, easy, do not hold him too hard. Without warning, the line goes slack. The tippet broke. Yeah, I know Mr. Bachkosky, “sometimes the fish win.” Just when the heck is it going to be my turn to win?

The Upper Delaware Chapter of TU will meet June 27, 9:00 a.m., at the Long Eddy firehouse. After the meeting, there will be a fishing outing. Come one, come all.

Personal: Kevin Burke, please call again.