The pool

Lately, Barbara and I have been visiting the same pool on a small Catskill stream with regularity. The location of this pool is a long walk downstream from the parking area. Frequently either on the way down, or on the return, we run into the two caballeros. This is the nickname we have given the two fawns that have been growing up in this area all summer. They exhibit considerable curiosity about us. Apparently our very slow walking pace causes them to not view us as a threat.

Last night in the moonlight, one stood for some time only 20 feet from where we stood on the path. Barb and I did not move, fully enjoying this moment. Meanwhile the little deer cocked its head from side to side occasionally flicking its ears. Finally with what almost appeared to be a shrug, it flicked its tail and trotted off into the dark woods.

We usually arrive at the pool about 6:30 in the evening. Barb will take a seat in the middle while I drift down to the tail of the pool. We sit and wait and watch. A very large dragonfly patrols this pool seeking its dinner. One evening I observed this fellow chase a newly hatched little yellow mayfly. The tiny fly juked and jived, somehow eluding the dragonfly’s attempt to devour it.

Each evening about 6:45, a swarm of tiny mayfly spinners will pass by, heading upstream to lay their eggs. At seven o’clock little yellow mayflies begin to hatch. Soon the rising forms of feeding trout appear over on the ledge side of the pool. On your feet, flyfisher, this is the moment we have been expecting. The first few presentations of the fly produce no results. On the next cast, the water erupts as a trout rises to take the fly. Briefly I am connected to one of those pretty, spotted fish. A head-over-tail leap causes the hook to lose its hold. The silk fly line lies slack upon the flow. Yes, sometimes the fish wins our little contest.

Upstream Barb has hooked what seems to be a large fish. Her little bamboo rod is bent in a tight arc. I reel up quickly and splash upstream to take a picture of this fish when it is landed. I’m almost there when Barb calls out in despair, “He broke me.” Down among the ancient bottom river stones lies a large trout wearing a “Stimulator” style fly as a lip decoration. I try to console her, quoting, “better to have loved and lost then never to have loved at all.” My attempt fails. She sighs, “I never even had a chance to see him.”

We both move up toward the head of the pool. Several trout are feeding there. Barb has two trout rise for her fly, but the hook fails to bite. Frustrated, she turns to me and suggests I try for them. The fly I have on my tippet is a tiny #18 with a yellow body and ginger hackle. In the fading light, the pale colored hackle should help to make the fly visible. Three or four casts and a trout rises and is hooked. A real whopper! A brown trout, all of nine inches long. I bring the fish quickly to hand and find my fly hooked in its lower jaw. Out it comes and back goes the trout.

All light has now faded from the stream. Time to remove the flies from our leaders and reel up. Hopefully, the light from a nearly full moon will light the path back for two aging, yet young at heart, anglers. Somewhere across the creek a great horned owl is announcing that its nightly hunt is about to begin. Ours has ended.