An editor once told me in an email message that some of my writing occasionally tended toward melancholy. Looking back at a collection of the pieces that I’ve written for the River Reporter, I cannot take exception with that sentiment. 

I find that as age increases, nostalgia and a certain melancholy also increase—at least for me, especially as another trout season draws to a close. Now that autumn is upon us, with the leaves turning and falling, the fly hatches and fishing over, a certain malaise begins to creep in. 

All too soon, we’ll close the camp for the last time, check the river, take a quick lunch at the Schoolhouse, and begin the long trip home. It will include a 20-mile run on Route 30, along the Pepacton Reservoir, then on to Route 28 East. Along the reservoir, the leaves will be down; the barren trees will stand as naked sentinels, their branches empty, until another Catskill spring.

It is at this time of year with another fishing season over, when it’s time to put the rods away, that I recall—with more than a little sadness— the many years I shared a camp with my friends Frank, Willie and Heidi at the River’s Edge, near Shinhopple, NY. There we rented a small cabin, not far from the banks of the East Branch. 

At the time Al Carpenter, proprietor of Al’s Wild Trout, which was located at the corner of Route 30 and the Shinhopple Bridge, also owned the River’s Edge. We called him, “Big Al.” Every time we were in the area, we stopped by to see him. Mostly out of respect, because Al was bound to a wheelchair and cared for by his wife Beulah. 

We also stopped by because no one knew more about the East Branch, the fly hatches and the status of the fishing than Al.

Unfortunately for us, Al sold the River’s Edge to a family from Westchester in 1988. Those folks rented to us for one more year, before they turned the cabin we rented into a workshop. Al passed away, on November 25, 2003. Al’s family released his ashes to the East Branch on Opening Day, 2004. 

Every year, when it was time to close the camp, none of us looked forward to this annual, almost morose, event. Frank was particularly impacted when it was time to lock up and say goodbye to the proprietor. Of the four of us, Frank dreaded the end of the season and the coming winter the most. He loathed the cold gray days that season brought. At the time Frank was in near 80, and plagued by a bad hip, which affected his ability to get around, let alone wade. Nevertheless, closing the camp for all of us, at the end of another season, was a sad day indeed. It was with more than a little trepidation that we locked the door on the little cabin that served us so well over the decade or so, that we stayed and fished from.

The last year that we stayed at the River’s Edge, Frank’s friend, Alfio, drove to Shinhopple, all the way from Michigan, to spend the summer. Alfio was a professor of string instruments at Eastern Michigan University and a long-time friend and associate of Frank’s. As soon as Alfio arrived, Frank and I drove over to see him. As soon as we arrived at the camp, it became apparent that Alfio was not well. We found that he was on a variety of medications, and could not take care of himself. Fortunately, we found a nurse in Walton, who agreed to stop in and check on Alfio on her way to and from home. 

Sadly, we received a call from the owner of the River’s Edge that Alfio passed during the night, shortly after he arrived. Looking back, I truly believe that Alfio came all the way to the River’s Edge to die. Based on his condition, I do not know how he was able to make that trip. The fact that he did demonstrates the love he had for the East Branch and the relationship he had with Frank. My guess is that Alfio made it to Shinhopple on pure determination, despite how ill he actually was. Fly fishing and good companions can do that for a person.

So every year, when we close the camp, not only is the fishing over for several months, but there is a flood of memories about all the years, and most importantly, the folks that I spent time with. And it was not all about the fishing. In fact, it was mostly not about the fishing. It was mostly about the camaraderie that develops between lifelong friends. Friends sharing a freshly made chicken cacciatore, a bit of bread and a glass of wine, over so many trout seasons.

Those were good years with good friends who are all long gone. Now there are just fond memories of those folks, the Rivers Edge and the Burn House Pool, on lovely June nights, fishing the evening rise. Those wonderful seasons can never be replaced. So is it any wonder, each year, that at this time I feel a certain melancholy as another season ends and Catskill winter looms?