It happens every year at this time, right aound the beginning of August. That’s when the first monarch butterflies show up at camp. They float along on the warm afternoon breeze, looking for a last bloom with a bit of nectar, in order to refuel before they undertake the long journey that will eventually lead to Mexico. At least it will for those that survive that arduous and difficult trip. 

We do not see as many monarchs as we used to. 

In the woodlot next to the camp, the raucous calls of blue jays have begun. These large, aggressive birds were around all summer, but for whatever reason, they seem to band together at this time of year and make quite a racket. It won’t take them very long to invade and clean out the feeders. Then, as soon as dusk falls, the katydids begin their song, which is a chirping sound made by these grasshopper-like insects, as they rub their front wings together. 

Although late July and early August are still considered summer, as far as the calendar is concerned, those are the subtle changes, the first signs that indicate that fall is not far off. In fact, as much as I like the month of June, I dread the longest day, the summer solstice, because the days, ever so slowly, begin to shorten.  

Looking back, it seems like just the other day we were waiting for the first mayflies at the end of April—the Hendrickson hatch. In fact, my records show that I met my friend Russ on the upper East Branch on May 5 and now it’s September! 

I wonder where all the time has gone. As I’ve aged, these fishing seasons seem to get shorter and shorter. In late winter and early spring, we wait with anticipation and excitement for the coming opening day, although few of us fish then. Nevertheless, opening day is a ritual and tradition, the birth of a new season, a new spring. The end of another Catskill winter. 

This particular season has been a mixed bag. Heavy rain and very high water during the first week of April resulted in flows that almost invaded our camper. For example, the flow at the USGS Downsville gage measured 10,000 cubic feet per second on April 9. Those high flows continued in the East Branch of the Delaware until May 11; after that, the water levels receded. Unfortunately, the Hendrickson hatch which we all eagerly awaited was washed out. 

As spring gradually became summer, the rain which had been so prevalent slowly began to subside. By June, rainfall was in serious decline. A review of the DEP website revealed that the average rainfall for June, July and August was down almost five inches, compared with other years. That lack of rain had a profound impact on the amount of water in the Beaver Kill and Willowemoc, along with the rest of the Catskill freestone rivers. 

The resultant low flows and high water temperatures certainly impacted the midsummer fly hatches, and more importantly the fishing. So all rods turned to the tailwaters. Even on the cold waters of the East Branch, I didn’t fish much. In fact 2022 resulted in the fewest outings in the last several years and the fewest trout landed. Last year I caught 20 good fish; this year about six. 

When I drove into the camp the other day, there was a covering of dead, dry poplar leaves on the two-track. Those leaves crunched like giant potato chips under my tires, as I made my way to the river. In the meadow behind our camper, a large tree had been upended, the result of high wind during a recent storm. The grass in the meadow was turning brown. 

I always check the home pool when I arrive at camp, to see if there are any flies hatching and trout rising. On this day, I found the flow down—no flies, no rising trout. The DEP had reduced its release due to the lack of rain, because of a receding reservoir. 

So here we are, early September, and it appears that another season is about to end, this year prematurely. The lack of rain has impacted the flows, the water temperatures and the hatches. It has caused the trout in the freestone rivers and even the tailwaters to relocate. They’ll seek refuge from the lack of water and from the freestones’ high temperatures.

Before long, the first frost will appear, leaving a white mask on what’s left of the lawn. There will be woodsmoke on the evening breeze. Early signs of Catskill winter. By now the monarchs will be long gone; the katydids silent. We’ll close the camp a last time, lock the gate and head over the mountain to await another spring. All will be quiet on the land, except for the bluejays.