The Meltdown

     It deserves an entry in the blog, but not because of any high achievement.  In fact, it's the embarrassment that I want to remember but not repeat. In full disclosure, it is one of the drivers of my recent absence from trout streams.  I think the date was Saturday, May 2nd and the afternoon was not a natural fishing window but I forced it open a little with some prodding - your basic square peg in a round hole.  I had that feeling that I'd hit a good hatch, and if I missed it, I wasn't sure when the next fishing session would come.  Suddenly, I had a lot riding on the outing.

     I went to the best local river, and of course that is--tongue in cheek- the Esopus.  I was skunked there the prior weekend, with no bug activity. I carried the usual assortment of gear that included hemostats, aquel, spare tippet, but also a little bit of guilt.  Like I said, there was plenty of other stuff I should have been doing back at, and for, the homestead.   I could feel it in my posture. 

     Damned if the moment I showed up, a Hendrickson hatch started in the riffles below Big Bend.  Big, beautiful Hendricksons, not coming off in Delaware worthy figures, but for the Esopus, it was serviceable, and it was magnificent. I let fly a 12-foot leader ending in 5X with some of my best, and most enthusiastic winter ties of biot bodies and grizzly hackle.  Heck, my first couple casts weren't great, but once I shook off some rust, and guilt, I was making aerial mends, reach casts, and my drifts were great.  It's what you dream of when it's February and it's eight degrees out.

     Two hours later, I hadn't had a single refusal.  I hadn't seen a single fish come up after three quarters of a mile of river.  A flotilla of size 14 duns all over the water and not a rainbow to be found.  The water was 52-degrees, the sky was a mix of sun and clouds, and I dry-dropped every cubic foot of river that I could reach.

     I am one of the steadiest anglers you'll meet, and I have a generally relaxed personality based on logic and fact.  Alright, a little type-A about my rigs but I'm not a big fly changer. I am a Presentationist.  I've been in a lot of fishing situations in my time-- had the good days with the bad.  I've worked through them all.  I pride myself on being cool in the clutch.  

     The hatch ended.

     I'll bet you the crowds hammered them on the Delaware that day.  They all met on the banks after the elbow-to-elbow hatch and compared notes with each other how the selective trout were only taking cripples with z-lon shucks or knockdowns with asymmetrical CDC wings or that you had to have 5.5X to fool them.  Those with five years or less experience did most of the preaching.  The twenty year vets did the most nodding and smiling.

     I took a knee on the banks of the E and stared into the clay stained mess that is the river and felt the frustration of being excited all winter long and awkwardly excusing myself from home to be here this afternoon because I knew I'd find Hendricksons.  Other husbands were home fixing up the deck for the wife, or rebuilding the swingset for the kids, or getting the garden ready, or doing other constructive projects. But not me.  I spent my afternoon looking for bugs. I found 'em alright.

     Inexplicably, and without reason or foresight, I shoved up from my one knee with my rod in my fist and audibly barked out-loud "no wonder anyone gives two shits about you!!!" as the grammatically questionable words bounced between the trees.  I took a shaky, deep breath.  Amazing.  I was yelling at the river.  Yelling. At the river.  

     "Oh, you fly-fish? Oh, that sounds so relaxing."   

     I realized, maybe it was about both of us, the river and me.  We both have our flaws.  Neither one of us are always predictable, or perfect.  Sometimes, we should be doing something other than what we are doing.  I see so much potential in the Esopus based on what it was "back when" and what it looks like today.  That's why I can be hard on it.  I want it to be the best river in the Catskills.  I want it to be the comeback story of the angling world.  I want to be there with it as it happens and I want to be one of the reasons it happens.  When I saw those bugs, I thought maybe I could tell the story of how great it was that day.  Bring it respect. Credibility.  Worthy of getting a decent fishing report from a fly shop.  

     I was hardly upset at myself. A little bit, because I hold myself accountable, but I did my half.
 
     Instead, it was just a long walk back from my river...  Damn it, man.  Damn it.