Bug Week in the Catskills

I've just returned from three days in the Catskills where I met up with friends Cwfly and Bambooboy as well as local denizens Kmgunn, Upstate Trout, Ken, and Mikec.

The last week of May is known as bug week due to the profusion of hatches that occur at that time. Alas, a surfeit of recent rain had both the Beaverkill and Willowemoc -- as well as the east and west branches of the Delaware -- too high and discolored to allow for much in the way of productive fishing.

But fish we did nonetheless, mostly up in the headwaters of the Willow, where the currents were not quite so fearsome and the water at least translucent if not precisely clear. The odd small brookie and wild brown were the best any of us could conjure up and late Friday afternoon a torrential downpour further muddied the waters and left us as wet as if we were completely submerged as opposed to standing in the river merely up to our thighs.

However, dinner at Kmgunn's old farmhouse high up in the hills was alone worth the trip, with the delightful Mrs. Kmgunn, the equally charming Mrs. Upstate Trout, and the two little Kmgunns -- Caroline and Stella -- providing a much needed seasoning of yin to the salty yang of the stew. Good friends, good victuals, good liquor. The special award for stamina goes to Cwfly who had left his home in Connecticut at three AM and showed no diminution in energy, good spirits or intelligibility as midnight approached despite the rigors of the day and his imbibing his equitable share of alcoholic refreshment.

Saturday morning's fishing was no more productive so we spent the afternoon hanging around at the Catskill flyfishing center having coffee and "friendship cake" with Agnes (friendship cake takes three weeks to make and is a "pain in the neck" according to Agnes) before repairing to the lawn to cast various rods and swap lies in the belated -- but quite welcome -- warm May sun. This was followed by a trip next door to Mikey's house to see if we could help him reduce his beer stock, after which we paid a visit to Ed Van Put across the street.

The Bambooboy and I decided to give the Beaverkill a try Saturday evening, and although armed with local knowledge of secret spots and notwithstanding my heroic forays down and back up various scree or mud covered 60 degree inclines to virtually inaccessible spots we caught no fish and only spotted a few sporadic risers. But we worked it conscientiously until after dark before hieing us off to the bar at the Rockland House after which we retired to the understated elegance of our quarters, there to sleep the sleep of the just and dream of singing reels.