WEST BRANCH DELAWARE RIVER, NY
A TESTAMENT TO TRADITION IN THE CATSKILLS
I woke up to Siri telling us to take our next exit off the highway. Sitting in the passenger seat, I looked at the map. We were a few minutes away from our destination, a fabled fishing lodge tucked into the Catskills of southern New York. River birch lined the bumpy road and I rolled down the window to take in the air. It was cool and clean, and I could smell the spring rain that was looming overhead… a welcome relief from the already above-average temps. We found our friends waiting for us on the front porch of the cabin, waders on and lines rigged up. We had arrived at the West Branch of the Upper Delaware River, and it was time to fish.
My fiancé and I were joining two friends up there who had fished these waters for the last few years. Enamored with the river after their first trip, they find themselves returning whenever they can. The West Branch holds high regard here on the east coast. It’s big-river fishing for elusive, smart, and large brown and rainbow trout. The highly technical dry-fly fishing attracts anglers from around the country, and the waters tend to humble even the most seasoned fly fisher. I was told by many to keep my expectations low but my spirits high.
We hit the water as soon as we arrived, leaving the car largely unloaded. The weather was ideal for fishing dries: cloudy with the occasional rain that rolled in and out of the mountains with about as much predictability as the fishing here. We watched intently and waited patiently for rising heads and bug activity. A couple of hours passed. Then another. A bald eagle soared overhead, riding thermals and undoubtedly looking for the same trout we were. Fishing the West Branch involves a lot of waiting. You can usually find the more seasoned anglers sitting in camp chairs on the side of the river, puffing on cigars and waiting for the next big hatch. I don’t place myself in that category quite yet… maybe next year.
Then—a swirl in the otherwise glassy water, 15 meters in front of where we stood. Our first riser of the day. Then a splash—this time 30 meters upriver. And another. And another. The fishing turned on. We picked our fish and quietly moved into position upriver, carefully choosing our movements. I delicately threw a sulfur into its feeding lane, taking good care to ensure a clean, downstream drift … nothing. A second attempt, this time with better presentation. Nothing. On the third drift, I hear, “SET!!” just as the sulfur was gulped down from the surface… I didn’t connect. As luck would have it, that strike would be my only action of the afternoon. The fishing turned off just as quickly as it had turned on. All was still, and then the rain began to pour—thank God for Gore-Tex.