Leila Hawken
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The lunar mud was thick on the banks of the Esopus in Boiceville, New York, near where the stream enters the Ashokan Reservoir.
Patrick L. Sullivan
Water clarity was decent. Where it was murky, it was green murky, which is good, as opposed to brown murky, which means mud.
The flows were decent but definitely on the low side. We need rain badly, in the Hudson Valley and in the Northwest Corner.
And the area where I was had a decidedly lunar feel to the landscape, if the Moon has mud.
What worked: Junk flies.
What didn’t: Woolies, Tequilleys, unweighted streamers, Leadwing Coachmen, soft hackle wets in darker colors, orange-y caddis dries.
There were stonefly and isonychia casings on the rocks, but not a lot of them.
I was hoping for fat brown trout moving up into the river from the Ashokan Reservoir to spawn. Failing that, I was hoping for greedy rainbows looking to eat the brown trout eggs. It’s a little early for that sort of thing, but hey, I don’t make the rules.
No trout were disturbed, by me anyway.
Moment of triumph: Way down by where the stream enters the reservoir proper, and the lunar mud figures into the equation, I latched into three excellent smallies and one junior partner in a boom-boom space of about 45 minutes. What made this especially pleasant was that I had ventured forth with an 11 foot 4 weight single hand rod intending to either tight line nymphs or play with unweighted streamers such as Mickey Finns and Grey Ghosts.
Stonefly and isonychia casings on the rocks.Patrick L. Sullivan
At the last moment I stuck a small box containing mops and squirmy worms in the pack. This was a very good move and almost made up for the Dr. Boing-Boing moment when I realized I forgot the lanyard with the trout-sized tippet, forceps and clippers.
Reluctant to perform the Walk of Shame the half mile or so back to the car, I improvised. I had heavy tippet material, 0X through 2X, on a separate holder attached to my pack, and I found that with a little juju the cigar cutter worked as a clipper. What I could not approximate was the forceps, for squashing barbs, so I was limited to flies I had used before.
That turned out to be a two-fly rig, with the squirmy worm on a dropper up top and a green mop tied on a jig hook and with a bead head on point. Three of the smallies, including the fair-to-middling one, opted for the worm, and one bold soul took a flyer on the mop.
The commotion was such that an angler using spinning gear upstream wandered down to see what was up when I took a break. He then directed me to his companion, who was working a riffle further up with a fly rod.
Not wanting to hog the hot spot, and keenly aware that my wonky shoulder was sending out mild but unmistakable distress signals, I ceded my spot to angler number one and made my way upstream to angler number two.
He turned out to be from Millerton, N.Y. and had read Tangled Lines in the Millerton News.
He didn’t specifically say he was a fan but I assumed he was.. If he wasn’t then he was after I gave him a squirmy and a mop to try.
Note: As I peck this out on Sunday, Oct. 6, the 10-day forecast doesn’t look good for rain. If you take a shot at the very low Housatonic or Farmington rivers, your best bet is dawn to noon, long rods and longer leaders, clothing that blends into the background, and a high tolerance for frustration and agony of spirit.
