From the middle of the river
Learning how to fly fish with Trout Town Flies
It all started with a sweatshirt.
Well, sort of.
It was sometime last winter, as we were walking on Main Street in the tiny town of Roscoe, NY, that I noticed a graphic sweatshirt in the shop window of Trout Town Flies, a fly fishing supply store. Roscoe is known as “Trout Town USA,” rainbow trout are everywhere along Main Street, depicted on signs, logos, and statues. One of our favorite dinner spots in Roscoe, The Junction, honors the tradition with a fish logo and (in my humble opinion) one of the best trout dips in the area, served with fried and spiced Saltine crackers.
Anyway, I love a good graphic, so I made a mental note of this sweatshirt, adding it to the running wish list I keep in my notes app, and then I turned to Dan.
“You know, I’ve always wanted to try fly fishing. I know that’s pretty random, but it looks so cool, standing in the middle of rivers like they do.”
The months of winter passed, and finally, the last snow of the season melted away. We headed out for our Sunday ritual—a trip to the Callicoon Farmer’s Market and a breakfast sandwich. To get to the market, we must cross the Delaware River, which connects Pennsylvania to New York and offers us an opportunity to see the water often. Every week, it is a spectacular sight. Sometimes, there are bald eagles perched in the trees, and sometimes, if you’re lucky, you’ll catch one swooping down into the lower skies, earning a closer look. Some weeks, the river is low enough to make out clusters of rocks smoothed by the rapids, and other weeks, it is high and muddy brown. That day, the water was crystalline, sparkling in the sunshine. I noticed a man standing in the water in waders, his long fishing rod bending to draw shapes into the horizon.
Summer was, in a way, rhythmic and also erratic. For me, it came and went, with not much to write home about. And then the leaves began to turn and fall reared her head. Grizzly Bagels, a local bagel shop with a cult following and one of our cherished spots for the aforementioned Sunday breakfast sandwich, had spent their summer relocating to a brick-and-mortar space in Roscoe. So, a couple of weeks ago, we decided that it was time to swing by to check it out. To my delight, the bagels were just a few doors down from the fly fishing shop where I saw the sweatshirt. It was still there, and this time, I decided to buy it. As the shopkeeper wrapped up my purchase, I asked him about fly fishing.
Joe introduced himself to us and shared that in the summer months, he offers excursions for beginners and advanced anglers alike. His shop even created a summertime program exclusively for women, led by women. This last bit he shared with beaming pride. I expressed to him my desire to try the sport, and despite it being the tail end of the season, he graciously offered to take us out in a week—if we were up to feeling a little cold.
Instead of heading to our usual ritual of the farmers market and breakfast the following Sunday, we drove back to Roscoe. We suited up at the shop, pulling on wader overalls and special waterproof boots. We hopped in Joe’s car to make our way to a spot that he favors about 12 miles up the road.
On our way to the river, Joe shared with us the history of fly fishing, sharing information about the fish local to our area, and how environmental changes over the years have affected both. Joe’s expertise runs deep. His knowledge stretches back to the 1600s, to the time of the fur trade and logging industries predominant in the Catskills, and how this surprisingly plays a role in the conditions for the sport, and fast forwarding to the present day, when environmental changes are becoming hard to miss. As we drove to our designated spot, Joe pointed out parts of the river that were uncharacteristically dried out due to the ongoing drought we are currently experiencing in this region.
By the time we parked, it was clear that Joe’s love for angling was more than just for the sport itself. He does a lot locally, working with environmental and educational organizations and programs to keep this area healthy, not only for anglers but for all of us who call this region home.
To the average person, where we ended up seemed like an unlikely spot—a rest stop off the highway. We took some time at the car to add the lines to our fishing rods and put an additional layer on over our waders. Once we had all our gear in place, we followed Joe past the restroom building and into the forest behind it, awkwardly wielding our 9ft poles underneath our armpits, trying not to get them tangled in the bare branches. We arrived at an archway of carnelian-colored reeds that created a pathway that looked like the entrance to a magical fairyland. Finally, we stepped out onto the shore of the river, the yellow-leaved trees on the hill in the distance sharply lit by the autumn sun.
At the shore, Joe took in the conditions. He was pleased by the low level of wind and picked up a large round rock from the water. He turned it over in his hands, pointing to a little brown rectangular object. “This is a pupa,” and we arched our heads forward to get a closer look. We could see a tiny insect bobbing inside of the hollow shell as he explained to us how the insects living here dictate much of how to approach the sport daily. He pointed to a rustle in the waterline across the way. “See that?” He said excitedly. I did not. It was an impossibly quick flutter of the fin of a fish, and it was a good sign. We then learned about the different types of trout that call these waters home and took notice of the foam that floated on the water to understand the speed of the current and where it would be best to cast. And if you were wondering—sunny days are not good days for fly fishing, and wind is never your friend.
We then learned to cast, swinging our rods straight up into the sky at a right angle followed by a sharp shoot-out as if hammering a nail into a wall. The angles and action are delicate and subtle and very much in the wrist. They felt tricky to memorize in my muscles, especially on a chilly day. I finally got enough of the hang of it, and Joe excitedly added flies to our rods. He was noticing even more fish activity and was hopeful that we could catch something.
With our hooks ready, Joe led us downstream to try a more challenging shallow spot. I cast over and over into the water, trying hard to get my fly in the right place. I practiced the positioning of my wrist as I pulled the line from the water over my head, attempting to keep my movements subtle as Joe had taught me. It wasn’t easy, but I got a few good casts in.
Before we wrapped up, I took a minute to sink into my surroundings. The soft autumn sun gently warmed my back, the sound of the river tickled my ears, and heavy water pooled, collecting for a moment into the folds of my waders before continuing their journey downstream. A hawk fluttered up into a branch on the other side of the river, observing the waters below. It was all very peaceful—and so present. Standing in the middle of the flowing waters of the river made me feel a part of it all—of this cycle of living, of breathing, of simply being. I took in a deep belly breath, and I dropped into this moment without the distractions of modern life. The sport seems to harness this feeling. It is soft, almost feminine. Although the obvious objective is to catch a fish, there is a lot of emphasis on the natural cycles around it, from noticing the current, the foam patterns on the surface of the water, the seasonal insects and their life cycles, and where they are landing. There is a need to pay deep attention to the detail and to sink into this space of noticing.
“Some people get lost in books, movies, or art, I get lost listening to this,” Joe said as he looked out to the late afternoon river, glittering in the sunlight of fall.