As noted in last week’s column, this and next week’s columns will be devoted to Paul Knauth’s and my June flyfishing trip to the Catskills in NY. I was hoping to have another chance at catching a large brown trout in the Beaverkill River that I missed several times last year.
We arrived at the Roscoe Motel in Roscoe, NY around 3:00 pm on Sunday, June 2 and there to greet us was Dwight Atkinson of Virginia who we first met last fall and have since developed a close friendship. He’s the guy described in my February 24, 2024 column entitled “You meet the most interesting people while fly fishing in the Catskills” as a person who fishes anywhere and anytime he wants. He made it a point to be in Roscoe for the rematch with that fabled big brown trout known as Iron Mike. On his way to the Catskills, Dwight stopped at a roadside pie store and purchased 4 homemade pies for the fishermen staying at the motel, which included people from MA, NY, NJ, VA, PA, Washington DC, MI, ID, Canada and Germany. Hey, the Catskills is the place for fly fishermen to be in early June.
Also there to greet us was motel owner, Rachael Yeager and her dog named Chuck. He is a very friendly old Yellow Lab who keeps an eye on the anglers and if someone should perchance leave their motel room door open, Chuck just goes in and helps himself to whatever food is on the table.
Incidentally, the motel is not more than 30 feet from the Beaverkill River. One can simply look out one’s motel room window and determine the river condition, flies that are hatching, whether fish are rising, etc.
After settling into our room, Paul and I headed for Iron Mike’s last known location on the Beaverkill River, the place where he cleaned my clock last fall. Luckily, no one was fishing that spot. Try as I might to entice Iron Mike to make an appearance and grab my fly, I wasn’t able to do so. The only fish in that stretch of water were 5-6 inch trout. If Iron Mike was around, those fish would surely not be there for he would have munched them up like potato chips.
In the 3 hours we were there, Paul caught a couple of nice sized brown trout downstream from me, but there was no sign of Iron Mike. Perhaps someone caught him since we were last there, or maybe he simply died of old age. We did manage to catch 4 trout each that evening. When we got back to the motel the usual group of flyfishermen was not there outside their rooms, gabbing, drinking, etc. We thought for sure Dwight would be there with some pie but he wasn’t. So we turned in early.
The next morning around 7:00 a.m. we chatted with Nick Cobler from PA who was already sitting outside his motel room tying flies. He is one superb fly tyer and we marveled at his work.
After breakfast on Day 2 (Monday) we visited a local fly shop to pick up some stuff and then headed out onto a Willowemoc River pool behind a rest stop on Rte. 17 near Roscoe. Not knowing the name of that pool, we simply called it the Rest Stop Pool. It was getting hot, so instead of wearing chest waders, Paul opted to go wet wading. (No chest waders, just shorts, wading shoes and wading socks). He fished upstream from me.
When we concluded fishing and met up, Paul commented that on the other side of the river from where he was fishing, the whole bank was covered with Rhododendrons and that when they bloom, that place must be absolutely gorgeous.
While eating lunch, we discovered that the lid on a jar of yellow peppers was loose and the pepper juice leaked into Paul’s cooler affecting the taste and texture of our sandwichs and everything else in it. We could smell it every time we opened the cooler.
After lunch and resting, we headed for Ferdon’s Pool on the Beaverkill, a place we fished last year and had good luck. Paul fished upstream with tandem nymphs near the bottom while I fished the bumpy head waters leading into the large pool using my favorite fly, the AuSable Wulff dry fly. We both ended up catching and releasing 8 trout that evening. When we returned to the motel, once again Dwight was nowhere to be seen. We learned that some sort of vertigo or dizziness had overtaken him and it was so bad that he was bed-ridden Sunday afternoon and Monday. What a shame, for he planned the trip for months only to have that happen.
On Day 3 (Tuesday) we fished upstream of the Covered Bridge Pool on the Beaverkill River. That part of the river was too rapid, rocky and slippery for me. I couldn’t stand in it even while using my wading staff. Walking the path alongside it wasn’t much better. (I should mention here that in addition to having neuropathy in both feet, I also have balance issues going on these days.) Despite Paul’s offer to help me cross it, I opted to sit on a shaded rock and cast from there. Paul crossed and fished upstream.
picture provided by Gene Chague
It was terribly hot that day, and every now and then I had to dip my fishing hat into the water to cool my noggin. But I was content sitting in the shade and I even managed to catch and release a couple of trout.
While fishing there, an older gentleman passed behind me on the trail heading upriver. Good for him, I thought, for I couldn’t even walk on that difficult trail. When I looked upriver a few minutes later, I saw him attempting to cross an area of fast moving water about 70 yards away. Oh no! After making another cast, I turned to see how he was doing and there he was on his hands and knees in the middle of the river trying to get up. Each time he tried to stand he went down again. Ooh, this is not good! Fortunately, the river wasn’t so deep that he was in too much danger of drowning, but his waders must have filled with water and he was in a dangerous situation. The thought of him possibly having a broken hip or leg crossed my mind.
picture provided by Gene Chague
With no way for me to help him, I decided to call Paul, who was fishing further upstream out of sight, to see if he could come downstream to help him. Unfortunately, I accidentally left my cell phone in Paul’s vehicle. (I subsequently learned that there was no cell service there anyway).
I was beginning to panic, possibly more so than the old gent himself. After a fairly long time, he was able to get to his feet. Thankfully, it appeared that no body parts were broken. Now all he had to do was to work his way to the other side, not an easy task at all. Gradually, he made it. After he finally got to the other side and checked his flyrod for damage he looked toward me and we exchanged “Hooray!” signals.
When Paul returned and helped me get out of the river, up the bank and back to the park area, we sat at a picnic bench and ate overstuffed sandwiches with a slight tinge of yellow pepper juice. Paul had some good fishing upstream catching a 15 inch rainbow trout and a 16 inch brown trout along with several other nice fish.
Just before leaving, we met another older gent who had just stopped fishing. He told us how he used to fish the area with his father and grandfather. In fact, his great grandfather used to camp on some farmer’s land around there way back when. Over the years, he made it his mission to fish every one of the areas about which his grandad spoke. He was able to fish them all, except one place which he could never find, a place that his grandad called Rhododendron Pool. When Paul told him about that pool behind the service area where he saw all the rhododendrons, the old gent was elated and said he said he couldn’t wait to fish that place.
To be continued next week.
