I took a few days off at the start of May to do a standard task and to do something new, in keeping with the theme of the 2025 fishing season, which by an astonishing coincidence is “Do Something New.”
The routine stuff was opening the house, assessing the mouse dropping situation, rearranging the DVDs into “regular” and “schlock,” and getting humiliated in my home river, the Esopus.
A new season hasn’t really started until I have cast numerous flies, picked with devilish cunning, to Esopus trout that could not possibly care less.
I did avoid the skunk, though. After four hours of flogging a wild rainbow decided to play, taking a brassie soft-hackle that Gary Dodson gave me.
I was also rewarded for my perseverance by the sight of Gary leaping about 18 feet in reverse after almost stepping on a snake curled up on a rock in the shallows. It was a move worthy of a 1970s kung fu movie.
Over the weekend I motored to an undisclosed location in the Catskills, to meet the members of a private fishing club I joined over the winter.
I did not ask directly how the members feel about publicity. I didn’t have to. They don’t like it.
So since the Catskill region is about 5800 square miles and contains six major rivers with innumerable tributaries, I think “the Catskills” is a suitably vague descriptor.
The first day we caravanned from spot to spot stocking trout and greeting the cooperating landowners.
One family put out an incredible spread for us, which was completely wasted on me as I had consumed a convenience store burrito earlier in the morning when I realized I was about to faint.
This was a grave tactical error which I will not repeat. However, it did come under the heading of trying something new.
And I didn’t faint.
The members were very welcoming and after the stocking we settled right into talking a lot of fishing guff. As guff goes I’d give it a B, but it was a small sample.
The next day we had a luncheon with the landowners, where I chatted with a fellow who is 90 and used to catch chubs and bake them in river clay in a streamside fire. He was about 10 when he did this. He said they were delicious. I privately doubted this, but I have learned over the years not to argue with 90 year old gents who allow me to clamber over their property to fish. So it’s official: Clay-baked chubs are a rare and refreshing treat. (This is something new, but I’m not going to try it.)
Over the years I have resisted joining fishing clubs, primarily because of the expense.
But this one I can afford.
It was an abrupt shift from the April steelhead adventure on the Salmon River in and around Pulaski, where I was introduced to plugging, drift boats and guides, and the new and uncomfortable experience of being a complete novice instead of an award-winning fly-fishing writer.
So I think that’s enough novelty for the 2025 season. And it’s only May.
