JULY 4 WEEKEND IN THE CATSKILLS

This piece was written after a business trio to the USA found me in New York as Independence Day approached. I had planned to see my old friends the Schafers, but fishing intervened.

                                                       

The rhythmic jarring of the uneven concrete paving on Route 82 has had a soporific effect when I have travelled it in the past, but not on this particular afternoon as I headed for the hills with Richard.

The idea had sprung into life a couple of nights earlier at a jazz club on 31st Street. Richard had taken us there on the evening we arrived in New York, and what a starter it was. The club had a terrific atmosphere. It was in an old hotel foyer which had been renovated, with much of the original art deco ornamentation still in place. The music was great and the food simple but good. I ordered a hamburger. It seemed to be appropriate.

Walking back the thirty blocks to the hotel on a warm summer's night, I discovered that Richard was a fanatical fly fisherman. When he found that I had just begun studying the art, he suggested that we should take some time off to get onto his favourite water, the Beaverkill in the Catskill Mountains. This, he told me, is the spiritual home of fly fishing. When I mildly suggested that I thought the craft had been practiced for some time in places like Scotland, he shrugged the thought off as unworthy. Leo Wulff, he said, was the father of modern fly tying and he fished the Beaverkill. So we agreed to take off early on the Friday afternoon and get in two good sessions on the river.

I thought it might be a long day, so I made sure that I got a good breakfast. Wolfies Delicatessen on Avenue Of The Americas seemed to be an appropriate spot. From previous visits to America I had mastered the technique of specifying food orders, so I got precisely what I wanted: pancakes, two eggs sunny side up, well grilled back bacon and two blueberry muffins. I still think that American breakfasts are the best meals going.

I met Richard in his apartment on the corner of 81st Street, admired his view of Central Park and then we were off in the dreaded Honda. Richard is a better driver than his wife Beryl, but he has not owned a car for 15 years and some of his skills are a little rusty. But we only lost our way once and that did not delay us more than twenty minutes or so.  Richard has an encyclopaedic knowledge of fly fishing and it was good to talk to him as we bounced way along the freeway - whoever designed those concrete roads in New York State must have had shares in the tyre and shock absorber industries. He was hoping that we would have the chance to meet Mary Dette, whose father and mother, Walt and Marion, inherited Leo Wulff's mantle. They still tie and sell their original flies and to own a Dette fly, bought in Roscoe, is considered something of a cachet amongst the faithful.

Three of the beautiful flies we bought

We stopped for gas and a bite to eat - Big Mac for Richard and Dunkin' Donuts for me - and he tried to contact Mary Dette to see if she would still be available late on the eve of the Independence weekend. He came back from the call phone crestfallen. Mary was not well, he had been told, and it was unlikely that any visitors would be welcome. It takes more than a soft answer to sidetrack a New York lawyer, however. We still called at her house on the outskirts of Roscoe and tried to elicit some response. It is a beautiful old clapboard place, standing in a meadow, with the woods not far away. Richard hesitantly stepped up to the lead lighted front door and quietly knocked, ignoring the "Closed" sign. He even peered through the glass hoping that Mary would materialise. But there was no sign of life and, in the end, even he had to accept that we would not see Mary today.

We spent so much time hanging around the Dette house that we almost missed the shops in Roscoe. I had to buy a bit of gear, including waders since I had not packed these amongst my clothes for a business trip to America. We made it by the skin of our teeth, just as the surly looking proprietor was about to lock up for the long weekend. His looks belied him though and we were soon on our way, fully equipped. We checked into our hotel, which was on the crest of a hill above the town. It had marvellous views of the rolling hills blueing into the distance, but we did not stop to admire them. We had serious fishing to do.

What could be a better way to spend an evening?

Back in the valley we parked beside the Beaverkill - incidentally, the name of the river has nothing to do with the slaughter of innocent beavers. The derivation of kill is from the Dutch word for creek - kuil. The water looked magnificent, sweeping smoothly over a stony bottom, with swirls and eddies showing the shallower spots where the trout might be lying in wait for their food. Past the old bridge, the river deepened into a pool and then flowed on through the summer green woods, bending towards Richard's favourite spot, Hendrickson's Pool. From the bridge we could see the fish through the crystal water. Catching them was a different matter. I hooked a tiddler and Richard landed a better sized one, both released, but that was the result of three hours of applied skill. A gentle rain started falling. I had a little shelter in the lee of the bridge, but nothing would get Richard onto the shore until it was too dark to see the line, let alone the fly.

It was surprisingly cool in the hills after the mugginess of New York. We were pretty wet from the rain and standing thigh deep in spring water has a chilling effect, so the fire in the dining room of the hotel was welcome. A good meal, a bottle of wine, coffee by an even better fire in the lounge and the lazy exchange of fishing tales was a delightful way to end the day.

Up next morning before dawn, we drove down, through thick cloud, to Hendrickson's Pool. Richard could barely contain himself, recalling other visits and reliving the excitement of previous encounters. The mist was swirling off the water by the time we waded to the edge of the pool. The setting was magnificent, with splendid beeches marching away from the steep and rocky bank opposite us. A convoy of ducklings, with the matriarch in the lead, swept by, her occasional quacks keeping the youngsters in line. 

I spent my time improving my style and enjoying the scenery. Richard did not do much better. Slowly the sun burned its way through the haze and warmed us up a little. It was difficult to get Richard out of the water, but he finally accepted the fact that he had to, if he was to meet up with Beryl as planned. He landed a fish with his last cast and, in the brighter light of day I could see that this was really a spiritual experience for him. He had a silly grin on his face for hours afterwards.

The Lake through the trees

He dropped me off at Cupsaw Lake at our old friends, the Schafers. I had never been to their house in the summer. The contrast between the snowy landscapes of previous visits and the lush green of full summer was very confusing and I lost my way a couple of times getting there. Down from the mountains the humidity was high and the temperature rose during the afternoon. The shade of the trees kept us cool as we sat on the deck of the house exchanging our news over a couple of chilled beers. As evening fell, the fireworks started. I had always looked forward to being in America for the 4 July, as I thought that there would be parades everywhere, with brass bands and drum majorettes. Wrong. Independence celebrations involve fireworks, not parades.

Summer in New Jersey

As the fusillade built up its intensity, we strolled down to the club on the shore of the lake for a better view of the action. Rocky the dog, fat in his old age, puffed along with us. Conversation ebbed and flowed as fireflies flicked through the undergrowth in counter- point to the flashes of the fireworks overhead. We slowly circumnavigated the lake, stopping now and then as a display brighter than the rest caught our eye. There is so much to talk about when good friends get together after a long break.