It was 45 degrees on the Beaverkill at 2:30 pm, and the last thing I expected to see was a massive hatch of plump not-so-little duns. They emerged under the bridge in drifts. Too bad it’s too chilly for the fish to rise, I thought. They’re missing a great meal.
Not a trout in sight. Until splash behind me, a pod of 15”+ browns were drafting each other within easy reach of my cast. One, two, three, four they nosed through the surface and tailed away again. Number four always finished with a splashy flourish.
I started drifting what I thought were appropriate patterns down the feeding lane. Parachute dun. Nope. Emerger, tied upside down on a waterwisp hook. Nope. CDC spinner, nope and nope. Ok, forget the Hendricksons, how do you feel about BWOs? Little black Caddis?
Not only were these fish not interested, they weren’t even worried; they just kept on sipping dinner, letting my offerings hit them on the head on the way by. It was thrilling, holding my breath and hoping. Watching each long golden form move up the water column and back down again, flashing in the lowering sun.