Anybody Can Hendrickson

Our first notable hatch of the season - the hendrickson hatch - seems to have ended more quickly than it began. Just a week or so ago, there were enough duns on the water to make henny stew if one was so inclined. This week, nothing.

For many bug chuckers - and I count myself as one of them - the hendrickson hatch reminds us of why we took up fly fishing. Hendrickson season is all about the dry fly and watching outsized fish come to the surface. Oftentimes, the hatch provides us with opportunities to catch our best fish of the year as the early season trout we encounter are both winter-hungry and winter-dumb. Fishing is easy; life is good.

And then the hatch ends, the world settles into its summer pace, and we're reminded that we're not river gods. We're mortal, and many of us are mediocre fishermen.

Truth be told, anyone can hendrickson. As the water warms and buds form on the trees, trout come out of their cold water lethargy and are almost always more eager than wary. They'll whack garish, articulated streamers. They'll swallow every pink worm and purple caddis in your box. They'll come up top to gulp hennies, ignore your flubbed casts, and eat your rusty spinner as it is dragged, cork screwing and rooster tailing across the pool. All that nonsense ends as the hatch wanes, and march browns and sulphurs take the stage.

It's hardly a coincidence that social media witnesses a marked decline in hero shots and keep 'em wet photos as May turns to June. Rivers drop and clear, trout aren't quite so famished or eager as they were only a month before, and the fishing is markedly more difficult. The only way to be successful is to change tactics, and bug chuckers can be awfully resistant to change.

In a way, I'm kind of glad to see the hennies come and go. I'm in the mood for a challenge, the kind that leaves me scratching my head, perhaps even leaves me without another amateurishly composed keep-em-wet photo. Hennies don't leave you scratching your head; they don't leave you without photos. Hendricksons leave you thinking you've got it all figured out,    

On Bug Factories and Slave Boys

Some years ago, an acquaintance told me that the trick to fishing the Delaware River - and by extension any river on which prolific hatches are the rule rather than the exception - is to discover both the biggest and the smallest bugs that are on the water at any given time and to fish an imitation of one or the other. This strategy has worked for me many times on many rivers, but I'm still convinced that on a bug factory like the Delaware no method is sure to work all the time, most of the time, or even much of the time.   

What the hell is he eating?"

"How in Christ's name should I know? Every bug on the planet is on the water right now. Just open my beer, pass it back, and keep casting."

So went our conversations for the better part of a 12 hour float, and that's typical of the Delaware. Drift a few hundred yards, find a riser - either along a current seam or tight to the bank - set up as close as possible without spooking the fish, and cast until you're bored with casting or your arm falls off. Occasionally, the river gods will smile on you, and you'll hook up.  

More often, the fish to which you are casting - likely one of the best trout you've ever witnessed feeding on top - will slowly but surely emasculate you. She'll take naturals to the right and left of your imitation. She'll thrash the surface on every drift, but only after your bug has passed over her snout. She'll follow your emerger, and nose up behind your dun. She'll do all of this, but she'll rarely ever commit. In turn, you'll slowly lose your grip on reality; you'll begin mumbling to yourself. On the worst days - which paradoxically are also some of the best - you will curse the gods as your manhood shrivels and recedes into your abdomen.

Ironically, you'll finish the day with a smile on your face. The Delaware can be a harsh mistress, but you enjoy the torment she gives. You're her slave, her submissive, and you know that while the beatings are sure to continue they will eventually reach a climax. Once she has punished you enough to satisfy her sadistic nature, she'll give you the release you crave. She'll give you your reward, and you'll hook a fish. You might even hook a good fish, perhaps several, and everything will be right with the world.  

And while I'm not one to kiss and tell, I will say that last weekend - after fifteen fly changes, twelve hours, six river miles, five tasty IPAs, two bags of chips, and a partridge in a pear tree - everything was right with the world.