by Harris Krinsky

In late April, I fished the Delaware River in the Catskill Mountains. My friend, Carlo, Maggie, my Miniature Schnauzer, and I drove five hours from Boston. We were meeting Chippy D. at the West Branch Angler in Deposit, New York. You could hear the river flow from our cabin porch.

Carlo is a Day Trader whose longtime girlfriend left him. She took everything: the house, the car, the bank accounts, etc. Even though she dropped the bomb months ago, Carlo was still enormously distraught. The drive was a little disturbing. When he wasn’t peering into his Blackberry or smoking Marlboros, Carlo was staring blankly into space occasionally muttering obscenities or grunting.

After settling into our cabin, we made our way to the fly shop. Carlo and Chippy are neophytes. In a desperate attempt to shake his depression, Carlo outfitted himself, head to toe, in the expensive gear. He spent over two grand. Even though we knew it was not in his best interest, Chippy and I egged him on. He needed little encouragement, however. He left the shop with a pair of Simms Gortex waders, matching boots, a Sage rod, a Ross reel, the latest Orvis vest and all the accoutrements. It took me at least ten years to accumulate all the stuff. The spree was grotesque but, I must say, he looked sporting in the new equipment.

 

 

We made our way to the river. The weather was in the 40’s and the river was running 2000 cfs. We tried all manner of Alewife patterns to no avail. When we switched to nymphs, I hooked a Brown. It jumped twice then ran into my backing. I was convinced it was a hog. I followed it down stream as it took me into my backing at least 3 more times. I finally brought it to the net. It was a foul hooked 16 inch Brown. Not the fish I expected but still a beautiful wild Delaware Brown.

 

I made my way back to Carlo and Chippy. I set them up with nymph rigs. Carlo was able to chuck the streamers but when he changed to nymphs, the howls of frustration could be heard up and down the river. I just laughed as the tangles in his leader turned into impossible snarls. I let him be. Learning the hard way is sometimes the best way.

That night Carlo found a degree of solace from his breakup in a bottle of Kettleone. After six drinks, his sullenness turned to rage. He reached deep and spewed base and vulgar. “The whore stole my house,” he hissed. “She’s in my bed with poetry boy,” he stammered red-faced with spittle flying from his mouth. These are the kinder epitaphs; even I wouldn’t repeat the rest in mixed company. After about an hour of this, he passed out.

The next day it was in the 80’s and the flow was down to 500 cfs. New York City controls the flow for its drinking water, and there is no telling what they will do. With the drastic change, the fish and the flies didn’t know what to do. There were some sparse hatches and sporadically rising fish but none of the spectacular hatches that have made the Delaware famous. Not all was lost, however. When we returned to the cabin, I successfully alienated a well know concert violinist who was practicing on his porch next door. I decided to teach the pretentious prig a lesson by blasting Bob Dylan on my IPod. He went inside. That ended his commune with nature.

Apparently, I also made quite a splash at the bar that night. I say apparently because I can’t remember most of it. I fell off the wagon hard drinking Kettleone straight from the bottle with Carlo. After convincing me to tie one on, Carlo passed out. Chippy and I made our way to the bar. It was almost empty except for the violinist and two women. Turns out, the ladies were a couple. After insulting the violinist again, I befriended the women. I’m told I was trying to convince them to switch teams. Using better judgment, Chippy dragged me out.

 

 

Fishing next morning was more of the same: high temperatures, low water and skittish, confused fish. We broke for breakfast at a local restaurant. Carlo, back in a funk and hung over, ordered steak, medium rare, and eggs. It looked like steak tartar when he cut into it. He loudly dropped his silverware. When the waitress returned, he practically threw the plate at her and growled, “Cook it.” She was petrified. On the way out, Chippy fell back and apologized to the poor women. We spent the rest of the day moving from hole to hole: fishless again.

The next morning, we said our goodbyes to Chippy and started the long trek back to Boston. Carlo returned to his Blackberry and bouts of depression. Maggie, who rode quietly on the trip out, whined every hour on the way back. Each time I let her out, she would not pee. After we got home, Carlo emailed a simple message, “Pull the car over. The dog wants to smell the side of the highway again.”