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Firsts: An Anthology of Angling Experiences

The first collection of stories contributed by members of

The Catskill Fly Fishing Center and Museum.

Illustrations by Jim Bowman

Edited by Rick Bannerot, Rob Longsworth, and Bob Rock

Preproduction by Erin Phelan and Nancy Hobbs

Published by

The Catskill Fly Fishing Center and Museum

PO Box 1295

1035 Old Route 17

Livingston Manor, NY 12758

www.cffcm.net

Phone 845-439-4810 email:flyfish@catskill.net

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Foreword

Rick Bannerot ………………………………………………………………………….………………………….7

Introduction

Bob Rock……………………………………………………………………………………………………………..9

The Catskills: A First Impression

Don Benson……………………………………………………………………….……………………………….11

Elsie’s Anniversary Dinner

Mary Fried…………………………………………………………………….…………………………………..14

A Meeting of Migrants or the TLS Salmon

Stephen Booth……………………………………………….…………………….……………………………..15

Fly Fishing Words and Phrases

Andy Boyar……………………………………………….……………………………………..………………..17

A First Amongst Equals - Bill Chandler and the Neversink Lodge

Robert H. Wood……………………………………….…………………….…………………………………..18

Judy Goes Fishing or How to Drive Your Hubby Bonkers

Ted Patlen……………………………………………………………………………………..………………….22

First Fish on a Fly

Frank Payne………………………………………………………………………………………………..…….28

Tales from the Catskill Woods

Patrick Sekerak……………………………………………………………………………………………..…..30

Mythical Green Drakes - Excerpts from “Tales from the Catskill Woods”

Patrick Sekerak………………………………………………………………..…………………………..……32

!@#$%^&* Ted Patlen……………………………………………………………………………………………….35 The “Moose Maneuver”

Mathew “Moose” Fredriksen

Provided by Ms. Cara Sutherland…………………………………………..……………………………37

Meatballs - Excerpts from “Tales from the Catskill Woods”

Patrick Sekerak……………………………………………………………………………………….…………39

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King of the Pack Rats

Bob Mead………………………………………………………………………………………………….………43

The Last Trip to Birch Pond

Charlie Place……………………………………………………………………………………………….…….47

A Ringer

Dave Plummer………………………………………………………………….……………………………….50

Hooked

Rob Longsworth…………………………………………………………………………..…………………….51

This One’s for Bernie

Paul Pursell……………………………………………………………………………………………………….53

The Dog that Grew Feathers

Clem Fullerton……………………………………………………………………………….…………………..54

Janicki Rock- Excerpts from “Tales from the Catskill Woods”

Patrick Sekerak………………………………………………………………………………………………….56

A Fond Memory of Roscoe, NY

John Punola………………………………………………………………………………………………………58

So Honey, Do You Fish?

Erin Phelan……………………………………………………………………………………..…………………59

A Touch of Wonder

Ken Parkany………………………………………………………………………………………..…………….61

A Tale like no Other

Art Janos………………………………………………………………………………………..…………………64

Virgin Water/Chased Fish

David L. Goodman………………………………………………………………………….………………….65

Lucky

Ted Patlen………………………………………………………………………………………………………….67

Catering by Chef Hess - Excerpts from “Tales from the Catskill Woods”

Patrick Sekerak…………………………………………………………………………………………………68

St. Paul River

George Buzby………………………………..………………………………………………………………….69

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The “Geezus” Jump

Bob Wood………………………………………………………………………………………………..…………71

A Big Fish Story

Ken Bolton………………………………………………………………………………..……………………….73

Chasing Gold

Rick Bannerot……………………………………………………………………………………………………75

My First Atlantic Salmon

Kathy Scott………………………………………………………………………………………………………..79

Shaver’s Pool - Excerpts from “Tales from the Catskill Woods”

Patrick Sekerak…………………………………………………………………………………………….……81

Story Book

Dr. Bob Rock………………………………………………………………………….………………………….85

First Trout

Tom McCoy…………………………………………………………………………………………..…………..86

The Speckled Woodchuck

Andrew A. Gennaro……………………………………………………………..…………………………….91

Opening Day

Alice Coif……………………………………………………………………………………..…………………….92

The Cheese Doodle Incident - Excerpts from “Tales from the Catskill Woods”

Patrick Sekerak…………………………………………………………………………………………………93

Electric Smallies

Dave Plummer………………………………………………………………………………….……………….94

Man on a Mission

Andy Boyar………………………………………………………………………..………..……………………96

Billy

Jerry Stercho……………………………………………………………………………..……………………..98

The Great Pennsylvania “Lip Cast”

Bill Newcomb………………………………………………………………………………………………….102

What the Heck is a “Huchen”?

Dean Maddes…………………………………………………………………………………..……………….103

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The Start of Something Good

Jim Krul…………………………………………………………………………………………………………..105

Simple Pleasures - Excerpts from “Tales from the Catskill Woods”

Patrick Sekerak…………………………………………………………………………………………………110

Trout Fishing

Alison Wood……………………………………………………………………………………….…………….113

The Eagle and the Osprey

David Plummer & Dave Rossie…………………………………………………………………………..115

From Sunnies to Salmon

William Adams…………………………………………………………………………………..……………116

Bewitched

Dave Plummer………………………………………………………………………………………………….117

Learning

George Buzby……………………………………………………………………………………………..…….118

The Honeymoon Fish

Paul Schultz………………………………………………………………………………………………………119

Rock On: Octogenaria and Pinkeis

Robert Rock………………………………….……………………………………………….……………….122

A First For Me

Ralph Kylloe……………………………………………………………………….………..………………….125

Catch and Release

John Tillotson……………………………………….………………………………………………...………129

In the Nick of Time

James Rudaitils…………………………………………………………………………………….………….131

It’s been a Tough Early Season, Really Tough

Ron Barch………………………………………………………………………………………………………..140

Big Spots, Hooked Jaw

Ted Patlen………………………………………………………………………………………………….…….142

Afterword

Robert Longsworth……………………………………………………………………………….………….145

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Foreword

Rick Banerot

There are many “firsts” in fly fishers’ lives and it is a simple concept with a

wonderfully complex web of issues one must, pardon the pun, wade through. The

stories submitted to this book are a “first,” as it is the first formal anthology of short

stories published by the Catskill Fly Fishing Center and Museum. They are drawn from

the collective memories of untold centuries of cumulative experience, as well as one

special story from an enthusiastic teenager just entering a lifetime of fly fishing “firsts.”

Hopefully, said 14-year old won't a) grow up to be the size his nickname suggests, or b)

hold a grudge against the editors of this humble tome for not correcting his spelling

and grammar when he's old enough to really re-read his first published work. (To have

cleaned-up his work would have been tantamount to copyediting Samuel Clemmons’

“voice” of Huck and Tom for the sake of political correctness.)

If you look at some of the past editorial boards of the CFFCM, you see luminary

anglers with copious literary skills and credits. However, for this editor, this first is a

first. I have written any number of pieces for angling publications, but have never been

in a position of having to edit others’ works.

Oh, the responsibility…how does one know what to keep and what to reject,

what to re-write, and what to let pass? How many commas are too many? (One begins

to appreciate Salieri’s dilemma when the king said he really liked the new concerto, but

there were too many notes and could he take some of them out). Do “politics” come

into play? Maybe Jim wouldn’t be swayed by history or politics. Unfortunately, for us,

any bribes attached with original manuscripts seem to have remained affixed to

originals, as all we saw were copies of the stories to be reviewed for inclusion.

Is it one’s first fish with a fly rod with a worm, grasshopper, dough ball or

Mepp’s Spinner attached to the leader versus, say, a wooly bugger or a Muddler’s

Minnow in the purer sense of the word? Is it the first trout taken on a dry fly, or your

first bonefish at age 12 caught sight unseen in 10 feet of murky water on a live shrimp,

beating your dad’s best bonefish by two and three-quarter pounds? Is it the one

wading by yourself, on a gin-clear skinny flat, casting far and fine, then stripping,

striking and catching a tailing double-digit bonefish? Is it the first time you put down

your rod and helped someone else learn to cast to a fish you knew to be a rising, 20-

inch brown trout?

Could it be that your special “first” was your initial effort to bend floss, thread,

feather and fur on a wobbly clamp vice that just couldn’t hold a hook straight no matter

how hard you tried to tighten it; or that time you finally got the proportions just right

and the fanwing Coachman landed upright every cast? Maybe it was the first time you

actually braked, stopped, got out of your car and collected some feather or fur from

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what you hoped was “fresh” roadkill. For some it was the first time they fought a fish

to a tough draw and when the fish broke off, it was a “damn shame” versus a “tragedy.”

Having read the initial submissions for Firsts, I am convinced there will be a

second and possibly a third “Firsts” anthology, as I expect that when these stories start

to circulate, they will prompt many more “first” fish tales to come pouring in. Why am

I positive of this? Well, when we run out of “firsts” to experience in our angling lives,

then I think it is time to hang up the waders because we will have lost our imagination.

Of course, there is always the phrase, “That’s the first time in a long time since I went

fishing in a farm pond for bluegills…” which may just jump start the process of self-

discovery all over again. After all, isn’t that what collecting fishing “firsts” is really all

about?

Rick Bannerot, Co-editor

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Introduction

Bob Rock

“The Lord knows we can’t fish, but at least we are literate.” Sparse Grey Hackle,

the nom de plum of Alfred W. Miller, spoke those words at a luncheon in his favorite

downtown Manhattan fly fishing club. Sparse was a regular at the club for lunch and

often would be joined by Nick Lyons, Hoagy Carmichael, Jack Atherton, or Ed Hewitt,

all of whom by their own admission benefited from his aggressive mentoring of their

writing. An outstanding and distinguished journalist, Sparse at various times in his

career wrote for the Wall Street Journal, New York Post and Sports Illustrated. His

Fishless Days, Angling Nights is a classic piece of American fishing literature. His

coaching and advising extended beyond the club luncheons to include Charlie Fox,

Vincent Marinaro, Red Smith and others.

As a teenager and college student, my personal favorite sports writer and editor

was Red Smith of the New York Times. Sparse and Red were good friends and fished

together in the Catskills. I have no doubt that until his death in 1983; Sparse’s

mentoring of these authors was the single most significant influence in modern fly

fishing literature, and perhaps the sport itself.

Something in the psychological make-up of fly fishers impels them to write

(and for some to drive fast automobiles and ski). We are a literate group, and this book

is testimony to that. Absent a mentoring Sparse to hone our literary skills, there has

been, for most of us, a significant void in this writerly drive – the actual publishing of

our writing. Something we wanted and didn’t have. Jim Krul, our Executive Director,

saw this and came up with the idea for Firsts. A modern social invention. What a

wonderful benefit of and for the membership of the Catskill Fly Fishing Center and

Museum. Our words are being published!

Surely, the odds today are stacked against Jane or Joe Flyfisher having their

writing published. Book publishers’ representatives advise that most houses receive

two to three hundred unsolicited manuscripts annually. One major firm said it gets

over a thousand manuscripts a year. Only a very few of those manuscripts are ever

published. Following some of my queries, some publishers took time to write that

much of what they receive is good or excellent, and one should not despair over

rejection. Their needs are exceedingly specific and it helps if you have some fame or

notoriety, take Oprah Winfrey and Tom Brokaw for example. Brokaw is a fly fisher,

but the thought of Oprah in waders simply boggles the mind….

I don’t have numbers for the magazines and journals, but if you check the

information - or lack thereof - in their mastheads, it becomes obvious they are not

actively looking for material. A recent query to the New York Conservationist came

back with a two-page Contributor’s Guide. Another prominent outdoor news magazine

I lately subscribed to has this in its masthead: “…welcomes unsolicited fishing and

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hunting photographs; enclose a self-addressed stamped envelope for return.” There

was no mention of manuscripts.

Often subtle and mixed with advice and wisdom, there was much humor in

Sparse’s commentary, all of which was evident in this quote from Fishless Days,

Angling Nights: “Soon after I embraced the sport of angling I became convinced that I

should never be able to enjoy it if I had to rely on the cooperation of the fish.” I can

add an, “Oh yes” to that, and note that the Firsts is good reading because the writers

have wonderful senses humor and a touch of humility in their writing.

Fly fishing builds friendships and bonds among its participants. This book will

do the same. Enjoy the light being shone on your words in the Firsts, share those

words with new and old friends, have fun and catch fish.

Bob Rock, Co-Editor

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The Catskills: A First Impression

Don Benson

As we pulled off to the side of the road, I took one last glance at the map and

climbed out of the car. “Ya know, you were right, this must be Cairns Pool.” I stood

there in silence looking down at the river. Three fishermen, evenly spaced about 50

feet apart, were standing waist-deep in the water casting methodically toward the far

bank. Although I watched the fishermen and scanned the water for feeding activity,

my thoughts were drifting back in time. How many other fishermen had stood there

looking down at this pool? What well-known fishermen, who had gained national

notoriety through their fishing, fly-tying or writing skills, had come to this same place?

I thought of the entire fly-fishing heritage that had come from this area. My brother

broke the silence when he commented, “I read somewhere that if there were going to

be fish rising anywhere on the Beaverkill, that it would be in this pool.”

We both had arrived in the Catskills the afternoon before having traveled

almost identical distances from different directions. My brother, Rich, and his wife,

Judy, had come from Rhode Island, and my wife, Leah, and I, from Maryland. We met

at the Butternut Grove Campground located right on the Beaverkill River. By the time

we arrived, Rich and Judy had camp all set up, and my brother had that night’s fishing

area picked out already. He had explored several miles of the Beaverkill near the camp

and had found below an iron bridge a beautiful pool that was full of fish. We learned

later that he had chosen Horton Pool and it was a good choice. That first evening from

about 6:30 to dusk, we worked the pool with almost continuous action: rises, refusals,

takes, etc. Overall, during our first two hours or so on this famous river, we each

landed 8 or 9 trout. All were taken on dry flies; all were browns and nothing over a

foot long. Nothing spectacular, but still a very satisfying beginning.

The next morning’s fishing would have to wait. It was time to visit the area.

We were only going to be in the Catskills for two full days and part of two other days,

and as anxious as Rich and I were to sample the fishing, we all wanted to see the area.

We drove along the Beaverkill for several miles on our way to the town of Roscoe. My

brother and I studied the river, both to pick sections that we would like to fish later,

and to try to identify the different pools we were passing. Some pools were easy to

identify, like Junction Pool, where the Willowemoc and Beaverkill rivers come

together, or Cairns Pool that I mentioned earlier. Others, like Schoolhouse Pool, were

not as obvious to us.

The town of Roscoe was a little different than I expected, but then I am not sure

what I expected. Maybe I thought it would be like colonial Williamsburg where

everyone wears the appropriate period clothing. Therefore, everyone in Roscoe should

be wearing chest waders and fishing vests. They were not! The town itself was much

smaller than I imagined it would be. The main business district wasn’t more than a

couple of hundred yards long.

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The Catskill Fly Fishing Center, didn’t open until later in the morning. I had to

be content pressing my nose up to the window and looking inside. There were places

in the area of Roscoe that still looked, as they must have years ago, while other areas

looked new and modern. My first impressions of Roscoe are difficult to describe, but

for the most part, it was just a quaint little town with friendly people.

Later that same day, Rich and I stopped back in Roscoe on our way to look over

the Willowemoc Creek. We wanted to go into Walt Dette’s fly shop, which is located in

his home. Mary Dette greeted us at the door and I wanted to say, “I know who you

are,” but I’m sure she had heard it many times before and I restrained myself. She

immediately apologized for the many empty fly boxes on the shelves, as their fly-tying

had not kept up with the demand. It really didn’t matter; I tie my own flies and did not

need anything special. I just wanted to buy some of “their” flies, so any fly would do.

Some would be put into boxes to be used, and some would be set aside and saved.

As we drove along old Route 17 looking for access to the Willowemoc, we drove

past Harry and Elsie Darbee’s home. I wished that they were still there. Instead, they

are now a part of the fly fishing history of the area. A little farther down Route 17 we

found a small dirt access road to the river. There was also a sign that indicated that we

were at the upper limit of the “nokill” stretch. The river itself, in this particular stretch,

was quite open and, in some ways, reminded me of some western streams that I have

fished. It was also very inviting, so my brother and I decided that we would spend the

time we had left fishing this section before we were due back in camp.

We rigged up and headed for the stream, full of excitement and anticipation. I

elected to go downstream a short ways and work my way back up toward Rich. After

fishing for awhile without producing a strike, I looked up and realized that my brother

was still in the same area that he was when we started. He was fishing a shaded area

by an exposed root system along the far bank. I worked my way back up to him, he told

me he had had three different fish show themselves, without taking. We talked for a

while as he changed flies. Eventually, he would fool and catch all three of those trout,

but as I left to move upstream, he was still working on the solution.

A short way upstream, there was another small clump of shoreline brush that

was casting a midday shadow on the edge of the river. As small as the shaded area was,

it was apparently enough. I dropped my ant pattern against the bank just above the

shaded area and as it drifted through the dark patch, it was greeted with a splashy take.

The fish showed incredible strength and determination for its size, and epitomized the

expression “never say die.” Eventually, I was able to guide the fish into the shallows. A

fat healthy brown measured seventeen inches. He was beautifully marked and I

enjoyed watching him fin slowly in the quiet water while regaining his strength. I have

caught many trout that were bigger, but as I watched this one swim back into the main

stream, I knew he would have a special place in my memory.

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So it went for the rest of our first trip to the Catskills. We roamed around the

area and tried to see as much as we could. We limited our fishing to the Beaverkill and

Willowemoc. Still, we didn’t scratch the surface. So much water not fished, so many

rivers not explored, so many roads not taken; it was almost frustrating. Yet we

sampled enough to get a taste of the area and we enjoyed ourselves immensely. We

enjoyed the people we met. We enjoyed the mayflies that visited our lantern in camp

each night and, most of all, we enjoyed seeing such a famous area for the first time.

Because of the American fly-fishing history that has come from the Catskills, it has

always been a special place to me, but now after my first visit, it is even more special.

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Elsie’s Anniversary Dinner

Mary Fried

One sunny afternoon many years ago, my husband and I stopped by the

Darbee’s and found them both at their desks busily tying flies for fishermen all over the

world. Hackles and feathers from Harry’s chickens were everywhere. Elsie and Harry

were a very frugal couple, and nothing from those chickens went to waste. Elsie was an

excellent cook and had developed dozens of recipes for those birds over the years,

having prepared them frequently.

Stopping briefly from the tasks at hand, Elsie looked up and said, “You know,

today is our anniversary and we’re so busy I don’t think we will even have time for

dinner tonight.”

I replied, “Elsie, you have to eat somewhere. Would you like to have dinner

with us?”

“Oh,” she replied, “That would be lovely!” After a brief pause she added,

“You’re not having chicken, are you?”

We laughed at her being so forthright. Her honesty endeared her to me forever.

P.S.: We served Beef Wellington.

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A Meeting of Migrants – or The TLS Salmon By Stephen Booth

His head was large - too large for off-the-shelf hats. The special order Filson he wore made reading over his shoulder a tricky business. Still, with the casting count mounting as relentlessly as the sun, the opportunity to break the monotony was worth being slightly off balance and if the salmon weren’t going to pay any attention to me, why shouldn’t I pay them the same compliment? The guide, slumped in the stern-become-prow of the Sharpe’s freight canoe appeared to be as comatose as his sports had become indifferent to the task at hand. The Bigheaded One made it a point to bring a year’s worth of The New York Review of Books and Times Literary Supplements to camp each year. They were useful for inducing deep sleep following our usual light lunch of beef barley soup, roast pork, mashed potatoes, boiled beans, gravy, salty bread, salty butter, cheese whiz for the middle aged children at table, pickles, for the truly middle aged and lemon meringue pie to stave off diabetes. Of course it might have been that the two large whiskeys that preceded grace and the merlot that accompanied the food contributed to our postprandial somnolence, but a shot of Noam Chomsky certainly did as much to revive us as it did to revive the Old Left. Nothing. Nevertheless, when my turn came to stand up and begin the quartering casts that would cover the drop and since mid-day drinks and lunch were another hour away, a sneak peak at the Bigheaded One’s TLS seemed like a good way to wait out the fly’s swing through another pool empty of Salmo salar. The first evening afloat always found us optimistic enough about our chances of finding “taking” fish that no print material found its way down to the canoe; rather Rusty and Silver Rats and the Upsalquitch Special filled the first Wheatley to be opened for the guide to choose. A #6 double it always was, without regard for pattern and with it, the first cast was made. Two days later, and with the canoenthwart now a veritable map of Canadian waters with Undertakers and Black Bear Green Butts from the Miramichi, Cosseboms and Red Abbeys from the Margaree, Bombers in all shades and the ubiquitous Green Machine. All tried and found innocent of enticement, it again became time to appeal to one, or other of northern New Brunswick’s own. One of the last of Arsenault’s own Rats, or, “the true Rusty Rat”, as head guide Ralph Lee had described the yellow floss of my own tie. With the sun glistening off the lowering water, it would be a Silver Rat. As drop followed alternating drop, the Bigheaded One’s hat became a convenient place to drape my retrieved line. With the sun rising as high as the thermal riding Bald Eagle, thoughts of drinks on the camp porch replaced hopes of the take that would break our goose egg. The nervous, muscle tensing expectation of the long hoped for pull was gone. Indifference would be the new guile of the jaded hunter. As the Bigheaded One turned the page, the Times Literary Supplement seemed as distant from the

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Upsalquitch, the Restigouche and the Baie de Chaleur, as academic common rooms were from our log cabins in the north woods. No fish fresh from the North Atlantic, a traveler from Greenland’s icy shore, would choose to land in a London literary journal. My eye caught a review of a book on human migration – a favorite subject of mine. I have lead a migratory life, being well fed in two countries, while begetting my progeny in a third. I lent forward, peered around the brim of the Bigheaded One’s oversized hat and began to read. The subject was migration from post-independence India and Pakistan. The drift from Bangladesh to Birmingham was, the reviewer opined, an inevitable consequence of Britain’s imperial colonization. As I read, fibers from the tail of a Golden Pheasant, a native of that same sub-continent, drifted, unknown to me, closer and closer to another migrant. The decision when to stop lengthening your cast, to sit down and to let your partner cover the next cast, is yours to make. Time to sit down or one last haul on the ten-foot Hardy? A rest or one last drift of the Rat, with its silver tinsel, Plymouth Rock hackle and those golden fibers, reminders of a distant land, and long sea voyages? The cast was made. The fly settled nicely at forty-five degrees to the right, just below one of the Silver Birches that gave the name to this pool. My mind and eyes returned to the TLS and migration. All hope gone, let the fly travel alone. The pull was strong. Strong enough for the hook to be set against the reel’s well-set drag. The line cleared the brim of the Bigheaded One’s hat; the rod cushioned the staccato first rush. The guide was standing, awake and voicing un-heeded instruction. As it climbed out of the water, it looked like my best salmon to date. It swam now quickly upstream parallel to the canoe, toward fallen birch branches. I was not reeling fast enough to keep a tight line, lost it and decided to risk a downstream belly to turn the fish. Relief followed when the line straightened below and the weight of the fish was felt again. Now it was time for the fish to be played out, netted, admired and released. As the guide twisted the Silver Rat from the salmon’s jaw, the golden pheasant fibers glistened against its silver body. Oceans apart, two migrants had met, while a third, faithless wanderer, had played the pimp.

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FLY-FISHING WORDS AND PHRASES TRANSLATED

Andy Boyar

PHRASE MEANING

“Beautiful day on the river” No fish

“Successful day on the river” One fish

“Trout were pretty picky” No fish

“Trout were hungry” Takes, but no fish

“Trout were eating” One fish

“Trout were really eating” Two fish

“Caught a number of fish” Two fish

“Bruisers were biting” No fish, broke tippet(s)

“Had two fish in the 20”s” Two 20” fish

“Trout were challenging” No fish

“I did well” One fish

“We did well” Partner had one fish

“We had a lovely day” No fish

“We slammed them” Both had one fish

“We did OK” Slammed them

“Half dozen to twenty” 5 seven inchers, one 18”

“Eighteen-inch fish” A measured 18” fish

“Twenty-inch fish” An unmeasured 18” fish

“Really had shoulders” Unlanded fish

“Nice fat one” My fish under 12”

“A fish” Your fish under 12”

“Nice fish” 14” or better by partner

“Slob fish” 14” or better by self

“Slammer” Fish lost at net

“Wall hanger” Fish never seen but lost

“Perfect specimen” Fish 10” or less

“Into my backing” Backing reached stripping guide

“Way into my backing” Backing reached tip-top

“End of my backing” Backing reached water

“A really beautiful fly” Fly tied by oneself

“A ‘might work’ fly” Fly tied by another

“Killer fly” Fly which has caught a trout

“I did OK” You ain’t ever going to know what

I caught, where, or on what fly

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A First amongst Equals:

Bill Chandler and the Neversink Lodge

Robert H. Wood

Hosted by Bill and Martha Chandler, Neversink Lodge was a favorite

destination for many a trout fisherman before the advent of the Neversink Reservoir.

Known for its location, high above a great stretch of water, its warm hospitality and

hearty home cooking, it attracted a wide group of avid anglers, writers, and

professional people. Acquiring the property about 1916, the Chandlers gradually

converted an old farmhouse into a guest lodge that prospered entirely on referrals by

those who found such good company with other guests in search of trout, or just a

quiet break from city life. During the heyday of Neversink Lodge, there was much

interest in dry fly fishing and the development of the bamboo rods especially suited to

Catskill fishing.

My father, Bill, and my uncle, Preston Wood, both discovered Chandler’s place

around 1925. They were “purists,” and found the hatches on the Neversink better than

most. Thus, I found my name in the Lodge guest book at a time when I could hardly

write, in August 1926. This guest book, covering the period from 1925 to 1933, was

given to me, following Bill Chandler’s death in 1974, by a friend of Bill’s in Liberty.

Leafing through the guest book one finds some notable names. The writers Preston

Jennings and Dr. George Parker Holden were at Chandler’s with their wives for trout

fishing. An owner of the New York Herald Tribune, Joan Payson Whitney, chose

Neversink Lodge for her daughter Sandra to recuperate following a serious illness.

Chandler had been a tackle salesman for William Mills & Son for several years, so the

book has many signatures of the Mills family. Another guest was Charles H. Demarest,

the importer of Tonkin cane for fly rod builders.

In New York, Chandler developed a health problem that required cleaner air,

and that’s when he and Martha chose the property in the Neversink Valley. Although

they had heard that the City might impound the Neversink and flood their property

some day, they thought it would never happen in their lifetime. The original

farmhouse, Bill said, had a frame that was fastened with wooden pins and held upright

with planks. No one could remember when it was built. Slowly they improved the

building by adding porches and a dining room wing, which also housed Bill’s collection

of angling and nature books. He later donated his library to the Anglers’ Club of New

York.

Well into the ‘30’s, they had a horse and buckboard and a Jersey cow. Bill’s

father, known as “Dad,” handled the animals and the barn. They also had chickens and

a marvelous garden with both flowers and vegetables. A well-equipped workshop

building and a huge circular saw, powered by an old-time “one lung” engine, rounded

out the equipment that made the farm close to self-sufficient. They did their own

haying, had a cream separator and a churn on the side porch where they made their

own butter. On the side hill back of the Lodge, they built two small cottages that they

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called “camps.” During the guest season, Bill and Martha would move into one of

them, making more room in the Lodge; the other Bill used for an office, fly tying and

tackle shop. He imported gut leaders and other trout tackle from Hardy’s of England.

He also imported lightweight Anderson waders from Scotland.

In 1929, my family bought a place over in the Big Indian Valley in Ulster

County. With good trout fishing in the nearby Esopus Creek, we didn’t go to

Chandler’s for several years. For old time’s sake, when I was fourteen, we went back to

Chandler’s and had the usual fine time. I had learned enough about fly fishing from

my dad on the Esopus to really appreciate the Neversink. It was August and fishing on

the Neversink had been spotty. Chandler had given me an old rod with a slow action

that was fine for wet flies. Up opposite the pasture, they had a farm pond that had

some trout in it. During the prior year, Chandler had welcomed the hatchery people

who were looking for a pond to store some trout temporarily because of adverse water

conditions in the river. When they recovered the fish from Chandler’s pond, they

missed a few. In the intervening year, the trout that wintered over grew to a good size.

Bill said, “See if you can hook one.”

Well it was a busy afternoon, for I caught and released several over twelve

inches.

Finally, Bill said, “If you get another good one, you can keep it for the table.” I

still have and treasure the photo of me holding up that fat 15-inch brown.

Among the guests that week were Jack Miller, an illustrator for Disney, and

Judge Sydney Foster, a great friend of the Chandlers who came from nearby Liberty. I

was on the porch next to the wall where all the rods were hung and watched as Judge

Foster put up his rod, which was still rigged. I noticed that the fly he had been using

was a huge Dark Cahill. It must have been a #4, and surely no smaller than a #6.

Having been used to flies no bigger than a #10, I couldn’t resist asking, “Why such a

huge fly?”

The Judge grinned a little, saying, “Big fly, big fish.”

Another story I’ll never forget is one that old “Dad” Chandler would tell about

their neighbor from upstream, Ed Hewitt. “Dad” said, “One day Hewitt came by and

wanted to show off to our guests some trout he had caught. Well, he had this willow

creel and he pulled out two beauties. Then he put them back in the creel and pulled

out two more. You know he did this three or four times, and I’m sure it was the same

two trout he was pulling out, every time.”

Bill Chandler was one of the finest fishermen I have ever known. There was a

little feeder stream that flowed into the Neversink about opposite the Lodge. After a

heavy rain had brought up the little stream considerably, he’d take a short rod to cope

with the overhanging brush and come back with a limit of half-pound trout for the

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table. He had found that with the high water in the little stream, good fish would swim

up there from the big river to feast on what the high water brought.

Fishing with him was always a learning experience. One time he took me to the

Miller property on the upper Neversink, well above Hewitt’s water. We were fishing

toward evening when I dropped my only fly box in the river and never found it. Quite

sad at the loss, I told Bill about it on the way home in the car. Next morning he went

up to his tackle shop and found a small Wheatley six compartment aluminum fly box

and showed me how to fasten a cut-off piece of silk line to the box. It’s been fastened

in the top pocket of my fishing vest ever since.

He was always very generous with time and advice, and a great friend to his last

days. After his retirement, he and Martha would take some drives around the

mountains. One of their favorite trips was to go from Liberty over to Grahamsville,

through Lowes’ Corners, up the valley of the Rondout, through Peekamoose, then

down the mountain to Ashokan Reservoir, picking up Route 28A at West Shokan.

They would continue on 28 westward through Boiceville, often stopping at Al’s

Resturant in Phoenicia for lunch. Going up 28, they would then turn south at Big

Indian, often stopping to visit us at our cabin on Slide Mt. Road just below Winnisook

Club. They would then continue along the West Branch of the Neversink to Claryville,

thence down the mountain to Curry, picking up Route 55 west; thus making a full circle

of some of the Catskills’ best trout water before reaching home in Liberty.

It was on one of these visits that Bill gave me an 8 ½ foot Leonard Tournament

rod that he said was developed at Leonard’s at the time dry fly fishing was becoming so

popular. Both Chandlers were in their 70’s at the time of this visit. They had been

living in Liberty ever since the City took their property to build the Neversink

Reservoir. During the earlier part of this period, Bill worked in the Sullivan County

Treasurer’s Office. He served in the State Assembly for one term, representing Sullivan

County. (His accomplishment in the field of conservation and in the acquisition of

public fishing rights are well documented in Ed Van Put’s splendid book Trout Fishing

in the Catskills.)

The Neversink was really Chandler’s favorite water. Still wading streams in his

70’s, he particularly preferred the West Branch of the Neversink, where his fishing

companion, Judge Foster, had a rod on Wintoon Waters. Bill enjoyed many a trip

there as the Judge’s guest. He also fished Elk Brook Run on the Beaverkill, and even in

his later years, went after big rainbows at Lordville on the Delaware.

Though we lived upstate in Oswego at that time, I was still able to fish with Bill

on a few other occasions. A picnic with the Chandlers at the Beaverkill State Campsite

included a lesson from Bill on how to fish the lies near a midstream rock close to the

Covered Bridge Pool. Our last time together was on the then 4H Club water on the

main Neversink, just downstream from the junction pool at Claryville.

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William A. (Bill) Chandler was honored for his reputation among trout

fishermen of his day, (particularly for his effective lobbying for and support of

conservation and public fishing rights) by his election to the Catskill Fly Fishing Center

and Museum Hall of Fame on October 14, 2000. As one of the remaining few who

knew Chandler, I was pleased to accept the Center’s Acknowledgement Certificate on

Bill’s behalf.

Finally, all of us who fish a dry Light Cahill, whenever we can, are indebted to

Bill for his development of that pattern many years ago. The fly is still in wide use

today, as credited by Art Flick in his classic, Streamside Guide.