When Everything Comes Together

When Everything Comes Together

This past week was one of the most memorable weeks I have spent on the Battenkill.

The week started with warm weather, and with it came another incredible Hendrickson spinner fall. Clouds of spinners gathered over the river as the evening light settled in, and the setting sun seemed to illuminate the whole thing. It was one of those moments where the bugs almost stole the show.

Even with all of that life in the air, rising fish were still hard to come by. That has been the theme through much of this Hendrickson season. The bugs have been there. The conditions have felt right. And more often than not, the Battenkill has still made us work for every opportunity.

On Tuesday evening, I set out with my good friend Doug Lyons, who has spent as much time on this river as anybody I know. Over the past few weeks, both of us have been hunting rising fish day and night, often staring at beautiful water, watching bugs in the air, and seeing very little activity on the surface. That is part of it, and that’s the Battenkill.

That night, I posted up on a piece of water that just felt right. It had the flow, the structure, the right pace, and that hard to explain feeling that fish should be there. Not long after Doug met me, we spotted a fish rising tight to the bank, tucked under low-hanging branches.

Of course, he was not in an easy place.

There was a window, though. A narrow one. I could see it. The fish was tight to the bank, protected by the branches, but there was just enough room to get a fly in there if everything went right. I had been watching that spot, and when the fish showed himself, it was my turn.

There was no way around it. I was going to have to make a long, low cast under the branches, with enough control to land the fly softly and not put the fish down. The back cast had to fit through its own window. The forward cast had to thread through another. It was the kind of cast that, more often than not, does not come together.

But I looked at it and thought, I can do this.

After a few tries, I finally made the exact cast I had pictured. The fly shot through the opening, slipped under the low branches, landed softly, and drifted for a moment.

Then came the most subtle sip.

You can barely even see it in the video. Just a small break in the surface. But I lifted, and I was on.

I knew right away it was a good brown trout. A large one. And almost as quickly, I started to wonder if this was going to be another one of those Battenkill battles that ended with a broken tippet, a bad turn, or a fish disappearing into the kind of place you cannot follow.

That happens on this river. These fish are big for a reason. They know the brush. They know the fast water. They know exactly where to go. And when you are fishing 5X, you are fighting the river as much as you are fighting the fish.

There really is not much to do in that moment except stay connected and let the fish do what it wants to do.

Eventually, Doug realized I was on and came rushing over, but I was out in the middle of the river and knew I had to finish it myself. The fish stayed heavy and strong, and for a while, it felt like anything could happen. I finally worked him above me, lifted just enough, slid the net underneath, and there he was.

A 22-inch wild Battenkill brown trout.

My personal best brown.

On one of the most beautiful evenings I have ever seen on the river, with a good friend there to share it.

That is what it is all about.

So much has to come together. In fact, everything has to come together. The bugs, the light, the river, the fish, the cast, the drift, the hook set, the fight, and a little bit of luck. And when it does, when you finally get to admire one of these fish up close, it is hard to describe.

It is not just about catching the fish. It is the time spent looking. The nights when nothing happens. The conversations on the bank. The shared obsession with a river that gives just enough to keep you coming back.

I would have gotten just as much joy watching Doug catch that fish as I did catching it myself. Maybe more, honestly, because fighting that fish was about as nerve-wracking as it gets.

But this time, everything held.

Thank you to the Battenkill. Thank you to that brown trout. And thank you to the friends who understand how much these moments mean.

Cheers to an incredible Hendrickson season.