When the Hendricksons Fall

As a fishing guide, I spend a lot of time helping other anglers find their moments on the water. But it is just as important for me to keep fishing, too. To stay connected to the river, to keep learning, and to remember what it feels like to be on the other side of the cast.

Earlier this week, I had an opening in my schedule and decided to take advantage of it. The Battenkill had been setting up beautifully. Air temperatures were right, water temperatures were right, and the previous evening I had witnessed one of the heaviest Hendrickson spinner falls I have seen in a long time. There were so many mayflies in the air that it became one of those rare moments you know you will remember.

But, in true Battenkill fashion, the river did not give itself away.

The bugs were there. The light was right. The conditions felt nearly perfect. And still, there were not many fish rising. That is one of the great lessons of this river. Everything can look exactly the way you hope it will, and the trout may still refuse to play their part.

The next evening, I decided to try again. I loaded my canoe, brought my four-weight, and paddled into a stretch of gentle water where I could quietly get into position. As the evening settled in, the Hendrickson spinners began to gather again, lifting and dropping in soft clouds over the river. Before long, fish started to rise.

I began with a spinner pattern, a size 16 mahogany parachute, and made a few clean drifts over a rising fish. The presentation looked good, but the fish would not take. That is often the moment where the Battenkill reminds you not to assume too much. I changed flies, tied on another spinner pattern, and sent the first drift back over the same fish.

This time, he ate.

After a short fight, I brought a beautiful 12-inch wild brook trout to the net, my first brook trout of the season. Perfectly marked, healthy, and wild, it was one of those fish that stays with you long after the release. I landed a couple more brook trout that evening before calling it a night.

Later, I heard reports from other anglers who had also found success, including some very sizeable brown trout caught during the same window. The river had turned on. And the funny thing is, there was not much that seemed different from the night before, when the bugs were there but the fish were not.

That is the Battenkill.

Everything can come together and nothing happens. Everything can come together and it becomes a night you will never forget. No one really knows exactly what will unfold out there, and that is what keeps us coming back. We return to piece together the puzzle, to read the water, watch the bugs, make the cast, adjust the fly, and wait for skill, experience, and patience to finally meet the right moment.

When it does, there is a kind of relief in it. For me, after that fish, I felt like I could sleep that night.

That constant chase, the uncertainty, the patience, the rare reward, is what makes the Battenkill the Battenkill.