“Trout Town USA”
by Brian Tompkins

Day One: I awoke May 19^th, 2006, knowing that in a few hours I would be heading for one of the most famous trout fishing destinations; Roscoe, NY. After sitting through three periods of school barely keeping my attention, I was off with my best friend and his father for a 5-hour drive to Roscoe. Before getting on our way we stopped at Gander Mountain to load up on extra gear, just in case; flies, waders, leaders. As we left the cashier wished us “good luck fishing”, and by the looks of the dark clouds overhead we would need it.

Most of the ride was nice and pleasant, until we hit the Beaverkill River. Seeing drift boat after drift boat, all of us in the truck got a little antsy. Even though we were still an hour away from the camp and hours away from setting up, we couldn’t help it. Finally, we arrived at our destination, Beaverkill Campground. We got to the site  and the reality of having to set up while staring at a gorgeous river 20 feet away set in. We opened the trunk to get the tent, but instead we found a 5-foot burlap bag stuffed full. I asked, “What is this?”

“The tent.”

As it turns out it was my friend’s grandparent's. An enormous canvas tent from the early 60’s that must have weighed 50 lbs. We hassled with setting that up, staking it and getting our gear in. Setting up a screen tent to eat and cook in took seconds compared to the canvas cabin that would be our home away from home.

It looked pretty nice.

Now came the most interesting and anticipated part of the trip, fishing. I grabbed my rod (an Orvis Streamline 6 wt.) and tied on a new leader and a new, white cone-head wooly bugger I had tied the night before. The whole time I and my friend Kyle were talking about how many fish we would catch and what we would do and if we would need another roll of film. By this time we were all suited up, waders and all. Plus some goofy looking ponchos on account of it raining.

Then it came -- my first step ever into a river. This was my first time wading, and this river was definitely not weak. I almost lost my balance a few times but managed to catch myself; the next day, however, I would not be so lucky. Anyway, we walked up and down the river a good mile or so until it got dark. It seemed like we’d been out for an hour, when in reality it had been three or four. I think every fisherman has had this happen. No fish yet, discouraged, we just blamed it on the rain. We did find these, though:

One of the most interesting looking plants I’ve ever seen.

The rest of the night was dedicated to three things, getting dry, making s'mores, and planning out the next day's fishing. The rain and the occasional splash in the ice-cold Beaverkill soaked us to the bone. So the fire was built and a hearty dinner of hotdogs and s'mores ensued. We all sat around that night talking around the campfire about fishing stories and just anything and everything else. Before we knew it, 1 a.m. came. And we only had 5 hours to sleep; off to bed we went.

Day Two: We awoke to a beautiful morning. The smell of coffee perked me up, along with the smell of cooking eggs. After I got a few cups of coffee in me and some toast and peanut butter, I was ready for the river once again. This time we were met by the campers in the site next to us; we waded near each other, all fishing. They were a lot older than we teenagers were (both of us 16); they were probably in their fifties. We fished until lunch, and no fish for either party, so we all headed back to camp chatting, but the men were heading to a famous pool upriver. We could’ve cared less; at this point, after hours of fishing, food was more important. We ate our fill and then decided just to walk down to the pool and see how it was. As we walked down the river, there were more and more fishermen. We arrived at a covered bridge, originally built in 1865, walked through and there it was -- the famed "Covered Bridge Pool."  In case you can’t see it, the sign says “This stretch of the Beaverkill was a favorite of Theodore Gordon (1854-1915) fly fisher, fly-tier and creator of the Quill Gordon, one of the first purely American dry flies.”

We saw all the other fishermen there and got very excited about our prospects, and decided to go back to camp to get our gear. That was one of the longest walks ever, but the last part we pretty much ran. We suited up, grabbed our gear and headed back. All the fishermen were in the meander of the pool; there is a large rock ledge that juts out of the bank, with trout underneath. The successful pattern seemed to be a little yellow nymph (a tip I learned from the older men next to our campsite.) So, we waded down a little in the stream to our own open stretch of water. At first, no action. Then all of a sudden there was a hatch, and in front of my eyes were jumping trout everywhere! I thought they might take a dry offering so I tied on a bright yellow fly. One false cast, and next cast my presentation landed right where I wanted it. A few seconds later, my first battle with "Roscoe Brown" was on!

It wasn’t the biggest trout, nor was it small. We couldn’t get a decent picture on account of my being in the water with my "photographer" on land, up a ledge five feet or so. But it was a thirteen-inch brownie. I was extremely happy, and my Roscoe Brown was unhooked and released successfully.

My trip was made; it was worth it. Now it was up to Kyle to get one. He was on shore sleeping; I think he got tired of fishing. I went and joined him. After getting him a new leader, it was only time before he hooked up.  Kyle caught his fish where all of the other fisherman were (they had all left by now.) He tossed a dry fly onto the ledge and watched as a brown slurped it under after it fell to the surface. He set the hook and brought the fish to hand.  A small trout, but to him it was a trophy. Now Kyle's trip was a success.

Our trip was complete. We had come to the gorgeous Roscoe in search of trout and we, fortunately, in spite of bad weather, found some. The fishing gods were helping us that day. After Kyle caught his fish we fished a little longer, then went back to camp. We enjoyed our evening routine, dinner and a campfire until late night. We knew, sadly, the next day we would have to leave but we could fish for an hour or two in the morning. So fish we did, but no fish, or people.

We returned to camp, took down the canvas cabin, and after two hours everything was packed up.  We then hit the showers and started for home. Right away a sign caught our eye, The Catskill Fly Fishing Center and Museum. Unfortunately, we didn’t keep our camera gear readily available but if you ever get the chance, bring yours to this amazing place. It shows the evolvement of fly tying and fishing, from pictures of people fly fishing in Alaska in 1915 to the desks of famous fly tiers and some of their work; it was quite moving and remarkable. I only managed to buy a patch from there. Everything else was out of my price range. This patch is now proudly sewn onto my fly vest.

The ride home was long and somewhat sad, but relieving. Now I had my bed to look forward to, and school the next day. But, just knowing someday I’ll return to tangle with more trout made it all better.