Fly Fishing the Famous Beaverkill River in Roscoe, New York

Probably the most famous fly fishing river in the Northeast, the Beaverkill begins at Junction Pool in Roscoe New York, where hundreds of fishermen and women test their skills each spring. Roscoe is the center of fly fishing in the Catskills. For over 100 years, the Beaverkill, Willowemec, Delaware and other streams have attracted the preeminent fly fishers in America including Theodore Gordon, Art Flick and Joan and Lee Wulff.  Roscoe, New York calls itself “Trout Town USA” and the Catskills soon became known as the birthplace of American Fly Fishing. 

For the East Coast fly fisher, a trip to the Beaverkill River is like a pilgrimage, a journey to a sacred place. In ancient times, Jews used to travel to the Temple in Jerusalem three times a year to offer sacrifices to God. Today, a trip to Israel remains a sacred pilgrimage for Jews, a way to connect to the past and the Bible. While I would not put Roscoe New York on the same spiritual plane as the Temple in Jerusalem, for many fly fishers the Beaverkill River is a sacred site, a place like no other in America to cast a fly. 

In October 2001, I drove to Roscoe for a fly fishing trip that felt like more than a normal few days on the stream. It was only a few weeks after 9/11. From my apartment in Brooklyn, I could still smell the smoke coming from the remains of the twin towers. New York City felt like a war zone, and I needed some time away, a safe place in a world that felt upside-down.

After a two hour car trip, I arrived at Roscoe New York, population 597. Every pilgrimage has rituals, and a trip to Roscoe is no different. I ate at the Roscoe Diner, I visited the local fly shop to get some gear and good advice, and I checked into a local B&B. Finally, it was time to go fishing.

As I had been looking forward to fly fishing the Beaverkill for a long time, I could not help imagining what would happen when I finally cast my line. I dreamt of a beautiful river, filled with large rising trout. On a perfect fall day, I would be the only person around for miles, and I would catch and release fish after fish for hours.

Picture: The Beaverkill River

Needless to say, my dreams for this fly fishing pilgrimage were a bit unrealistic. Junction Pool was too crowded, the Beaverkill River was low that year, and I got skunked for two days, not catching a single trout. I realized that while the pools of the Beaverkill might be famous, for me that day they were also fishless.

On my second day of fly fishing, when the streams would not yield a bite, I decided to abandon my fly rod and go for a hike. I climbed to the top of one of the hills which was very steep, and I looked around. Trees covered the Catskill Mountains in all directions, the leaves were turning brilliant yellows and oranges. I had never witnessed such a beautiful fall scene in my life. As I stood on top of the hill, I realized that I had completed my pilgrimage. The sacred site that I was looking for was not Junction Pool or the Beaverkill River. It was on top of that mountain, where I felt in awe of the beauty of nature.

View from the top of a Catskill Mountain in the Fall of 2001

A fly fishing pilgrimage is about taking the time to escape the everyday, about traveling to a place that is far from the ordinary. This type of journey can be a search for safety in a post 9/11 world, a return to nature and simplicity when human society seems so distorted. A pilgrimage is also about connecting to the past. I may not have caught a fish in Roscoe, but knowing that I was fishing the same rivers as Theodore Gordon and other greats made me feel grounded and authentic.

Perhaps the ultimate goal of a pilgrimage is enlightenment.  Standing on top of a hill in Roscoe in the fall, I realized that I had completed my pilgrimage.  The sacred site that I was looking for was on top of that hill, where I experienced the awe and beauty of a fall day in the mountains.

The Fly Fishing Professor

I was thrilled when Professor Ken Lokensgard invited me to present a guest lecture in his class on fly fishing and religion. Ken teaches in the religion department at Gettysburg College in Gettysburg, PA. Once every other spring, he offers a class on fly fishing and religion entitled “Fly-fishing in Spirit, Language and Practice.” We chose a late April date for my visit to Gettysburg.

After an impossibly long drive from New York City to Gettysburg in the rain, I met Ken for lunch. Ken is from Missoula, Montana, which instantly gave him fly fishing credibility in my eyes. He does his research on the religion of the Blackfoot Native American tribe. I also discovered that like me, Ken is a fly fishing fanatic, taking trips in Pennsylvania and Montana as often as he can. Ken even had a small dry fly prominently mounted on the dashboard of his car. As we got to know each other during my three day visit, I was amazed how much we had in common. Ken and I study and teach about religion and we are both obsessed with fly fishing. We had many great discussions about Native American religion, Judaism, the midge fly fishermen of Central Pennsylvania and fly fishing trips to Montana, Colorado and Argentina.

Picture: The Fly Fishing Professor (left) and The Fly Fishing Rabbi

I joined Ken’s class on a Tuesday morning at 8:30 am to offer my presentation on Judaism and fly fishing. Ken told me that he invited many guests to speak over the semester, including a member of the local Trout Unlimited branch and a devout Christian who loves to fly fish. However, I was the first rabbi to lecture in his class, and perhaps the first rabbi that many of his students had ever met.

The twenty five or so students listened attentively as I spoke about the basics of Judaism, how I discovered my love of fly fishing, and the connections that I see between fly fishing and Judaism. We had a great discussion about the ethics of fly fishing and if fly fishing for sport is humane. We even debated if it is morally acceptable to mount a fish that you catch on the wall. (I practice catch and release fly fishing most of the time, but I do keep the occasional trout for food. Since you cannot eat a fish that you mount, I argued that it is not a good idea.) When the class ended, I felt that I had made connections with the students and that we benefited from the time that we spent together.

When I was not in the classroom, or visiting the Gettysburg Hillel where the Jewish college students gather for prayer and programs, I was fly fishing. Ken and John, a local guide, took me fly fishing on the famous central Pennsylvania streams. We fished the Yellow Breeches River, Letort Spring Run and the Conewago Creek multiple times. The fishing was hard. John, who works at the local fly shop, is an excellent fly fisher; he caught and released many trout on small rainbow midges. I was not so fortunate, hooking only one small trout on the Yellow Breeches that broke the line before I could get him into the net.

The afternoon we spent on the Letort Spring Run was memorable more for its connection to fly fishing history than catching any fish. The Letort is an extremely difficult stream to fish, filled with wild brown trout who will not rise easily to a fly. Two central PA fly fishers, Vince Marinaro and Charlie Fox, unlocked the secrets of this stream, fishing long leaders and small tippets. Vince one said: “The Letort is a hard taskmaster and does not treat lightly any violation of dry fly technique.” The only mark I could make on the Letort was leaving my Fly Fishing Rabbi card there. About ten feet off of the stream, there was a black mailbox with a small binder in it. I added my card to the collection of others from fly fishing guides and stores and I felt like I was a small part of the long history of this place.

Picture: Walking up to the Letort Spring Run




On the last morning of my trip, I had a decision to make. I had told myself that I would take some time during the three days to visit the Gettysburg site and learn more about the famous Civil War battle. On the other hand, it was shaping up to be a fine fly fishing day, slightly overcast, and I had not caught any trout on this trip. So I returned to the Conewago Creek, and tried not to chide myself too much for missing the opportunity to visit the battle site.

I was by myself, fishing a hole that Ken had shown me the previous day, and that I knew had a number of trout within. After much casting with no success, I decided to try a new fly, a size 16 Zug Bug with a small sinker on the line. I sent the fly into the stream about twenty feet above the fishing hole, and literally walked down the bank, the rod in my hand, to let the fly drift naturally towards the fish. Within an hour, I caught and released four rainbows and browns in the vicinity of twelve to fourteen inches.

Pictures: The Conewago Creek



Then on one cast, a trout took my nymph, and I felt something that I had never experienced before, the weight of a truly large fish. I had no power over this trout. My rod was bent in a deep arc, and each time I tried to reel him in, I felt the weight of the fish resisting me. It was like trying to move a big heavy rock in the water. Then the trout leapt into the air. He had to be at least eighteen inches, and came back down into the water with a splash, as if to taunt me and show me his greatness. I was ecstatic, having never hooked a trout this large in my life.

For a few minutes, I tried to reel him in, but eventually my inexperience with such a large fish got the best of me, and he broke the line. When the trout escaped, I jumped in the air in my excitement like a little kid, mimicking the trout who had leaped out of the water not a minute before. I felt like a ten year-old as I re-lived the thrill of catching my first fish. I did not care that I could not land the trout. Simply feeling that weight on the line, and knowing that I had hooked this mighty fish was enough.

On the drive home, I realized that perhaps I had passed the fly fishing class that Professor Lokensgard offered at Gettysburg College. I had caught a few fish, and even hooked a great monster. I had shared my passion for fly fishing and Judaism with a group of college students and built new connections with them. But most of all, I had found something very rare, a person who loved religion and fly fishing, and I had made a new friend.

To visit John Bechtel’s fly fishing guide service for the Letort River and other Central PA streams: CLICK HERE

Fly Fishing in Missouri

My home state of Missouri contains four trout parks that are stocked: Bennett Spring State Park, Montauk State Park, Roaring River State Park and Maramec Spring Park. I caught my first trout at Montauk, a small rainbow. Bennett Spring State Park is filled with trout and it is a wonderful place to fish. This past fall I decided to try Maramec Spring Park for the first time.

When I arrived at the Maramec River, it was packed with people. There were probably two hundred fishermen and women on the mile-long stream. It was hard to find a place to cast without hitting another person. The Maramec River is open to fly and bait fishing, so naturally the trout preferred real food over my dry flies. Rainbows and browns were everywhere, some quite large, but three hours of fly fishing yielded not a single bite. It was excruciating to see the trout not a few feet before me in the clear cold water and watch them ignore all of my efforts with obvious disdain. By the end of the morning I was ready to go home.

My time on the Maramec lacked three things that are necessary for a good fly fishing trip: solitude, scenery and striking trout. An amazing fly fishing outing can occur when you are alone on a river in beautiful surroundings. You catch trout after trout, releasing all but the largest ones back to their homes.

Even if a fly fishing trip does not include striking fish, we can enjoy the scenery and the solitude. In the Catskills of New York, I fished the famous Beaverkill River in the fall. All around, the leaves were turning brilliant yellows and oranges on the hills. On that trip, I did not catch a single trout, but the time I spent alone on the river was deeply nourishing.

Sometimes, catching fish can make up for a lack of solitude. The Connetquot River is located in a nature preserve on Long Island, New York. Surrounded on all sides by strip malls and highways, the park is an oasis in suburbia. When I fish the river, planes fly overhead and my fellow fly fishers are casting only a few yards upstream. However, the river is beautiful, and the fish are abundant. When I catch a dozen trout and release them, I tend to forget about the planes and the other anglers.

The Maramec River lacked scenery, solitude and striking trout, and left me feeling empty. I was going to head home, when I decided to explore the park a bit more. I walked upstream, past all of the fishermen, and found myself at the hatchery. In this part of the river, fishing is not allowed, and I watched massive trout slowly moving their fins in the cold water.

Pictures: The Maramec Spring, A big rainbow swimming near the spring


As I followed the wooden path, it led to Maramec Spring, the source of the river. Springs are miraculous. Cold pure water flows out of the ground, an average of 96 million of gallons at Maramec. Looking down into an underwater cave, the source of the spring, I saw the rich blue color of the perfectly pure water. I stood there silently for a few moments, reflecting on the miracle of this work of nature. I offered a blessing, thanking God for our earth that provides us with such abundance. There were a few hundred of fishermen on the river not a quarter mile away, but I was the only one at the spring.

Maramec Spring park also has a museum, which chronicles the history of the site. Native Americans first found the spring and settled there. In 1825 a band of Shawnee brought Thomas James, a banker and merchant, to the spring where he discovered iron ore deposits. James soon opened an iron mine and foundry, which functioned until 1876.

I walked to the abandoned mine, now filled with dirt, and held the red earth and pieces of iron ore in my hands. A scenic drive followed “Stringtown Road,” where a "string" of cabins lined the dirt path in the 19th Century. The small wooden homes, one of which still stood, attested to the hard rural life of the mine workers. The iron ore was mined and then transported to the foundry, which was located on the river near the spring. Using the river current as its source of power, the foundry produced a profitable amount of iron for 50 years.

Pictures: The Maramec Iron Mine



As I drove home from the Maramec, I reflected on my trip. The fly fishing was frustrating, but the day was still rewarding. I learned about the evolution of a river. From its Native American caretakers, to its use by settlers, to a haven for trout, the Mamarec has seen many lives. I thought about how the cold water washed away all traces of the iron mine, leaving a pristine river where trout could flourish. I felt grateful that such a place could still exist, where pure water flows in abundance from the earth. Most of all, I hoped that we humans would have the wisdom to be caretakers for this river like the Native Americans before us, so that even if it is filled with trout and surrounded by fisherman, it can be a place of natural beauty forever.

To learn more about the Trout Parks of Missouri, CLICK HERE

Fly Fishing in Argentina

The day of my fly fishing excursion in Argentina, the forecast was for a high of 85 degrees, one of the great benefits of traveling in the southern hemisphere in December. I met my guide, Lucas Darsie, at 5:30 am. We drove for an hour, through the most perfect, picturesque hills and valleys. With few trees, we saw amazing views in all directions. There was no one around for miles. The sun was coming up above the peaks of the hills. This was the most beautiful place that I have ever fished.

Picture: The San Jose River at sunrise

We got out of the car to begin our hike to the stream. I saw a sign at the gate, and even my rudimentary Spanish skills could decipher that we were to fish the San Jose River, a stream protected by the Cordoba Trucha (Trout) Club. Then I asked Lucas the question that I had been practicing all morning to myself: “Donde estan las truchas?” “Where are the trout?” He smiled and pointed to a small path that would require a half-hour hike.

As we walked, Lucas told me about the Cordoba Trucha Club that he founded with his friend Esteban. They had created the signs to protect the stream. They came out every week to clean up, and they enforce the catch-and-release policy on the water. Like every fly fishing stream from New York to Montana to Argentina, the San Jose River is precious and fragile. When I learned that Lucas worked to protect his stream, I smiled as I was once again reminded of the connection between fly fishing and the environment. As fly fishers we want our children and grandchildren to have that same wonderful experience of seeing a trout rise to a fly and breathing in the perfect cool air on an early morning fishing trip.

As we hiked, there was no one around for miles. The scenery was beyond description. But I soon discovered that we were actually in a minefield. It was not a war zone exactly, but rather a very popular route for cattle. There were huge cow pies everywhere! Argentina is known for its beef, all grass-fed and natural, giving it a superior flavor to our American cows fed on a diet of corn and hormones. The San Jose River wound its way through a large ranch, and we saw a dozen or so cows on our hike.

Lucas and I arrived at the river at about 7 am. There was a good hatch of flies, and I cast my Griffith’s Gnat onto the stream. Within half an hour, I caught four small rainbows, all of which were returned to the river. As the sun came up, and the hatch ended, we began to hike down stream. Lucas was carrying my backpack and water bottle and hopping like a mountain goat from rock to rock. I was trying not to fall too far behind or sprain an ankle.

We stopped at many fishing holes, and Lucas aptly suggested where to cast and which fly to use. With a brown grasshopper at the end of my line, I tempted a "monster" fish, who moved towards the surface, but then retreated back to the deep water. Later on, I hooked another good size trout, and felt the strong tug on the line and the bend of the rod. I almost had the fish in hand, but I pulled a bit too hard and the line snapped.

Video: The Trout that Got Away!




After a few hours of beautiful scenery and casting, Lucas and I began the long trek through the minefield and back to the car. I was exhausted, but felt that sense of calm and peace that comes after an exciting adventure has ended. I will not soon forget the views on the San Jose River or the perfect solitude I experienced knowing that Lucas and I were the only humans nearby.

On my trip to Argentina, I learned that fly fishing is an international language. Lucas and I grew up in different countries, speak different native languages and have different religions. But as we fished for truchas, spoke about our families, and reflected on our passion for preserving rivers and streams, Lucas and I became friends.

Fly Fishing knows no international, religious or ethnic boundaries. Through the miracle of the internet, I keep in touch with fly fishers in Israel, the UK, Finland, New Zealand and all 50 states. When fly fishing brings us a greater appreciation of nature, inspires us to protect our world, and forges connections across continents, then it is no longer just a hobby. It is a valuable passion for us and for our planet.

To contact Lucas Darsie for a guided fly fishing trip to the San Jose River, Patagonia or to pursue the golden dorado, CLICK HERE.

Bone Fish Sam

Bone Fish Sam picked me up at 7am in the lobby of the Westin Hotel on Grand Bahama Island. It was a few weeks ago, and my wife and I were in the Bahamas for vacation. I saw that the hotel offered a guided fly fishing excursion with Bone Fish Sam. I signed up, paid the $250 guiding fee (nobody ever said fly fishing was cheap!) and was told to be in the lobby early the next day. This was going to be my first bone fish expedition.

After we left the hotel, Bone Fish Sam and I stopped at his house to pick up the gear, a few large sinking flies and a fly rod that he loaned to me, and headed to the beach. As we drove, he told me that the bone fish gets its name from the large number of bones in its body, making it not very good for eating. But it is a well-known sport fish.

Picture: Bone Fish Sam with the fish we (he) caught.

Sam said that the reason why the bone fish is so popular is because it is so difficult to catch. That got me thinking. When I spend hours on the stream without a bite, I sometimes wonder why I am chasing these picky trout with an impossibly small hook wrapped in thread and feathers. Why not do something easier with my time? But it is the challenge that I love. If the trout rose to every fly, I would get bored. I would rather be challenged and frustrated than succeed too easily. Perhaps fly fishermen are gluttons for punishment.

Soon we were on a road running parallel to the beach, maybe 150 feet from the water. All of a sudden, Sam says: “There are the Bones!” I said to him: “You can see them from here?” “Yep,” was his reply. I have good eye-sight, but from 150 feet I could not see any fish, only beautiful blue waves. We drove a little further: “More Bones,” he said. Now I was beginning to feel a bit dumb, but I thought to myself: “We are still on the road, maybe when we get down to the beach, I’ll be able to see them.”

No such luck. Sam keeps seeing schools of bone fish, 60 or 80 feet away, and I can’t see a single one. He tells me: “Cast, 1 o’clock, quick,” using the fail-safe clock method to guide me. I take one cast to lengthen the line, and send the fly out there. But it’s too late. “Not fast enough,” he says. After about 15 minutes of this, I realize why bone fishing is so hard. I can’t even see the fish, much less get my fly out there fast enough! Bone Fish Sam is very kind to me and is extremely patient. But I am clearly out of my league. Finally, Sam takes the fly rod, casts to the bones, and in what felt like two seconds, hooks a nice one. He lets me reel it in. And even though I did not catch it, it sure feels good to hold that 3 pound fish and release it back into its ocean home.

Picture: The Fly Fishing Rabbi holds the bone fish.

After a few hours on the beach, Sam took me back to the hotel. I was exhausted, humbled but also strangely content. And so what did I learn from my first bone fishing excursion? I remembered what it was like to be a student, and to feel humbled before a wise teacher and a hard task. As a Rabbi, I often fill the role of teacher, preacher and spiritual leader. I am usually the one who offers guidance and tries to help others. But on the Bahamian beach, I was the lost student who could not even see the fish, much less catch it. I am grateful to Bone Fish Sam for the reminder that in life, we are all students sometimes, and that a good dose of humility never hurt!