We left early in the morning from the small town in Dutchess County, New York. He made a quick stop at the local gas station, we grabbed two small coffee's. I got mine black with some light sugar, he purchased a new pack of cigarettes. I've met him earlier in the year to take his portrait, a simple portrait of a fishermen in his housing quarters surrounded by his tackle. Much of the tackle was made by himself, with thread and furs. He called it "fly fishing" and he had been doing it since junior high school, in the same town that he had fell in love with trout, and the same town he was exposed to fly fishing. 

One hour on our road trip to a fly fishing lodge in the Catskill Mountains, he lit his third cigarette, and spoke of the many types of people we would meet. The characters he spoke of were spoken of proudly. With my gas station coffee half warm and half cold in hand I listened attentively to the descriptions as I took in the many rolling mountains of route 17. Much of the scenes that I had thought up, with the research I had done were pittiful in comparison with the actual scenery I was viewing. With that, he lit another cigarette and we continued on our way, two more hours on route 17. 

The sun was high and strong, my skin began feeling a burn minutes into arriving at the RV. They spoke of repairs and improvements to the poor vessel, she had seen better days. Nonetheless she was a roof over our heads, and walls from the mosquitos that had began to hatch and invade the nearby waters of the East Branch Deleware River. Such a windy narrow river supplied the water for my apartment in Queens, New York and here I was staring at a section of water thats duty was to hydrating New York City. With that revelation, I joined in the festivities and grabbed a beer, we were going fishing tomorrow morning. 

Fly fishermen will always tell you about that trout that got away. Similar to the girl that you never had the courage to kiss, the party you missed, the roller coaster you were too afraid to ride, this is a romantic sport, and the fishermen are no less, they are in love. The group of fishermen I would document, told their fishing stories, their fishing jokes, their fishing beers, and their fishing jobs. The longer I drifted on the boat down the East Branch the more it became apparent to me, this is nothing more important that catching fish, day and night, and it was a peaceful sight to see. A sight that was opened to me by the few proud fishermen and their dry flies in the Catskill Mountains in April.