October Caddis.

Say it with me. There is something about the syllabic rhythm; something in the way the vowels and consonants cycle about your mouth. It sounds perfect. It is a joy to say and a pleasure to hear. This two-word phrase may be in the running for fly fishing’s “cellar door.”

Now, euphony won’t catch you any fish. But imitations of the genus Dicosmoecus will. It is that insect coupled with the time of year it is most prevalent that adds the real harmony to the common name October Caddis.

The October Caddis combines some of the best parts of fly fishing. It is a big, bushy dry that floats high and is easy to see. Trout voraciously chase them, even as the weather gets colder as the hatch goes on. This dance occurs as the trees’ colors change and the crisp air of fall comes on in earnest. These flies flitting about fill anglers with favorable feelings.

My most core memory of the October Caddis takes place on the East Branch of the Delaware in New York. As clouds rolled in and gentle breezes sent errant leaves across the braided water of the river, clumsy caddisflies limped along. Trying to fly but being subject to gravity’s pull, they plopped on the slick surface with an irregular cadence that was maybe-audible. The rises started immediately: slashing tears in the slate-grey sheet that had been smoothly flowing past me for the previous hour.

These particular caddis had an orange hue to their bodies and legs. While their predominant feature was tent-like tan wings, the most October of colors suited them and every eye beholding them.

Two large trout fought for the fly on my first cast. On the second cast a large rainbow came to my net. On the third, a brown that eclipsed the first fish’s length was landed. That three-cast sequence is enough to etch a moment or a place in one’s mind. But it is the word that is the most luminous in my consciousness.

October Caddis.