When A River (No Longer) Runs Through It

Part # 1 of a 3-Part Series: Go to  Part 2 or Part 3

When viewing nature through the eyes of an angler, you notice imbalance everywhere. You see it when the water runs too high, too low, too stained, too clear, or, like now, not at all. The forces that shape our rivers rarely align perfectly. Most of the time, we adapt. However, sometimes nature tests us with extremes that leave us wondering if balance will ever be restored.

For me, fly fishing has always been an all-season pursuit. I love the variety each time of year brings. Spring may be the most predictable, with its hatches, steady flows, and the sense of renewal it brings, but I look forward to the different challenges each season presents. Still, when nature refuses to cooperate, harmony gets harder to hear.

This year in Pennsylvania, the music has stopped.

The Swing of Extremes

Spring and early summer were defined by rain. Not the kind of rain that refreshes a stream, but relentless systems that blew out every watershed in the region. The flows were uncharacteristically high for weeks on end. Hatch charts became meaningless. Most days, wading was impossible. I would check the USGS gauges daily, hoping for a window of opportunity, but more often than not, I was left watching swollen, muddy rivers rush by.

When the water finally dropped in June, it brought a brief and glorious redemption. The cicadas arrived, and for a few short weeks, everything felt right again. I remember the sound of them in the trees, their constant chorus rising above the river like static. Big trout came out from under the banks to feed. The larger flows from spring, paired with the abundance of food, gave those fish every reason to move. It was the kind of fishing that reminds you why you endure the tough stretches, the kind that feels like a reward for waiting.

But the reward did not last. The rain shut off like a faucet. The same rivers that had been too high to fish in May were bone dry by late July. Pools shrank to puddles. The currents slowed to crawl. I kept waiting for the weather pattern to shift, but it never did. Week after week, the forecast showed the same thing: clear skies, dropping flows, no relief in sight.

By September, it felt like the rivers were holding their breath.

Learning from Drought

When the water disappears, so does the part of my routine that keeps me centered. My weeks are usually built around those moments on the river, where I watch, adjust, and connect. When that rhythm breaks, the absence is felt deeply. I still check the USGS gauges each morning (even though they’ve stopped working during the government shutdown), hoping to see a rise, even a small one.

When the drought lingers this long, you start thinking differently about water. You become protective of it. I have seen trout clustered in what little oxygen-rich flow remains, the margin between life and death shrinking to a few degrees and a few inches of depth. I have skipped fishing entirely most weekends, unwilling to add to their stress. Instead, I find myself downstairs, tying flies and organizing gear, trying to stay connected in some small way.

I have been here before, during times when weather, work, or life kept me off the river, but this feels different. Something is unsettling about standing beside a favorite stretch of water and realizing it is no longer really a river. The stones I waded over in the spring are now dry and bleached. The seams that once held fish are gone. And yet, I cannot stay away. I walk the banks, studying what is exposed, seeing the bones of the river laid bare. It is a strange gift to see what usually hides beneath the surface.

Waiting for Balance

My fallback has always been the big river up north, the one whose flows are controlled by massive reservoirs. In the summer, it serves as a refuge, offering cool water, a steady current, and reliable fish. But even that option has vanished for now. To prevent saltwater intrusion into the bay, the reservoirs have been releasing large quantities of water. The result is dangerous wading and unsafe conditions for anglers like me who fish on foot.

So, I wait. I wait for the rainfall, for the infusion of precipitation so desperately needed, and for the pattern to finally shift. This time of year, early autumn is usually one of my favorites to be on the water. Trout are fewer and farther between, but every fish feels earned. I do not target spawning trout, but I love fishing during the egg bite, when rivers come alive again with a quiet kind of energy. It is that brief window between seasons when patience can pay off in a way that feels restorative.

Right now, I am holding on to that hope.

The River Will Return

Fly fishing teaches patience, but droughts teach humility. We can prepare, adapt, and learn, but we do not have much control. The rivers remind us of that. As frustrating as it has been, I know this drought will break. It always does. Nature does not move on our schedule. It has its own schedule, and all we can do is trust that balance will return.

When the first November rain finally arrives, it will hit the parched earth and bring color back to the stones. The water will rise, and maybe, just maybe, the trout will feed again like they did in June. Until then, I will keep tying flies. I will keep checking the gauges. I will keep watching the sky, waiting for the forces to come together again because that is what anglers do. We wait for the right mix of water, weather, and time to create something special. When those moments finally arrive, they feel earned. The river rewards the patience it asked of us all along

Part # 1 of a 3-Part Series: Go to  Part 2 or Part 3

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