I Had a Dream Last Night

 A Quiet Morning on the Carmans

The sun had barely kissed the tops of the pine trees as I stepped into the icy flow of the Carmans River. Long Island isn’t exactly the first place most people think of when they imagine a cold, pristine trout stream, but those people probably haven’t walked the trails that lead here—under hemlocks, through glades where the ferns grow thick, and the air smells like pine needles and distant rain.

My breath clouded in the crisp November morning as I slid my bamboo fly rod from its worn leather tube. It was a fine piece of craftsmanship, made by none other than Doug Ernst, one of the most talented rod builders I’ve ever known. Doug has a way of turning bamboo into something more than a rod—it’s art, functional and soulful, as if every strip of cane carries a little of his quiet passion for the water.

This rod was a six-and-a-half-foot gem, perfect for tight streams like the Carmans. The kind of rod that made you slow down, made you think. It demanded patience and precision, a reminder that anything worth doing is worth doing well.

The Carmans isn’t a big river. It doesn’t need to be. It’s a thread of cold, clear water that slices through the south shore of Long Island, fed by ancient springs. And in its chilly depths lives the fish I’d come to see: the brook trout. The natives.

Emergers and Patience

I crouched by the bank, tying a size 18 blue-winged olive emerger to the end of my tippet. The bugs were just beginning to hatch, hovering over the water like tiny sparks of life. A few brook trout were rising near the far bank, dimpling the surface in that telltale way that says, Come find me, if you can.

The first cast is always the most satisfying. The line unfurled in a tight loop, Doug Ernst’s rod flexing with the kind of grace only bamboo can achieve. The fly landed lightly, riding the surface like an insect caught between air and water. I watched it drift, my eyes scanning for movement, my heart settling into the rhythm of the stream.

Fly fishing isn’t about catching fish, not really. It’s about the ritual. The process. The chance to be a part of the world as it is, unhurried and unforgiving. But catching a fish? Well, that’s nice, too.

The Take

I saw the brook trout rise before I felt it, a flash of gold and crimson fins beneath the fly. When the line tightened, I lifted the rod, and the little bamboo marvel came to life. The trout darted and ran, its small body putting up a fight worthy of a fish three times its size.

I eased it to the net, admiring its beauty—an impossible array of colors, as if the river had painted the fish itself: olive green, gold, and those red spots circled in blue, like the universe had been kind enough to offer a little art to go with the science.

“Thank you, friend,” I murmured, slipping the barbless hook free and letting the fish rest in the water before it swam off.

The Gift of the River

I stayed on the Carmans for hours, casting and drifting, losing myself in the slow art of it all. The river whispered its secrets, the brook trout rose to my fly, and the morning stretched into a golden haze.

There are moments in life when you feel a profound connection to something greater. Not in a loud, shouting-from-the-mountaintop way, but in the quiet understanding that you are part of this world, and it is part of you. Standing in a cold river with a Doug Ernst bamboo fly rod in hand and a brook trout in the water below—that’s one of those moments.

When the sun began to sink and the chill deepened, I packed up my rod and hiked back to the trailhead, the weight of the day sitting light on my shoulders. The Carmans River had offered its gifts, as it always does, to those who take the time to listen.

And I’d be back. You don’t walk away from a place like that and think, Well, that was nice. No. You carry it with you, and it calls you back, again and again.