You’ll find this pillow on the couch in the TV room. I cannot vouch for the great fisherman part. But I can tell you with absolute certainty that I married very, very well. I really did. We’re celebrating our fourteenth anniversary today.
Monthly Archives: May 2015
Farmington River Report 5/4/15: In we go
Today was a rather nice day to fall into the river. A missed step. The current pushes you in directions you wish it wouldn’t. Balance is nearly recovered, then lost. Set on your ass, you feel that first shocking trickle that says the top of your waders have been breached. Standing up only makes it worse, because what was up now rushes down, and if you’ve worn old-school cotton/poly sweatpants instead of straight synthetics, the fabric acts like a giant cold water-eating sponge. Yes. From your waist down to your toes. And in front with the junk.
And that’s how I found myself kneeling on the banks of the Farmington River with my waders bunched around my ankles, backside pointing toward the heavens, hoping the the sun and the wind could do their thing right quick.
But, enough of my bathing habits. You will want to know about the fishing.
Aware of the sure thing that is the recently stocked upper TMA had me in a contrary, adventurous mood. Let’s see what parts elsewhere bring. Spot A was a bust. Nymphed. Not a touch. But I’ve never done well there, so perhaps disappointment is my lot. Plenty of bugs out. And a few Hendricksons at 11:30am.
Spot B was where I went for a swim. It’s also where I caught three trout on wet flies, all bruiser rainbows who declared in no uncertain terms that my intentions of landing them would be met with fierce combat. The genetic trait that compels them to leap is a marvel of nature. Steelhead in Connecticut, albeit on a miniature scale.
We could always call them “pearlescent trout.”
Spot C was a bust, despite a solid Hendrickson hatch. No trout on all those mayflies? Really? Yes, so it would seem. Hard to believe. But I know when I’m beaten, so off I went to greener pastures.
Spot D. Many more of those H-bombs. Clusters of them blowing in the wind. And a few slashing risers that…I could not catch. I think that’s a first for me on this river (swinging wets over trout feeding on Hendricksons and not even getting a courtesy swipe). Finally, some love from a rather large juvenile Atlantic salmon.
I wish I could say I know for sure why there was so little activity on so many bugs. But I can’t. Good thing, though, because that means I need to perform some more intensive research. And soon.
It felt good to be fishing on the warmest day of the year. Even the wild flowers were glowing.
The weirdness that is this year’s striper spring continues
I remember that Saturday afternoon like it was yesterday. About nine years ago. Bright sunshine, the middle of the afternoon, and we took striper after after striper on the fly. I can still see the gentleman who was fishing above me, how he so gracefully yet purposefully stripped in each bass he’d hooked. He’d recast, strip, and then he was on again. The only reason I left that day was because I promised my wife I’d be home in a few hours to spell her (we had two very young kids at the time). My friends who stuck out the tide each had a triple-digit day.
Well, that was then. This is now. Same spot. Same tide. Roughly the same kind of day. And I felt fortunate to get three dinks in the last hour of the tide. (These were river fish, as evidenced by their darker above-the-lateral line coloration.)
I’m fine that I haven’t yet experienced the Bass-O-Matic this year. Really, I am. It’s fascinating how every year is different. I know I’m going to have one of those world-of-hurt striper thumbs sooner or later.
So whoever is in charge of these things, if you’d like to make it sooner, I’d be totally cool with that. Or a thirty-pounder. Or a kick ass summer on Block Island. Whatever you think is best.
In the meantime, I’m going trout fishing.
When nature calls, a clamshell makes a fine ash ray for your Aging Room Quattro F55.
currentseams.com 