This is an annual census taken by Maryland’s DNR to determine recruitment strength for the previous spring’s (as in a few months ago) class of new-born striped bass. The number was 2.2 (the long-term average is 11.9). While every year is different, this only continues a downward trend that began the year after the banner class of 1996.
You can read more about the count on the stripersforever.org website here.
It’s a long, long way from 1996.
The Arts of the Angler is a terrific regional show hosted by my friends at the Catskill Fly Fishing Center and Museum. It’s a weekend affair, and it happens this year on November 5th & 6th at the Ethan Allan Inn in Danbury, CT.
This year, I’ll be tying and presenting “Wet Flies 101” on Saturday afternoon, November 5th at 3pm in Room 1. I have a hectic morning, so I’ll be tying as soon as I am able, but it won’t be until 1pm or later. My Sunday is still up in the air — I may be tying on Sunday, too. I’ll update you with that information if it happens. Come out and support the museum, and of course please stop by and say hello.
Here’s the current presentation schedule (I am not responsible for changes):
Saturday, 11/5
No sightings of the ocean’s daughter. But I did spend some time watching a small pod of stripers move and feed on the tide change. We’ll get to that in a minute.
In the space of three hours, I managed to fish: skinny water on the incoming and outgoing; under a bridge (I love shadow lines at night); the inside of a salt pond; an estuary on a ripping incoming tide; and a snotty beachfront from a jetty. I fished hard and I fished well, and I dearly wish I could tell you that I slayed ’em, but all I could manage was one dink and a few courtesy bumps.
The outside beach continues to vex me. Conditions off the jetty last night were just about perfect: a good SSW breeze, substantial breakers, surging whitewater wash. But no predators. This particular spot is a serial disappointment; it used to be an I-need-to-catch-a-striper-so-I’ll-fish-here destination. 2016 makes it 4 consecutive years I’ve blanked at it.
The bridge, the estuary, and the salt pond were good places to fish if you wanted to hook weeds. I did not want to, but managed a prodigious haul of vegetal flotsam.
My only bass came on my second cast of the evening on the incoming. After, I drove around to explore the other places, then spent the last hour alternately casting to and watching a small pod of school bass drift into position at the turn of the tide (it was easy to see them in the bright moonlight). But the bait wasn’t there in any volume, and the stripers didn’t bother to stick around.
And once the clock hit the wee small hours, neither did I.
There. That’s what I’m talking about. Failed experiment in night photography aside, that whitewater wash bottom center is prime real estate for casting your fly. The jetty allows you to fish into the pocket formed by the rocks and sand, not to mention a good parallel shot to the trough just off the beach. When the bass are in there, you find yourself in tight line territory pretty fast.
When they serve pizza at events at my kids’ school, it’s always cheese. Plain, boring, dull cheese. Dairy rubber on flatbread. Now, the fine folks at the Hammonasset Chapter of TU know how to do pizza. The pies last night were so meat-ladenly delicious, I thought my mouth had died and gone to bacon/pepperoni/sausage/meatball heaven. And of course, a fed presenter is a happy presenter. So, thank you for the hospitality, and thanks for the engaging post-presentation (“The Little Things”) Q&A/discussion. (Bonus: great to see so many familiar faces!)
Afterwards, I went on a little striper expedition to some (for me) uncharted waters. Didn’t like the moon (waxing gibbous), didn’t like the wind (cold front coming, northwest at 10 mph), didn’t like the walk (quite a hike through the woods), but loved the water. A classic funnel with outgoing tide recklessly hurtling to the sea. There were silversides and peanuts, and sadly, precious few predators. Three of us fished two hours to catch a single striper and a lonely shad. But we brought some beer, and I think that helped.
I don’t usually share prototypes, but this sparse soft hackle is a work in progress. It’s based on a peanut bunker bucktail pattern. I think I will add a sparse, flared bucktail throat. It accounted for last night’s shad. Really like the colors and energy of this fly.
A heartfelt shout out to my friends at Mianus TU for hosting me last night. Good crowd, lots of familiar faces, and a very positive energy in the room made the evening a success. I’m really liking how “The Little Things 2.0” is being received, and it’s a fun presentation for me to make.
My favorite question was, “When are you going to do some more tying videos?” The answer is yes. Keep on bugging me. Sooner or later I will bow to the pressure.
See you tomorrow night, Thursday, October 13, 6:30pm at the Hammonasset Chapter TU, “The Little Things 1.0”. The original “Little Things” presentation, packed with tips, tricks, and strategies to help you catch more fish. Quinnipiac Watershed Association Building, 540 Oregon Road, Meriden, CT. For more information and directions, visit hctu.org.
Remember, don’t be a meatball. Red light at night.
Last night I fished a spot in Connecticut that, upon further reflection, is having me believe that I’m Einstein insane. It should hold fish. Others have told me they’ve caught fish there. Nonetheless, every time I’ve fished it over the last three years, I’ve blanked. As in not a touch. On the plus side, I had a lovely walk through a salt marsh. And I bombed out some perfect laser shots with my switch rod. But would it be too much to ask for some players? No cigar, as we’re still healing after last week’s oral surgery.
Two appearances this week: Tuesday, October 11, 7pm: Mianus Chapter TU, “The Little Things 2.0” Waveny House, New Canaan, CT. For more information and directions, visit mianustu.org.
Thursday, October 13: Hammonasset Chapter TU, “The Little Things 1.0” (pretty sure we settled on this — I’ll update if incorrect). Quinnipiac Watershed Association Building, 540 Oregon Road, Meriden, CT. For more information and directions, visit hctu.org.
Finally, the weather. Today’s rain was great for my yard — or any stream in eastern, central, or southern Connecticut. Unfortunately, it almost completely missed the northwestern end of the state — so we’re still talking rock gardens on the Farmington and Hous. Bleah.
Time to fire up the steelhead end of the tying bench.
Q: How can you tell you’re on a saltwater fly fishing-based forum?
A: When someone asks about a trout rod, and 90% of the answers focus on rods vis casting and distance rather than presentation.
If you are a long-time reader of currentseams, you will no doubt recall seeing one of my favorite Ray Bergman quotes. For those of you who missed it, its thesis is that it is far more important to be a good angler (leads to presentation acumen) than it is to be a good caster.
I will be the first to tell you that one reason I bought my 10′ 5-weight Hardy Marksman2 was that I could bomb out a 75-foot cast with it. But I’ll also tell you that that distance accounts for 1% of the casts I make on the Farmington every year.
Both casting and presentation are important. But one will deliver the keys to the kingdom much sooner.
This fish was hooked less than a couple rod-lengths away.
Wednesday night I fished for stripers in the kind of water that I love: current, structure, and bass feeding on station. The bait was silversides, and the stripers had them cornered. All the predators had to do was wait for the meal to come to them. I did very well; the spinning guy to my right with the plug did poorly (wrong presentation, wrong size lure) and the guy to my left with the intermediate line and the stripped sinking fly did poorly (wrong presentation, fishing in the wrong part of the water column) as well.
After they left, I started thinking about how I approached the situation. I realized that all I had been doing was fishing wet flies. If more striper anglers applied wet fly principles to their fishing, they would surely catch more bass. Here’s where anglers using wet fly tactics have an unfair advantage:
Wet fly anglers know that they can master the current with a floating line. The simple act of mending slows the swing of the fly to a speed that is far more agreeable to fish — especially those unwilling to chase. By casting to the outer edges of the bait ball, and mending, I was able to make my flies swim along its periphery, moving at the same pace as the naturals.
Wet fly anglers know the value of sparse, impressionistic, unweighted patterns. The Partridge and Orange. The Starling and Herl. The Pale Watery Wingless. None of them look exactly like what they’re supposed to imitate. None of them are bulky. But they can be fished anywhere in the water column, particularly just below the surface where the fish are feeding. The flies I was fishing looked and did likewise.
Wet fly anglers know that droppers are the fastest way to find out what the fish want. I was fishing a team of three. Top dropper was an Orange Ruthless. Middle dropper was The Tick (small isopod/crab larva/shrimp). Point was a September Night or a Morning Glory. The bass eagerly took the top dropper and point flies. And I was covered in case they switched to something small.
Wet fly anglers know that sometimes the best retrieve is no retrieve. I’m lazy. So are predators. I didn’t catch any fish on the stripped fly. It was all on the swing, mended swing, or dangle. Explosive hits generated by fish feeding in confidence. Why would a fish chase bait when it is being delivered to them by the current?
Where’s the beef? Nowhere on this sparse, impressionistic single-feather flatwing, the Morning Glory. (You can find the recipe by doing an internet search for “Morning Glory striper fly”.)
TU225 in Narragansett, RI, has been a long-time friend. They were hiring me to do presentations when I was a nobody (or at least far less of whatever I am today). I truly appreciate their continuous support and kindness. Last night they treated me to dinner (a fed presenter is a happy presenter), and then we had the debut performance of “The Little Things 2.0.” I think it did not suck. But you’d have to ask them.
Afterwards, I went striper fishing. School bass were set up in the current, ambushing silversides on the outgoing tide. Today I notice that parts of my right index finger, thumb, and palm are destroyed.
Yes, it was a very good evening.
Last night’s power supply brought new meaning to the phrase, “the dangle.”
“Steelheading: A tragedy in several acts” first appeared in the Fall 2015 issue of The Drake. The photo here is different from what accompanied the piece in the magazine, and this is my original text, rated R for some adult language. What if The Bard wasn’t writing about Danish princes, Roman emperors, and star-crossed Italian lovers? Let the curtain rise on…
Steelheading: A Tragedy in Several Acts
If there is another angling endeavor that matches the rapturous highs and soul crushing lows of steelheading, I’ve yet to experience it. One day, you are the Most Exalted Ruler of the Kingdom of Chrome. The next, a lowly knave scraping in fishless dirt. That you willfully participate in this theater suggests that you are either a masochist, an addict, or at the very least, innately damaged. William Shakespeare understood. Even if he never wrote a scene about losing a fifteen-pounder fresh from the lake.
“There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.” — Hamlet
It’s a river. Some days it is blown out. Some days it is perilously low. There are steelhead in the river. Some days they eat. Others, they do not. I’ve blanked on perfect days and hooked immodest numbers of fish in water the color of mocha java. The river doesn’t hate you. Nor do the steelhead or the weather. You have no control over any of it. Try to stay positive.
~
“Sit you down, father; rest you.” — King Lear
I took my nine year-old steelheading for the first time. In the days leading up to the trip, I hectored him: It’s not like when we go to Day Pond to catch bluegills. It took daddy forty hours of fishing to land his first steelhead. You will hook them, son, and you will lose them. A half-hour into the trip, Cam ties into a twelve-pound chromer and proceeds to land it. On four-pound test. He has zero experience with any fish that size, let alone an alcohol-fueled dragster of a fresh steelhead. On the outside, I’m cheering wildly. On the inside, I’m trying to calculate how many extra hours of yard work that little punk will be doing come spring.
~
“But, soft! what light though yonder window breaks?” — Romeo And Juliet
For a dedicated steelheader, rising with the sun is sheer fantasy. If you’re fishing popular water, you’re up and out long before daybreak. You’re not the only one doing this. For proof, check the alarm clock in your room at the cabin next time you’re there. Bet it’s set for five a.m. – or earlier.
~
“Hell is empty and all the devils are here.” — The Tempest
How agreeable it would be if everyone you met on the river were Roderick Haig-Brown incarnate. Many anglers are indeed pleasant and welcoming. Others, not so much. See if any of these characters sound familiar: The bozo who wades in so tight you could take his eye out with your rod tip. The jamoke who dashes into your spot as you battle a fish downstream, then glares at you for wanting your place back. The douche bag who keeps his line in the water while your fish roars past, oblivious to your screaming reel. The lout who drops drift boat anchor on the exact coordinates you’ve been casting to. Damn them, every last one.
~
“Now is the winter of our discontent.” — King Richard III
If you’ve ever stood in a river in sub-freezing temperatures and swirling lake effect snow for three consecutive days without so much as a single fucking touch, well, you know from whence I speak.
~
“Parting is such sweet sorrow.” — Romeo and Juliet
There must be some mischievous spirit tasked with devising cruel and unusual ways of making you lose steelhead. How else to explain a 3x strong hook that snaps at the bend; a leader that tangles on a drift boat’s anchor rope; line that wraps around a reel handle mid-fight; a good Samaritan’s clumsy technique with a landing net? All resulting in lost fish. All in the space of two hours. I’m trying hard not to be bitter. Really, I am.
~
“Things rank and gross in nature.” — Hamlet
You don’t ever get used to the pernicious stench of decaying salmon flesh. Or the realization that the squishy thing spewing unholy pinkish-gray plumes from under your boot is a rotting carcass.
~
“Men at some time are masters of their fates.” — Julius Caesar
You’ve been at this spot since before sunrise. You were rewarded with the prime lie, but there was no first-light bite, and now it’s close to nine a.m. Do you wait for steelhead to arrive? Or do you roll the dice and head elsewhere? Assuming the bite is on, how do you know if there will even be room to fish? Whatever you decide, know this: there is a strong probability that you will be wrong.
~
“The deep of night has crept upon our talk, And nature must obey necessity.” — Julius Caesar
I relish the bonhomie of the evening scotch-and-bull session as much as anyone. But I’m wiped out, guys, and I want to be fresh for tomorrow’s ass kicking. Good night.
~
The nicest thing I can say about this particular day is that I got a decent photo.
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