Salmon River Steelhead Report, 11/24-25: Working on that conversion rate

Dec2

I’ve gotten to the point in my steelheading journey where I’m confident that if I get a good hookset, I have a better than 50-50 chance of landing the fish. Of course, steelhead behavior and flows being dynamic X-factors, it doesn’t alway work out that way. But you do your best and take what the river gives you.

In recent years, I’ve felt a sense of something between dread and lingering malaise with my trips up to Pulaski. Maybe it’s because the river isn’t particularly beautiful. (Wait until you’ve seen what they’ve done to the river from Altmar to Pineville. I can’t say that it’s an improvement.) Maybe it’s because the town itself can be a wee bit depressing. Maybe it’s the constant crowds and the resulting pressure. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but whatever. This year felt different. I was very much looking forward to fishing with old guide friend Row Jimmy and tussling with some Lake Ontario brawlers. Let’s do it!

Conditions were just about perfect: dam release of 750cfs, 39 degree water, air temps above freezing with no precipitation. We fished the upper river on the first day, not far from the Altmar launch. There were steelhead in the immediate vicinity, but most of them were in front of other boats. We pecked away with egg patterns, but I dropped the first four I hooked. That had me flummoxed and moderately concerned.

Ta-dah! Fifth time was the charm. I’m continuously mystified by fish that get off vs. fish that get into the hoop, as I’m doing nothing differently between the two. Stick that fish, let them run when they want, keep the rod cork pointed upstream, don’t let ’em breathe…why do some fish become unbuttoned and others not? Mysteries to contemplate over a cigar and single malt.

We finally got to slug it out with a pile of fish after a couple boats left. By this time, I was throwing the old favorite 60-Second Redhead, and the hits just kept on coming. However, the conversion ratio still stunk. I ended up going 2-for-11 on the day with one foul (I don’t count fouled fish as landed). Most of the fish came off well into the fight, and I suspect it was a combination of pressure from me and current…and maybe hook size? To be discussed further at another time…after I get over my terrible .181 batting average.

Day two was a bit of a curveball. Jim had to cancel due to an appointment that couldn’t be missed, so I did something I’ve never done before: floated the river with a different guide. Jason Julien proved to be most excellent. We returned to the scene of yesterday’s bonanza, but the action across the length of the pool was a shade of what it was a day before. The good news was that I stuck and landed the first two fish I touched. We hooked one more and lost it right as it was about to be netted, so It was hard to get upset about that. (If you’ve never fished from a drift boat, steelhead are far more difficult to land because you can’t get them out of the current and into softer water.) And 2/3 reads a lot better in a box score.

I’ll take two of those. After a couple hours of not-a-touch, I informed Jay that sometimes the key to hooking up is a cigar. Out Lady of Blessed Gispert Churchill came through. For those of you keeping score at home, we’re now at 282 steelhead landed.

Erie Tribs Steelhead Report, Nov. 6: 2 States, 3 Marks, 8 fish

Nov13

We had a quarter inch of rain overnight, so we decided to roll the dice on some fresh fish entering the system. Sometimes, it doesn’t take much to trigger a migration in steelhead alley. So we headed to a spot in PA about a mile away from the lake. We had to move well upstream to distance ourselves from the crowds, but we were in position at 6:45am, normally a little late but just right for today. We strategically carpet bombed a deeper hole, but that turned up blank. (We saw only one other fish landed the entire time we fished this general section, and it came from this hole.) Undaunted, we moved downstream to a swift run, more of a slot, that bordered a bleached tree trunk which created an enticing current break.

I had just made the comment that, with the climbing sun in my face, it was a wee bit difficult to see the indicator — but not to worry, because with the current moving so fast, the fish would set themselves. On cue, indicator down and fish on! I lost this steelhead to a snapped tippet, another when it ran between a pinch point of two submerged boulders, and two more to the whims of the steelhead gods. But I brought three to net, and, bad luck aside, considered myself ahead in the bargain.

Silver in the gold of the morning light. Clearly, this first pod of fish came in from the lake overnight — newly-minted coin bright, aggressive takes, and spirited runs. Their freshness, the speed of the water, and the rocky bottom made for some challenging landing conditions. They weren’t bashful about leaping out of the water, or peeling off line in a hurry. Each one brought to net was a hard fought victory; each release a moment to savor, coupled with the thought that we might cross paths again this winter.

As the action tapered off, we declared victory, and headed to Ohio. The rains had missed there, and the water was low but fishable. Unfortunately, the low flows meant far fewer fish in the system; Holes, pools, slots, and runs that normally would have at least a few occupants were barren.

This steelhead was part of a pod of a half dozen fish that we rousted from beneath a ledge. We let them resettle, and came back a hour later to fish for them. She was the only one we could get to eat. The Ohio fish were far more dour than the morning group in PA; I had as many fouls as fair eats. We managed four properly hooked fish, and three cigars. That’s a win.

My intention was to get up early and fish a few hours before driving back to Connecticut. But I was dragging. What’s more, I was dreading having to battle crowds and jockey for position. So I made the command decision to head back to PA and fish until dark. At first, it seemed like I’d sent myself on a futile excursion. I couldn’t find fish in any of the usual places. The water is a highly popular mark, but I only encountered three anglers over a 750 yard stretch; as it grew darker, I had the whole place to myself. Being the stubborn sort, I went back a favorite slot hard against a submerged ledge beneath a fly-eating tree. Second cast, the indicator disappeared, and I buried the hook in the steelhead’s jaw. A fine, fresh camera-shy hen who bolted the moment I removed the hook.

I’m not sure what I liked more: catching that fish, or sleeping in the next morning.

Erie Tribs Steelhead Report, Nov 5: Of technical fishing, lockjaw, and persistence

Nov11

In the UK, they celebrate November 5th — Guy Fawkes Day — with fireworks. In western PA, the day wasn’t nearly as explosive. Low, clear water; the approaching cold front lockjaw syndrome; wind and leaves; and the need for highly technical presentations were all formidable obstacles. But I can be the kind of angler who likes a challenge, even more so when I know the fish are there.

We fished Elk Creek, and the good news/bad news was significantly more water than this time last year, but far fewer fish. Places last year where the steelhead were wedged in like sardines were this year distressingly empty. Low, clear flows on these creeks require a certain level of stealth, and technical casts and drifts. To get dour, on-high-alert steelhead to eat, you’ve got to nail a perfect cast, then make all kinds of technical mends to keep the fly on target. Weight and indicator adjustments are a constant dance you perform until the judges tell you that you’ve got it right.

The first fish in the hoop is always a relief. I’ve been known to say that all I need is one steelhead to make me happy, and on most days that’s true. I had seven eats in the first three hours, and sealed the deal on three. Not a great batting average, but I did have some bad luck in the form of a snapped tippet, and another that mysteriously wriggled off after I slammed it with a powerful hookset. Blood Dot eggs, size 14, were the menu item of choice. By late morning, we decided to take a break and seek our pleasures elsewhere.

We did a bit of walking to try to get away from other anglers, but the story on new ground was the same: low, clear flows, leaves, and precious few fish that we could see. We finally located a pod of about a dozen fish, but in addition to the previously mentioned lockjaw, these steelhead seemed more interested in canoodling than eating. Two darker alpha males set the tone in the pool, chasing fish away from their lies, with the pod constantly shifting position after their antics.

Then, the rains came. This was a boon to the bite; the fouler the weather, the more takes. When bite windows open, you’ve got to jump on them, and so we did. I had one epic eat from a fish that was part of pod hiding under a ledge. The presentation was tricky. I had to cast into the main current, then drag the flies toward the ledge in front of me, resume dead drift, and hope the team of two would pass through the strike zone unimpeded by the edge of the shale barrier. As the flies moved into position, I had to switch to a quasi tight-line presentation. Of the dozens of attempts I made throughout the afternoon, one worked. That was my favorite fish of the day.

One of the alpha males that — finally! — made a mistake. Guy’s got some shoulders, and clearly, he’s been in the system for a few weeks. I lost a substantial chrome hen to a hysterical display of leaps and rolls. When I stuck the hookset, she bolted upstream like a dragster coming off the line. One, two, then three spectacular leaps worthy of a tarpon had us cackling with delight. She made a beeline for a shale ledge and rolled, then did it again, and on the second one she spit the hook. What tremendous sport! I finished the day with nine to hand, which I considered a major victory given the conditions. Yup. I love steelheading.

Housy Streamer Frustration

Oct24

The Housatonic spiked at about 500cfs yesterday and was running with a light tea stain. Perfect streamer conditions, wouldn’t you say? I would, so I headed out with surfcaster extraordinaire Toby Lapinski, both of us dedicated to the streamer cause.

We started about 12:30pm, in the northern part of the TMA. I was fishing a Black Ghost soft-hackled streamer, and right away I was into a fish, the sharp tug of the strike and head shake sending an electric current of excitement through my body. The joy was short lived. Moments later, whatever was on came off, and this was to be the pattern fro the afternoon. At this first pool, we had ten (seemingly) quality hits between us, with zero conversions. I can’t remember that ever happening while streamer fishing.

**Proof that I do, in fact, know what the hell I’m doing. Same streamer template, hook size, and river, from almost the exact same date 11 years ago.**

I tried to figure it out. Stocked fish that hadn’t quite figured out how to eat a fleeing baitfish? Maybe, but they’ve been in the water for nearly a month. Streamer too large? I’ve been catching Housy trout for decades on a size 6 streamer hook. Dull hook point? Nope. I was all over that. Bad luck? Maybe, but we had well over a dozen hits each with no conversions.

We fished four marks and confirmed trout in three of them, so we never felt like we were wasting our time. I know where these fish live. And, as a famous cyborg once said, “I’ll be back.”

Farmington last week and now, back to the book

Sep29

I did two lessons last week on the Farmington. On Tuesday, I took Joe on a wet fly excursion. We stuck to the lower river; at 140cfs, it had the most water, and the weather was cool enough that the water temp never got higher than 66 (3pm). The fishing was predictably slow; we found success by moving around (we fished three different marks) and targeting the deepest, fastest-moving water we could get into. Joe was a strong wader, and sometimes that’s the difference between fishing and catching. Trout love to hang out in places that are difficult for land animals like humans to navigate. Joe stuck four and we put three in the hoop. In difficult low-water conditions, that was pretty darned good.

Joe having at it. As you can see, the clarity of the water was excellent, and when the flows are low, that usually works in favor of the fish. But Joe kept at it, was enthusiastic, and figured out where he needed to put his flies to catch fish. Great job, Joe!

Friday was a different story. We had rain Thursday night, which had me all fired up because it would mean higher flows and a little color in the water. While those conditions manifested, the fishing stunk out loud, which depressed me no end. I guided Dan and Sean, and we spent the bulk of our time nymphing. We stuck to water just below the PTMA; our reward was not another angler in sight. Although we bounced around — we fished four different marks — we could only manage two touches. Bah-phooey on those trout. The good news was that both Dan and Sean showed tremendous improvement over the course of four hours. When you actually see clients getting it, and making better casts, presentations, and mends, it’s very gratifying. Both deserved better than what the river gave them, but they’ll hit right in the future and reap the rewards of their lesson.

I’m back on the book, so this will be my only currentseams post this week. The publisher has sent me the galley copy, which is all of their edits in a document, paged format. My job is to read and review and comment. That’s over 300 pages of reading, so I need to hop to it. I’ve only made it through 20 pages, but it’s a happy feeling when you still like what you’ve written so many months ago, and the edits are generally light. AFAIK, The Fly Fishing Guide to the Farmington River is still on track for a June 1 2026 release. Natch’ , I’ll keep you updated with any news as it comes in.

Meanwhile, please do your best rain dance…

Albie and Bonito fishing with Alan Caolo

Sep25

I’ve known who Alan Caolo was for years. But it wasn’t until I started doing the Fly Fishing Show circuit that I got to meet him and get to know him a little. (He’s a swell guy, pleasant company, and he knows his stuff.) For those of you who don’t know who he is, Alan Caolo (pronounced KAY-lo) is an author and instructor and all-round master of many things salt. He’d been wanting me to go shore fishing with him for False Alabacore and Bonito for a few years now. Last year we missed our connection (and I suspect I was hyper-focused on the book). About ten days ago, the planets aligned, and we were able to meet up.

I’d been fishing for these critters once before, a long time ago, when I was just getting into fly fishing, and had no idea what I was doing in the salt. It wasn’t really my bag; I couldn’t quite yet cast well, and the hit-or-miss nature of the fishing didn’t appeal to me (honestly, it still doesn’t). But now I can cast, and I’ve never caught one of these fish. Plus, I’ve got an expert instructor who wants to get me into fish. Giddyup!

Great minds and all that. I was delighted to see that Alan uses the same reel I do, an old Scientific Anglers System 2 8/9. The shooting basket is mine. Note the electrical tape on my rod; it was my backup safety plan due to a bent flange on my reel and a resulting odd fit into the reel seat. The System 2 makes a delightful, distinctive zinging sound when line peels off the drag. Unfortunately, it was not our lot to hear it on that day.

We arrived at the jetty and secured our spot by 7:30am, with fishing commencing around 15 minutes later. If you’ve never fished for these speedsters from shore, there’s a lot of waiting and, if you choose, blind casting. The blind casting isn’t as crazy as it sounds. Twice, I had albies suddenly materialize near my fly where moments before, there was only a vast expanse of water. I had three shots at fish over the course of an about 6 1/2 hours. The first one I blew. I’m stripping my fly, and then in a blink there was a pod of predators hunting it down. I saw the eat, and that was my downfall, as I jerked the hook right out of the fish’s mouth before the transaction could be completed. The albie was on for perhaps one second, and then it was woulda, shoulda, coulda time.

About an hour later, while retrieving my fly (at a very nice pace, my teacher observed) across the breachway mouth, three fish came racing past us, heading out to sea. Collision course. I felt a bump as one swiped at my fly, but there was no hook purchase. Oh-for-two. My final shot came around 11:30am. We’d seen a boil off the jetty tip. I put my fly out there, and as I brought it in, a telltale bulge appeared in the water behind it. “Almost there…stay on target…almost there….stay on target” (from what movie?). And then, the wake was gone. (Sighs heavily.)

This kind of fishing is not for the impatient or the easily distracted. As with steelheading, or bonefish, or tarpon, you may only get one shot at a fish (Alan didn’t get a single touch all day. But to be fair, he was constantly setting me up in the sweet spots, which I thank him for.) It was a fairly slow day. Two spin anglers below us each hooked up — the only ones we saw all day — but they were covering 5 times as much water, and the sporadic nature of their hookups suggested that they’d lucked into rogue fish. The wind was a challenge, and it’s not for the faint-of-heart caster.

But I’m going to go back, with steely resolve to not to let my coach down again. Thanks again, Alan, for a most enjoyable morning.

The Last Blast, Largemouth Style

Sep19

A few weeks ago, I had one of my more meaningful fishing outings in recent memory. It was a reunion with one of my church youth group leaders, Mark Bieber, who, after my high school years, became a fishing buddy. At that point in my life, I was a spin-only angler, as was Mark. We’d sometimes fish from land, but most of the time it was from Mark’s rowboat or canoe. Our quarry ranged from carp to largemouth bass to pike to channel cats, and we fished in places like the coves of the Connecticut River and the old claypit ponds in Berlin. Life happened, and we eventually stopped fishing together. But we always kept in touch; Mark and his wife Sharyn came to our wedding. Both were strong influences on me.

I think we can all agree that forty years is quite a long time to not fish together. So, dammit, we fixed that. Our happy fishing reunion/outing took place on a cool, sunny, breezy August afternoon, not the best conditions for largemouth bass fishing, but then again, catching fish was not the prime directive. We fished Dunning Lake at Winding Trails in Farmington, Mark with his spin rod and rubber worms, me with my fly rod and bass bugs. The conversation flowed, just like it did 40 years ago, from Bob Dylan to women to fishing to my book to retirement to getting older to more fishing, all while we both savored a wonderful cigar.

**Mark got on the board first. Not a giant, but I have yet to meet a largemouth bass of any size that won’t eat a rubber worm.**

Even if I held this critter out at arm’s length, it would still be small. I admired this guy’s spirit: he hunted down my crayfish, nipped at it twice, then ate it, cartwheeling out of the water when I set the hook. Old friends, smiles, cigars, and fishing. Yeah. That’s what I’m talking about. We declared the outing to have been most excellent, and agreed to do it again in the spring. I already have the cigars picked out.

Montana, Part II: The Kootenai Smudge

Sep15

Unless you’re a setback player, you’re very likely puzzled by the author’s intriguing choice of a headline. For you non-card-types, a smudge is a bid where you declare that you will not only make all four points, but also win every trick (when each player reveals a card they’re holding). Smudges are rare, and if you’re lucky to make one, you get five points.

So, if catching three different species of fish is a hat trick and four is a grand slam, what’s a five different species? Pentachamacallit? So smudge it is. And on my second day of fishing the Kootenai (pronounced KOOT-en-ee by the locals), I scored a smudge.

This was a day that I fished solo, under the capable guidance of my guide Jeff from Dave Blackburn’s Kootenai Angler. We floated a different section of river, starting below the town of Libby. While the river is still wide and overhead-deep in many areas, there’s a lot more gravelly structure, pocket water, and whitewater pools. I far preferred it over the section we’d fished the day before. We did a little bit of everything: wet flies, dry-dropper, nymphing, streamers. It turned out to be a smudge-tastic day.

Let’s start with our new old buddy, the Kootenai Redband Rainbow trout. The ones I connected with — and they were plentiful — were generally under a foot long. Nonetheless, they were spunky and frantic when hooked, and I can’t even begin to describe their breathtakingly beautiful flanks adorned with delicate parr marks.

It’s a sucker! It’s a bonefish! No, wait. It’s a northern whitefish, native to these parts. Despite their appearance, whitefish are a salmonid. Every one I hooked was taken on a nymph. This was the biggest one by far, and she gave me a good tussle. Two down.

On this day, I hooked and landed my first cutthroat trout. Consider me a fan. Another native fish, these are beautifully colored and look like someone took a fine point black Sharpie to their sides as an exercise in minimalism. This fish was an epic eat. We were fishing western style, pounding the banks with a hopper-dropper, when we approached a grove of trees with overhanging branches that nearly touched the waterline. Naturally, the sweet spot of the run was beneath the branches. I made a cast, and began mending, dropping my rod tip nearly into the water so the floating line would clear the branches. Three…two…one…and whack! She ate the hopper right where we thought she’d be. That’s one take I wish I had on film.

A few minutes later, I asked Jeff what that green thing in the water was. As we got closer, we could see it was a hopper going for a swim. We fished him out of the water and put him on the oar to dry off. We were going to use him for a science experiment, but before we could send him on his way, he decided to go for another swim. I haven’t seen many hoppers in the water, but this was proof that it does happen — and the way this thing was struggling, it’s not surprising that they get eaten. My fourth species was a pikeminnow. Sadly, no photo. But before you laugh at the noun “minnow,” you should know that they grow over two feet long! Mine was about 18″. Pikeminnow are a member of the dace family.

**If you look under the maxillary, you can see the reddish band that gives the cutthroat trout its name.**

Ooh. Ahh. Ohh. To complete the smudge, I offer you the cutbow. As its name suggests, it’s a cross between a rainbow trout and a cutthroat trout, with characteristics of each. I was fortunate to be able to tangle with a half dozen of these gorgeous creatures. Is it time to go back to Montana yet?

Farmington River Report early September: a wet fly lesson, broodstock sampling, challenging conditions

Sep8

I guided — we’ll call him “Bob” because he’s in incognito mode — last Thursday. We did a little dry fly and a lot of wet fly. The Farmington can be a highly technical dry fly arena, and sometimes it comes down a perfect drift and a little luck. But a good starting place is a long leader. I was happy to see that Bob was using a 13-foot minimum line-to-fly leader/tippet length. We added a couple more feet of 6x and had at it. Unfortunately, we missed the Trico spinner fall, but we did manage some practice, and by the time we made the decision to go to wets, Bobs drifts were noticeably better.

We spent the next six hours on classroom, then banging around the PTMA, as well as above and below it. Like many people who take a wet fly lesson with me, Bob had to learn to wait a few beats — “Are you still there?” — after the hit to let the trout hook itself. We missed a handful of strikes, but stuck four and landed three, which was pretty darned good under some tough conditions. Low water/seasonal hint: all of our hookup came in fast, bubbling water.

**A lovely wild brown from the PTMA, taken by Bob on my Drowned Ant soft hackle. And on the first cast! At first, Bob thought he was hung up on a boulder. But boulders don’t shake their heads…**

Which brings us to the conditions. We’re out of meteorological summer, and the water is running clear and low. Because of the drought, the trees are behaving like it’s fall, turning color and especially shedding leaves. On windy days from now until the trees are bare, expect organic matter to be blowing into the river. Leaves were a constant challenge for us on this gusty day. The trout and bugs are also in a transition. Most of what’s hatching is very small (there are exceptions, like Isonychia). The trout are getting into pre-spawn mode. This adds up to more frequent windows where fish are much harder to catch. Bob was the only angler I saw land a fish on Thursday, and we encountered multiple anglers who were astonished by our success. Well done, Bob!

But wait, there’s more. Normally, the slug of rain we received over the weekend would mix things up a bit. However, Tuesday through Thursday this week, the CT DEEP will be drawing down the dam release to do their annual broodstock sampling. You can still fish the river, but vast stretches will be rendered as rock gardens. If you do fish, please give the sampling crews a wide berth. Things should be back to normal by Friday.

However, that normal will still mean challenging fishing — which makes every trout you land even sweeter. Catch ’em up!

Way Out West, Part 1: The Kootenai River

Aug25

Years ago, when I first heard of the Kootenai River, my brain assumed that it was in Alaska. I mean, it sounds like it belongs in the 49th state, doesn’t it? Well, it’s in Montana, and the locals pronounce it “KOOT-en-ee,” not “nye.” So I was wrong on both counts.

Located in the extreme northwest corner of Montana, a ‘way up by Canada, the Kootenai is Montana’s largest tailwater fishery. This is a big, deep river with crystal clear waters that mask its depth; if you’re going to fish it effectively, you really need to be in a drift boat. When we first arrived at our cabin — located just a cast away from the back porch — I thought, “Maybe later I’ll just wade out to that deeper stretch along the opposite bank.” Wrong. The water would have been chest high just 20 feet from shore. Over the next tow days, we floated over pools that were well overhead deep, and you could still easily see the bottom.