It was cold on Monday for June 1, but today we are firmly in a warming trend with great flows (275cfs). I’m anticipating stronger hatches and better fishing.
It wasn’t that way on Monday. I guided Matt and John for the purpose of teaching them the art of wet fly fishing. They’d seen me talk at the Edison Fly Fishing Show, and we’d had this date on the calendar for months. Sadly, we had unseasonably cool weather and a gusty day that held hatch activity to a minimum. We only got two in the hoop, but on another day both anglers would have easily been into double-digits. Strong casting, good mends, hundreds of fish-worthy presentations — I’m really excited for them to experience wet fly fishing at its productive best in the future. Well done, gentlemen!
Not a sulphur, but a Cream Cahill, size 12-14. They’ve been out in decent numbers on the lower river.
After our session I ventured downstream. Very weird evening. I stuck eight trout on wets but had only two hooksets, and landed neither. It was as if the fish couldn’t make up their mind about eating. At 7pm, I switched over to dry flies, and while there were plenty of fish rising, none of them seemed to be in a steady rhythm. I had my best action from 8pm into dark, using creamy colored dries and one big, honking Iso dry.
I’m back to heavy-duty yard work mode, so this will be my only post this week. I’ll try to get back to normal posting next week. In the meantime, fish on. It’s the most wonderful time of the year….
I guided Jeff, Andrew, and Angelo on Tuesday, and we couldn’t have asked for nicer weather. While Angelo was off exploring parts north solo, Jeff and Andrew headed downriver with me to learn the ways of the wet fly. We began in a snotty boulder field, and right away, Jeff was into a fat, stocked brown. There were caddis and some Cream Cahills in the air, but all of the four trout we put in the hoop took the size 12 SHBHPT. The second mark we hit featured similar water, but we only had one bump in 20 minutes, so we headed north, still in the mid-river, to see if we could find open water. Score! This is a superb run for fishing wet flies, and while the action wasn’t gangbusters, Jeff scored an 18.5″ (taped) wild brown. At this point, Angelo joined us to do some indicator nymphing, sticking one fish. It’s always gratifying to give a wet fly lesson and see your clients rewarded with multiple hits, and having everyone land a trout made it even sweeter. Fantastic job, gentlemen, and it was a pleasure guiding you.
I was downstream with Andrew when Jeff stuck this quality wild brown. Once I saw it was a decent fish, I hustled up with the net so we could enjoy this photo op. Even when you’re in the STMA, you can still find places where wild browns like to hang out.
Last night I fished with surfcaster extraordinaire Toby Lapinski from about 4:45pm into dark, 9pm. We hit the same initial run I took Jeff and Andrew to, and the fish were cooperative. We stuck 8 between us, but I wanted to investigate some favorite water a little bit upstream. We had the entire run to ourselves, and were in position at 5:45pm. The water was significantly lower than Tuesday, 325cfs and dropping, and with the sparse release from the dam, the water reached 64 degrees on the thermometer. The trout seemed to love those conditions. I stuck fish after fish on wet flies, with the runaway favorite being the SHBHPT. I have no idea how many trout I landed — the fishing was that good. The rainbows, in particular, seemed to all believe that they were steelhead. I’ve never had so many fish leap so many times, some of them even after they’d spit the hook. Tremendous sport!
Meanwhile, Toby wasn’t having the same results. But it turns out that he was saving his chips for the dry fly action. At 7pm, while I was still poking around with wets in some faster water, Toby was fishing dries in some more languid pools, and seemingly hooking trout at will. His secret weapon was an Iso dry, and Isonychia were among the bugs we saw (caddis, midges, a few sulphurs, a couple BWOs). I made the switch to dry around 8pm, and once I found some risers, I too got in on the dry fly action. Usuals and Light Cahill dries were my producers.
Thus begins (almost here!) my favorite month on the Farmington.
Stocked brown, but he ate well at the hatchery, and gave me quite the battle. All of last night’s trout were full of piss and vinegar.
Tom is a long-time currentseams follower and an avid fly fishing show attendee and angler. He couldn’t have picked a finer day weather wise for a wet fly lesson: sunny, 85, 210cfs and 52 degrees water temp in the PTMA…and all those caddis! At one point I counted over 2 dozen of them crawling around his legs and backside: tan, black, and one funky darker one I couldn’t ID. Plus: micro caddis. Really small stuff that flitted around my forearms under the Church Pool bridge, enough of them to be a nuisance.
So where are all the trout? Not feeding near the surface. I saw just three rises in our four hour session. We stuck two, landed one, and that was two more fish than seven of the other nine anglers we watched or talked to had. One angler said he did very well nymphing, and so that spring trend has continued into mid-May despite the warm weather. Tom did an excellent job of managing his drifts, and he deserved far better than what the river gave him on this day. But he is certainly a dangerous wet-fly-machine in the making! Way to go, Tom.
Tom scores a lovely wild brown on his last cast — really! — in a top-secret location. The fish ate a size 14 Squirrel and Ginger.
Usually, by this time of year, I’ve given you at least one report headlined with words like “spectacular wet fly action.” But not in 2026. It continues to be cooler than normal and windy and blech. When hatch activity has been strong, the fish seem content to feed on the bottom. This, of course, will change. I feel like we’ll go instantly from early spring to mid-summer weather, the surface bite will pick up, and you’ll get your enthusiastic, superlative-laden wet fly report. But for now, it’s keep on-keeping on.
I gave Jason a wet fly lesson from 11am-3pm on Thursday, and he deserved way, way better than what he got, which was two hits in four hours. To be fair, one of them was a very good fish, although it was camera shy. Jason did an excellent job of casting and getting his team of three where it needed to be, then mending and presenting. Some time later this month or in June, he’s going to hit it right, and people are going to be following him off the water, asking him, “What fly were you fishing?!?”
It’s way too early for me to be thinking about grasshoppers, but I did see one on my driveway yesterday. This is my Hopper Hammerdown.
We had 310cfs in the PTMA and points south. Water temp was in the high 50s. When it’s windy, the seed pods that blow into the water (which look very much like soft-hackled flies) do us no good, and that was yet another factor. Oh, did I mention the cold front that came through the night before? We got into our fish because we moved aggressively through pools, looking for biters. Do likewise when the fishing is slow, and you’ll up your odds significantly.
And a reminder: May is caddis month on the Farmington.
This has been a cool spring with lower than average temperatures and not a lot of rain. While the hatches have been strong — this year’s Hendrickson showing has been far better than last year’s — I have yet to have a seems-like-a-fish-on-every-cast wet fly outing. (The river is usually good for at least one by month’s end.)
I gave James a wet fly lesson in mid-April, and we managed only one to net. We pounded several sections of river north of the PTMA, and managed only one bump. (Our lone fish came from within the PTMA.) I managed a day to myself during the Hendrickson hatch in the PTMA, and the number of rising trout fell far short of the bug volume. That certainly could be a function of me fishing where there weren’t many fish. Historically, though, the mark I fished holds a multitude of trout in April. On Tuesday, I did some advance scouting for Wednesday’s wet fly lesson. It was a fish here, a bump there, and none of it very impressive. I ranged from the lower river in Burlington up to the PTMA. I did manage to foul a beast mid-river; when the fish swam the leader over a rock, we parted ways.
Which brings us to yesterday’s lesson with Michael. We fished two marks, the lower end of the PTMA, and then mid-river. While the action wasn’t spectacular, we did find fish that wanted to eat in both locations. Our session began at 11am and we wound up at 3:30pm, a little over, but for a very good reason.
We had a decent caddis hatch at the first spot, but little was rising to it, and none of it on a regular rhythm. Lesson one: move around, cover water, find the fish. While I think everyone loves catching wild Farmington browns the most, the stocked rainbows more than make up for any lack of situational romance with power, urgency, and acrobatics. Because of the breeze, I had Michael fishing two flies instead of three. This beauty ate our point fly, a SHBHPT.
The second mark featured faster water, and it was a little deeper in spots. Even though it was a mid-river location, there were a surprising number of Hendricksons coming off. Nothing too wow, but there were a few trout rising in the frog water edges, and farther down from us in longer pool where the current slowed. We’d switched to a Dark Hendrickson BH soft hackle on point, and our next fish, a stocked brown, ate that fly. Even though it was close of business, I wanted to make a few casts at the fish feeding downstream.
We waded down and out as far as we comfortably could. Because the fish were rolling on mergers, I removed the BH point fly and replaced it with a Dark Hendrickson winged wet. Good call, because that’s what a gorgeous high teens wild brown hen decided to eat. Great job, Michael, fighting and landing that fish! If you head over to Instagram some time today, you can see a photo.
Hopefully, this is the beginning of better wet fly action. May is a strong caddis month, and caddis are a dish best served to trout subsurface.
I visited a Class 1 last week — there are so many of them now! — and what the outing lacked in action was made up for in sentimentality. I’ve been fishing these waters for a long time. Walking down its banks is like opening the restaurant door when you’re meeting a friend for lunch. Like many of the newly minted Class1s, this stream has fallen on hard times in the last decade-plus. Gone are the days when I’d pricks multiple dozens of brookies and browns, some of them a fairly impressive length for such small stream in the middle of nowhere. On this day, I managed only handful of swipes and one to net.
The water was an ideal height, probably about the same temperature as the air on this chilly day, in the mid-40s.
This is typically the time of year when I’ll wade through an unproductive pool after blanking in it. My gait is rather haphazard, as I’m hoping to spook some fish and suss out their lies. I rousted virtually no one; one languid stretch had about a half dozen fish, but they were all small yearling size. I did get to enjoy a cigar, and even when I stumbled and sat in the river, soaking my hindquarters, all was right with the world. I fished a dry-dropper system for most of the outing, but what was interested showed a clear preference for the dry. But, funny thing! The only one I landed came on a micro streamer.
Skunk cabbage leafing out near the banks of a trout stream in Connecticut in April takes me back to my youth, Opening Day, Salmon River. They kinda look like tobacco plants, don’t they?
I fished the lower end of PTMA yesterday from noon to 3:30pm. Once got to the river, I ran into a group of wonderfully chill gentlemanly anglers, and we had a short gab-fest before I decided to head into the river for some pre-hatch prospecting. Bob, of Bob-and-Andy fame, was also there. I’d met Bob-and-Andy at this mark many years ago, and since then, it’s really not April unless we cross paths on the river.
The wind made it an unfavorable day for casting a team of three wets, but I managed to go almost the entire session without a fouled-up leader. After an hour that produced one lonely bump, I declared to the group that one or more of three things was true: there are not a lot of fish here; the hatch is going to be underwhelming; the trout are content to feed on the bottom. It turns out that options A and C were likely in play. When the hatch finally got going, around 2:15pm, there were bugs everywhere: in the air, on the surface — and precious few trout rising to them. I’d give this hatch volume an 8 out of 10; when you can count the rises per minute on a few fingers (instead of dozens) that’s not going to make for epic fishing. Normally, with this Hendrickson hatch volume, I’d bang up a good dozen fish or more fishing wets pre-hatch and during the emergence. Not today.
Hello, old friend. This would be a male Hendrickson; three tails, darker cast, large eyes.
What did follow script was the place in the water column where the fish were feeding. Pre- and during emergence, they took the wet, until the point where they didn’t, and then it was dry flies on the surface. This is a good time to talk about shadow hatches, which I do in the Farmington River book. In addition to Hendricksons, there were also caddis and BWOs in the mix. The savvy wet fly angler will want to have at least one of those other food groups represented. What do you know? Of the three trout I took on wet flies, two came on the caddis middle dropper (Hare’s Lug and Plover).
I managed two more on the surface, bringing my total to five. At the risk of sounding ungrateful, I was not impressed. Of course, I could have gone elsewhere. But with three anglers below me and five above me, real estate was scarce. So I stayed.
Today, writing about it, I have to scold myself for being so dour. It was a sunny, April day. The Hendricksons were out. There were some rising fish who wanted to eat. I got to reconnect with old friends and make some new ones. I didn’t put two dozen in the hoop or land a 20″ wild brown. But, yeah. That’s still a really good day of fishing.
I’d come to the Everglades with a single purpose: land my first tarpon. Oh, sure, I’d take all the snook I could get — I love snook — but tarpon was the prize.
There were only two problems. First, the weather. It had been been a colder than normal spring and the water temp wasn’t quite where the tarpon like it. But, nothing can be done about that. The second problem was of my own doing. I’d already had one shot at a tarpon on day one, but completely blew the hookset. I’d have to do better on this day.
We arrived at the scene of yesterday’s rolling tarpon to find only 1/3 the number of visible fish. That was discouraging, but we nonetheless had at it. I was really feeling like I was going to get my first tarpon, so much that I said it aloud. And that’s where problem two reared its ugly head. For some reason, even though I knew otherwise, my brain was telling me to wait to feel the weight of the fish before setting the hook. Eventually, a tarpon roared out of the shaded mangroves, struck the fly, and once again, I missed it. The lesson was driven home by an inspection of the leader; the first six inches above the fly bore the marks of the edges of the tarpon’s mouth. It was proof that fly was inhaled deep enough to get a hook set. As Charlie Brown would say: “Rats.”
I tried not to let it bother me. Really, I did. But I was mad at myself for missing yet another opportunity, especially since the winds tomorrow were likely going to be strong enough to make the Everglades a non-starter. Plus, who knew if we’d even seen another tarpon? I decided to not let it wreck my day. After all, I was fishing in the Everglades with my oldest son, and smoking cigars. That’s a win.
Since the snook bite generally stunk, we decided to lightning raid as many creeks and lagoons as we could in hopes of finding our target. Finally, after silent electric motoring up a mangrove-covered creek entrance not much wider than the boat, we found a roller. As I set up to cast, I reconned the surroundings and reinforced the procedure: on a hit, I’m not waiting on my strike. I’m setting low and hard to my left. I was repeating it like a mantra while imagining the movement.
First cast. No love.
Second cast, same result.
Third cast. Here he comes! It all happens so quickly that your conscious mind really can’t separate the greenish flash of the sun off flank, the water bulge and then boil around your fly, the sudden tension on the line, and the sound of violent water displacement. It’s almost simultaneous. This time, I was ready. “Down hard and to the left.” It all went down in one exhilarating moment, and I made the move and stuck the set.
The tarpon thrashed on the surface, then sped away from the boat like a perp in a getaway vehicle. “Let him run!” shouted Capt. Mark, but I needed no coaxing as this fish immediately put itself on the reel. The first jump was a spectacle of power and fury, the spray shimmering in the morning sun like a thousand tiny LEDs. The tarpon made a sudden 180 and swam back to the boat. “Keep that line tight!” Reel fast!” were the captain’s instructions, but I was already doing it. I cranked furiously, still tight to the fish. It was at this moment that I knew I was going to land this fish. But I didn’t plan for the mangrove wild card.
The fish moved to the left, just ahead of the boat, toward a treacherous-looking mangrove root system. (There are also multiple dead roots/branches/tree remnants in any given space along the shoreline). I thought I steered the fish out of harm’s way, but when he made his second leap, the leader hung up on a submerged root and the fly popped off. I was left with the temporary illusion that the fish was still on — the hook was stuck below the waterline — but I knew in my heart the tarpon was gone.
The last blast, the moment the tarpon escaped the bond of the hook and line. You can see the fly, stuck on the tiny branch peeking out of the water on the lower left. The fish landed with a thunderous splash. Then it was gone.Photo by Mark Giacobba.
Now, you might think at this moment that I would be in a state of shock and despair. But no. Just the opposite. I was giddy, almost chortling. Amazed and full of wonder. That was terrific! I wasn’t about to let a little bit of bad luck ruin my day. For I had quietly, patiently stalked my quarry, waited for that moment — and then, finally, fully prepared, was ready. I’d done my best. And that’s all anyone can ever do.
You know, I’m thinking that I’m going to land the next one.
I love living and fishing in Connecticut. But if I had to choose one other part of the country in which to live and fly fish, it wouldn’t be an easy decision. Western PA and NE Ohio (steelhead and smallmouth) would get some consideration. Colorado would be a worthy choice, as would Montana — all that blue ribbon trout water! Then, there’s the Everglades. So vast, so mysterious, so alien, so loaded with fish and fly fishable water that you couldn’t possibly cover it in a lifetime. I really don’t know where I’d choose, but the Everglades might currently be at the top of the leaderboard.
I’ve now fished the Everglades three times, the last in November of 2021. I was ready last year, but too busy with the book. I wanted to go in the March through May window, prime time for tarpon, because I’d never hooked one, and you’ve got to hook one to land one. Color me eager on tarpon. Then, there are snook.
While tarpon are one of my bucket list fish, I’ve caught snook before. I’m a big fan. They’re ambush predators that lurk in the submerged mangrove roots, and their attack speed is breathtaking; they go from zero to meteor-reentering-the-atmosphere-fast when they see a meal. They fight like the dickens, even the smaller ones. Think of a sleeker, faster, more agile striped bass, and you’ve got the general dope on battling a snook.
Snook country. While the Everglades can look like one expansive lake, you’re looking for structure along the shoreline, whether near open water or in one of the hundreds of labyrinthine passages that lead to a lagoon, and sometimes to nowhere. Downed tree in the water? Make a cast. Dining room table-sized cove in the mangroves? Make a cast. If a snook is nearby, and you don’t spook it — they’re in a constant state of red alert — it’s going to move with a sense of urgency to your fly.
Once again, I was fishing with Capt. Mark Giacobba. Tarpon were first on the agenda, and we spent the better part of an hour getting to the mark. Right on cue, we found rolling fish. (Tarpon will come up to the surface to gulp air, and these “rolls” give away their position.) To make a long story short, I had two follows and one take upon which I completely blew the hookset. A little later, we found some 40+ pound fish in a shallow lagoon, but they were immediately on to us, and skedaddled for points elsewhere, leaving opaque clouds of silt in their wake. With the sun continuing to climb (we’d launched at 6:30am), the target turned to snook. Hell, yeah. Let’s go.
This would be a good time to say that the fishing has been a little off in the Everglades this spring. The nights and mornings (and, consequently, the water) have been cooler than normal. The snook bite was funky; it was either action on the first few casts or nothing. We bounced around from mark to mark, staying when there were fish, bailing when there weren’t. I held off taking any pictures since I was hopeful to lock into a bigger one, but ’twas not to be. You can see one of the smaller fish I landed on Instagram @stevecultonflyfishing.
Pounding the structure. It took me a while to get up to speed, as this kind of fishing is truly different from what I normally do back home. We took a few subsurface, then switched over to topwater, which produced some explosive takes. You cast, give the bug two short pops (“Knock-knock” as Mark described it), then let the fly sit there, and wait. Maybe a couple more knocks, then it’s recast and send it to an adjacent area. You don’t strip in the fly, and it never gets even halfway to the boat before you recast. On this day, the snook weren’t shy about making their presence known.If they weren’t there, we motored.
Th final tally was six snook and one sea trout. Not great. Not terrible. Definitely fun. Up next: Day 2. It’s a story of disappointment and redemption (of sorts). You’ll see.
It seems ridiculous to say — especially since I wrote the book — but yesterday was my first day in 2026 fishing the Farmington River. I was going to go last Friday, but I deemed it too cold, and decided to wait for more clement conditions. Turns out, the giddy sun and warmth had zero impact on the catching.
We (Farmington River guide Steve Hogan and I) decided to fish above Riverton based on two factors: the water would be warmest there (we took two readings and got 38.5 and 44(!) degrees), and it would be lowest and clearest due to it being above the Still River. As you can imagine, the false late spring weather drew crowds of anglers; I can’t remember the last time the Riverton town lot next to the bridge was jammed so full of vehicles. Nymphing was the game, and we hit multiple pockets and runs between the dam and the town. Parking wasn’t easy as there was still a substantial amount of snow lining Hogback Road.
I told Hogan that I grade myself when I’m fishing and not catching, and I gave me a B+/A-. I do this because If I’m not catching, I want to make sure that it’s not because I’m committing some fundamental error or missing strikes. Folks, I was on the bottom all day and I no longer have the flies to prove it. I dredged up several nice sticks. We saw midges and olives and couple other un-IDed bugs. What we didn’t see was a fish caught. Not us. Not anyone. But, better fishing is coming. A lot happens this month. We’re just three weeks away from April!
Early March is one of the toughest windows to fish on the Farmington. We gave it about 3 hours, then called it a day, which, given the sunshine and warmth and cigars, was not bad at all despite not having even a courtesy tap.
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