Category Archives: Fishing Reports

Curl up baby. Curl up tight.

Back to the night shift. Dozing on the couch at 10:45, taking care to not really fall asleep because the bus is leaving at 11:30. On the road, JR Cuban Alternate Cohiba Esplendido ceremoniously lit at the appropriate landmark. Now past midnight, and it’s raining. Maybe it will keep the yahoos away. Only a few cars in the lot. That’s good. The weather people said showers, but this is more like a fine mist. Three other guys out fishing, more than I expected, but better than Monday’s daytime lineup. There are fish around — the spin guy to my left just hooked up. Now it’s really raining. I didn’t order this wetness. Everyone is leaving, and I’m all by myself. Thirty minutes in. The rain stops. A few stars try to wink through the parting clouds. There it is, a sharp pull at the end of the greased line swing. My first keeper of the year? No way. It feels like a short. And it is. Not why I came out tonight, but the stink is off. Working the stretch of water down, then backing up the pool, even though there is no true pool to be backed up. Over an hour of meditative casting, mending, swinging, repeating. Alone. Magnificently alone. Let’s try up there. I haven’t caught a striper up there in a long time. The answer is no. Until the answer is yes. A better fish, struck on the second mend, but still a short. I can see Scorpio and the Summer Triangle and it makes me dream of being out alone on Block Island in July. There’ll be some keepers there for sure. There probably are a few here, but not for me or my Crazy Menhaden. Perhaps when next I return. Big girls. Ready to eat.

Undercover of the night.

That’s AM, people. Very AM.

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2015: A Striper Oddity

I never thought I’d be so excited about catching four school bass. But after this crazy spring, yowzah, woo-hoo, awwwright, yessiree Bob, good golly Miss Molly, I am all fired up.

Ahem.

Now that cooler heads have prevailed, I want to tell you about my funny faux pas today at Ye Olde Striper Spot. The wind was gusting out of the NNW, 10-20 easy, and the cloud structure was breathtaking. When I waded in, I was the fifth guy at the end of the line. We were all pretty evenly (and courteously) spaced. After an hour or so, our ranks had swollen to nearly ten. Some people were catching, others were not.  I turned to look behind me and I noticed that the angler above me had closed the gap to about 30 feet. He hailed me. “Do you mind if I ask you something?” I thought I was going to get a question about the two hander, or the floating line, or what color fly I was using. No. “Can you stand back a bit? You’ve moved quite a ways toward me.”

Well, to clean up Jack Nicholson’s line from “A Few Good Men,” didn’t I feel like a freakin’ butt hole.

Sincere apologies were offered, as was a fly. I appreciated his politeness and understanding. We talked about fishing for a few minutes. Then, fences mended, we returned to our precious avocation on this strange grey-green-blue windy day.

Monday’s implements of destruction, drying for the next session. Water temp was 50 degrees.

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Skunk cabbage, brookies, and…snow?

Just when you you thought it was OK to go outside without a jacket, Mother Nature throws a day like today at you. Well, I had my heavy fleece on when I stepped into the woods and headed toward yon brook trout stream. But snow? Geez, I knew it was cold (41 degree air temp at 9:30am). I guess I was emotionally unprepared for frozen water to be falling from the sky.

The stream was up, running clear, and warmer than the air. No hatch activity save for one lonely caddis witnessed on the hike out. I don’t know what to make of this stream. In two hours, I pricked ten, landed one. I fished dry upstream and wet downstream. The significance of that is that I drew only two strikes subsurface. I would have expected more action below.

This leads me to several possible conclusions:

1) This stream is continuing the downward trend it has exhibited over the last few years.

2) That cold front last night sucked the life out of the bite.

3) I have absolutely no idea what’s going on.

I can say with certainty that are are far worse ways to spend a morning than wandering along a thin blue line with a fly rod in your hand.

Amidst the dreary browns and greys of winter, wondrous chlorophyl makes a statement.

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Holding the first native of the year in your hands — then releasing her — is always a special occasion. She took the dry, a size 16 Improved Sofa Pillow.

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And on the 500th cast, a striped bass

It’s been a pretty weird spring for those of us who chase striped bass from the shore on the fly. Ye Olde Striper Shoppe, usually overflowing with eager school bass this time of year, continues to fail to produce. You’ve heard me say it before — every year is different — and as Joe Jackson might say, “so there goes your proof.”

I almost didn’t go yesterday because I simply wasn’t feeling it. But I talked myself into it. Not too hard a sell, since it’s got to turn on sometime, right? In the interest of avoiding crowds and trying something different, I went to a place that had no right to be holding stripers. It wasn’t. But I got my money’s worth of casting practice. Oh. And there was that rip. That paramour-sexy rip with its erotically dancing, undulating surface that made brazen overtures to my weaknesses for such water. Mark my words, there’ll be a bass or ten in it sometime soon.

I forgot my good camera. Usually that means a big striper. But you’ll have to settle for this water, weed and sand sculpture.

April sand bar

Switched from the full sink to the floater for a second piece of water. Nearly two more hours of casting practice. It was rejuvenating to perform a proper greased line swing again. (The poetic majesty of the greased line swing cannot be under-estimated.) But, time on this session had run out. Three more casts. And on the third, as the seven-inch long Crazy Menhaden flatwing swung down and across, a firm take worthy of the year’s first striper. A standard-issue school bass, under twenty inches, still wearing the colors of estuary in winter. But for today, a perfect fish.

I gotta tie some more of these. And some Rock Island flatwings, too.

Crazy CU

No Fish Today

Every year is different, and this (April 16) is the latest I’ve ever gone into a year without catching a striper since I started fishing for them. The only question now is: when?

I thought the fly looked tasty enough. But you can’t catch what isn’t there. Not to worry. Instant expertdom is right around the corner.

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Striper Report 4/3/15: Fifty Shades of Skunk

If you read your Bible, or if you’ve been paying attention in church over the years, you know that St. Peter had two jobs. I don’t know how good a fisherman he was, but I like that he fished for a living. I’ve gotten it into my head that given Peter’s involvement in the crucifixion, Good Friday is an appropriate day to honor him by going fishing. Striper fishing, specifically. So I’ve been doing that for years now.

With our prolonged winter and spring’s current refusal to make a proper stand on the issue of warm and sunny, I figured it would be a little early to find linesiders at Ye Olde Striper Spot. But you don’t know if you don’t go. Besides, I could shake off the big rod casting rust. And there was that EP Carrillo Golossos I had been saving.

Rain and wind, followed by mist and fog and utter calm. You could probably count fifty shades of grey here, but the only spanking was handed out by the bass. 50 Shades of Grey

The water was loaded with organic flotsam: leaves and sticks and bark and reeds. I was surprised to see 42 degrees on my thermometer. No bass that I could find, nor any reported by the three other anglers who had the good sense to leave ninety minutes before I did. But I was glad that they left, because I got to fish in this gorgeous greyness all by myself. Well, just me and St. Peter.

Yes, it was wet out there. I love Ken Abrames’ RLS Easterly color scheme (grey, silver, peacock, and a touch of fluorescent yellow) on days like this. A little color goes a long way. The fly is a sparse, soft-hackled flatwing.  Rod-Fly-Grey

Farmington River Mini Report 4/1/15: Still snow, still slow

I had to get out to the river this morning to shoot some video for an upcoming presentation. There’s not nearly as much snow as there was a few weeks ago, but it is still fairly substantial north of Pleasant Valley. Some of the parking lot/dirt road entrances remain impassable. Water was running about 400cfs, clear, and 39 degrees in the upper TMA. Very little hatch activity. Very little angler activity, although our good friends at UpCountry looked to be doing a booming business. I didn’t do much fishing, but I managed to toss some streamers into three different spots for a few minutes. Nothing. So goes it. Here’s to a warming trend and mayflies with three tails. Soon, please.

And that’s it in a nutshell. Whittemore Abutments Sign

Farmington River report 3/26/15: holdover dreams, fresh stocked realities

Overcast, fog, rain showers, air temps nearing fifty — where do I sign up? The river was running clear and about 350 cfs, 40 degrees in the upper TMA.

So. The day began with my foolish decision to navigate a perilously steep slope down to the river. There was no snow. But, rats! I didn’t take into account the frozen tundra. I slid on my butt for about twenty feet, and my the only reason my ass didn’t end up in the river was because I managed to grab a sapling as I hurtled past. Thus chastised, I waded in, bloody fingertips (ice can cut you quite properly, thank you) and all.

You gotta love the naiveté of fresh stockees. They haven’t quite figured out that they’re supposed to hit that streamer at the head. As a result, I had about 400 hysterical tail nips, with some of the new residents following the fly almost to my rod tip. At least a half dozen of what was put in last week are already dead; I saw them on the bottom of one run, most missing heads and/or eviscerated my some unknown predator. Downsizing the fly from a 4 to a 6 resulted in more hookups. But you don’t need to see photos of recently stocked trout, do you?

If the rain comes, they run and hide their heads. I fished all by myself today. Farmy rain:fog

Since stockees were not why I came out, I headed to the TMA. I had visions of big browns. We’ll quote another British band here: you can’t always get what you want. So I had to be content with three sticks and several Deep Threats presented to appease the river bottom gods. But the smoke from that Rocky Patel The Edge corona gorda looked positively sublime as it mingled with the mists over the rain-speckled water.

And I left the river happy.

Class 1 Quickie

I made my annual early spring pilgrimage to some old favorite Class 1 WTMA waters. Just a quick look-see with some obligatory line wetting. Water was medium height, 42 degrees, and clear. I swung and stripped an articulated white mini bugger, but had no takers, nor did I see or spook any wary wild things. On the plus side, the rest of the world was working and I was fishing. There were signs of a healthy invertebrate population, namely midges and early grey stones. In fact, I saw a couple couples of the stones doing their mating dance, and one depositing her eggs. No photos because I left the camera at home.

Please remember, no small stream fishing this time of year unless it’s a Class 1 (or in one of the allowed tidal zones). All thin blue lines re-open 6am the second Saturday in April (instead of the old third Saturday).

Hang in there, folks. Spring is here.

I could so go for some Hawaiian shorts and t-shirt weather right now. You know?

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Farmington River report 3/20/15: The best time to fish

Contrary to popular belief, the best time to go fishing isn’t when you can.

The best time to go fishing is when your mother-in-law has come to visit for the weekend.

The idea of sub-freezing temperatures and snow sounded just about right. Steelhead weather. I figured the river would be deserted (it was — I had my pick of the water). I also figured between the romance of snow flakes and deep overcast, the big browns would come out to play (I figured wrong — only one half-hearted bump in three hours).

Stanley’s Ice-Off Paste is a nice concept, but it’s only good for about a half-hour. Fishing streamers doesn’t help. Icy guide

I bounced all over the TMA. Spot A was an overhead deep run. Next, I walked several hundred yards through the woods to be able to fish a quarter-mile stretch of water. Then, a sortie to a new honey hole I had discovered last time out. One bump, no return. Ended up at another way-deep run where I caught a very nice stick and lost two flies. Streamers were the method, and I experimented with both bright and muted colors as well as retrieves. No interest in anything. River was down, about 225cfs, and running clear. Water temp was down, too, to 34 degrees, and I’m sure that was a negative influence. A few stray midges and some W/S Caddis here and there.

How Mother Nature cleans house. After Wednesday’s and Thursday’s wind, the forest floor was littered with shards of dead trees.

Forest floor       

But I was alone and fishing. If anyone had asked me, “Any luck?” I surely would have answered yes.