Category Archives: Fishing Reports

Out with a shiver

The last blast of 2013 was a late afternoon excursion to a small brook a few miles from my home. The temperature never got above freezing, and there were some snow flurries to embellish the wintery streamscape. Despite a generous pre-outing application of Stanley’s, ice in the guides and on the leader were a constant problem for the 90 minutes I fished. Shelf ice was everywhere, but it was easy to break through with a well-placed, forceful step of the boot.

The brook was running cold today. Black ice on some of the rocks gave them the illusion of being wet. It almost cost me a swim or two (three cheers for studded boots). This ice halo just looked pretty. I liked its contrast against the green moss.

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To the fishing. There was plenty of that. Catching, not so much. I decided to cast my lot in the subsurface direction, swinging and stripping a small streamer (or a very large wet, depending on your point of view) without finding a favorable response. The last ten minutes, I fished dry. No dice. On a positive note, I got to be blissfully alone in the woods and the snow with a Casa Magna Extraordinaire diadema.

I probably won’t go back to this brook until April. The fish will want to play then. I’ll be about ready, too.

I didn’t get a water temperature, but it must have been in the low 30s. We’re in for a cold snap, so these mushroom caps won’t go away any time soon.

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Two. For Two.

I don’t know about the rest of you dads, but it annoys the hell out of me when I try to give my boys a life lesson and life teaches them the exact opposite.

That’s what happened last year when I took Cameron steelheading for the first time. I grimly outlined the 40 hours it took me to land my first steelhead; explained that you can do everything right playing the fish and still lose him; how the lake effect weather is dicey at best. So what happens? We get 50 degrees in late November, bluebird skies, and the kid hooks and lands a 10-pound chromer in the first 30 minutes of the trip.

But not this year. I told him that on this trip, we’d find out if he was cut out to be a steelheader. A cold front was blowing in as we drove up. We awoke to a couple inches of fresh powder and the mercury in the teens. This was going to be a baptism in ice.

What’s more, these sudden temperature changes – especially downward – are usually bad for business. Sure enough, what had been a consistent bite over the previous week was almost nonexistent. Five hours after floating under the Altmar Bridge, we still hadn’t had a single take. It wasn’t for lack of trying. Or giving the fish a choice. I had been carpet-bombing the bottom with everything from egg flies to nymphs. Cam was throwing an egg sack under a float. The steelhead weren’t having any of it.

But, I kept telling Cam that he had to be ready, because the next cast could be the one that you get a strike. And you’ll hate yourself if you miss it.

I was getting enough false positives to keep me focused, but even those became adventures in bad luck. As we floated between holes, my indicator disappeared. I set the hook on the bottom, pulled, and then watched as my rig sailed over my head – into the only tree for 200 feet. It got worse. Drift boats are like trains; they take a while to stop. As Jim furiously back rowed, my line stretched tight, and the top section of my rod came loose. Now it was sliding along the no man’s land between the rest of my rod and the tree. If the leader or line snapped, it would be gone. Fortunately, I am over six feet tall. By standing on one of the boat’s benches, I was able to just reach the leader with an outstretched arm and a hunting knife. Tip was reunited with rod, much to its owner’s relief.

Meantime, Cam was patiently earning his winter steelhead stripes. Five hours is a long time to go without a strike for a grown man, let alone a ten year-old. If he was discouraged, he wasn’t showing it. Jim (Kirtland, our guide, of Row Jimmy Guide Service fame. This was the third time I’ve floated with Jim. Highly recommended. Nice guy, knowledgeable, and if you have a child you want to introduce to steelheading, he’s terrific with kids) made the observation that Cam was now a member-in-good-standing of the Frozen Chosen.

The indicator went under, and this time the bottom thrummed with energy. Fish on. I could tell it was a good one by the fact that the steelhead did not surface. His first run was deep and upstream. I have a love-hate relationship with upstream runs. They’re good because they force the fish to burn a tremendous amount of oxygen. Bad because those big steelhead turn on a dime and shoot back downstream faster than you think any fish has a right to. Meanwhile, you’re flailing away at your reel or the slack, trying to regain line and keep that precious hook set. But this was a most obliging creature. Once he turned, he came back slowly and wallowed deep, even with the boat. I didn’t want to give him the opportunity to breathe, so I pressed him. Now I could see him a few feet below the surface. Fresh chrome. Double-digit pounds.

At the midpoint of the fight, steelhead can loll you into a false sense of security. You just need to remind yourself that the fish has probably got a few more good runs in him. And off he went, bulling his way downstream. While I admired his power, something didn’t feel quite right. Simultaneously, I realized the fish must be fouled. As he rolled near the far shore, I called out to another angler to confirm my suspicions. He did. Reluctantly, I pointed the rod at the fish and snapped the tippet.

My adventure seemed to energize Cam, who had been warming himself by the heater. (Wonderful thing, propane heaters in drift boats. Best invention in steelheading since 5mm neoprene integrated boot foot waders.) Five minutes later, he was on. This was another good fish, one that doggedly refused to come to net. Every time Cam got him close, the steelhead found a reserve of energy and bolted. I finally picked Cam up by the waist and moved him to the center of the boat so Jim could get a better angle from the bow. Steelhead netted. A long, lean dark horse of a buck.

What a miserably cold ten year-old looks like after sitting in a boat for seven hours without a strike. All it takes is one fish. Well done, Cam. Your father couldn’t be prouder.

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Cam was now two-for-two in his steelheading career. We took some photos of him brandishing his prize, grinning, as Ridley says in The Right Stuff, “like a possum eating a sweet potato.” Any father-son steelheading trip where the son hooks and lands is, by any definition, a good one. Smiles populated the boat.

But the sun was getting perilously close to the treetops, and we hadn’t even made Ellis Cove. So in the interest of time and fishing, we decided to fish western style, until we reached Pineville. I was surprised how empty the riverbanks were; we only saw three other people. The fishing mirrored the scarcity of anglers; whatever was swimming under the boat wasn’t eating.

On top of that, I had been shivering in my waders for a few hours now. Desperate for a tactile advantage on any potential hookset, I had made the decision to spend large chunks of the day gloveless, an unheard of practice for me in cold weather. Any useful feeling I had in my fingertips had long since vanished. When I lost my rig at the tailout of the Hemlocks, I declared my day over.

Seconds later, I thought the better of it. What if the next run held that hungry fish? With shaking fingertips, I clumsily lashed some tippet material to the swivel and forced on a pink Steelhead Hammer. If I was going down, I was going to go down fishing.

As we drifted through the Refrigerator, I made a cast downstream toward the head of the pool. The indicator disappeared. The bottom was moving. Upstream. It was another chrome fish, not as big as the one Cam hooked, but this beggar was not going to unconditionally declare for choosing. A few cartwheels and frantic bursts later, the fish was ready to come to net. I gave my salvation a faux peck on the snout and released it into the snow-capped shallows.

This is my “Look, I pulled a steelhead out of my butt in the last five minutes of the trip” face. 

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“Dad,” Cameron said on the ride home, “you were really happy after you caught that fish.”

I was, too.

December Dinks

The most difficult part of striper fishing in December isn’t the cold. It’s finding the fish. Once you do, you can pretty much get out the tally sheets.

So I headed south to see who might be out and about. Save for a multitude of sea birds and one other fly angler, I had the beach all to myself. This being a powerful moon tide, there was no shortage of sexy rips and seams to cast into. I was two-handing it with a floating line, a six-foot section of T-11, and a three-foot leader of 20-pound mono. A four-inch long September Night seemed like a fine choice of a fly, although I spent considerable time debating the merits of throwing a sparse bucktail like the Magog Smelt.

I fell into the meditative rhythm of cast, mend, mend, swing, slow retrieve. I was ready for the pull of a hungry fish.

The answer was no.  All I was catching was sea lettuce and marsh grass. The other angler across the way was likewise blanking. Then he got into a small striper. And another. I kept waiting for the hits that never came. Since I had a limited time slot — I was slagging off work — I reeled in and headed for another spot. The distance and brisk pace I kept made me sorry I had put on that extra layer of fleece.

New venue, same results. There comes a point in every skunking where you make peace with the fact that you’re not going to catch anything. So I reminded myself that while most of the world was working, I was fishing. The sun was out. I had the pleasure of a peppery, earthy Churchill. But, I asked, could I please get just one fish? I raised the question out loud, because I find that when you’re alone, that works a lot better than just thinking it. How else to explain the strident bap! at the end of the next swing?

These stripers didn’t know there weren’t any mullet around. Not to worry, for the September Night worked quite nicely on this December afternoon.

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And that was the start of the Bass-o-Matic. All small fish, but each of them fresh from the ocean,  flawless and gleaming bright.

With great discipline, I peeled myself away from the frenzy five minutes before my hard stop. So much to do. So little time.

At least now I could cross “catch December stripers” off my list.

Salmon River Steelhead November 2013

Just got back from four days on the Salmon River in New York, and I’m here to tell you, friends, that the fishing was off the charts. After a painfully slow 2012-13 season, the steelhead gods saw fit to shine their benevolent light upon me. (The entire group — there were four of us — got into an embarrassment of steelhead riches.) Still basking in the glory of over 50 steelhead hooked, and nearly half of them landed. Here’s a short film that my friend and co-conspirator Todd Kuhrt put together. Eventually I’ll write up a proper story, but until then, enjoy this little gem.

Baby, I’m howling’ for you indeed.

Stripers-by-numbers

2: Number of cigars I smoked, a Gispert Churchill on the drive down to Rhode Island, and an H. Upmann 2000 Reserve corona gorda on the way back to Connecticut.

5 and 9: The weight rod and line I used. Perfect for the tight confines of the first spot we fished. I could load the rod with a minimum of line, and shoot the rest with a flick of the wrist.

7 and 9. The weight rod and line Jon used.

1: Number of stripers we caught in the first spot (Jon was the successful angler).

4,957: Number of weeds I hooked in the first spot. At least it seemed like that many. I was fishing a greased line swing, then a dangle, and I could feel the tick the moment the weed hit the fly.

1: Number of stripers we saw in the second spot. Jon noticed a wrinkle on the surface in the moonlight. As we worked our way along the bank, I felt a quick little bap! And then he was gone. Other than seeing a few silversides and a juvenile fluke, the place was as dead as Julius Caesar.

86: My heart rate when we got to our last stop and saw a couple fish feeding out in the current.

10: As we were already well past our cutoff of 11pm, our agreed-upon time limit, in minutes, to catch a striper.

1: Number of bass we caught. (My turn.)

2: Happy anglers who made the drive home to Connecticut.

Farmington River Report 9/29/13: Blue ribbons all around

First Place Winner: James. James is an experienced fly angler who wanted to learn the ancient and traditional ways of the wet fly. He aced Wet Flies 101, got into double digits of fish, and even had a double on a February Red and a Squirrel and Ginger. Good job wading, good job mending, good job presenting. If he keeps at it, James is going to be a dangerous machine. Trout, you’ve been warned.

Almost a grownup. The signature ink of youth has just about faded away from his flanks. A spirited fish, this one. I’m amazed he held still long enough for a photo.

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First Place Winner: The weather. Cool air. Warm sun. Blazing, brilliant sunshine. All day long. Water temp 59. Whoever ordered this day, I’d like to buy you a drink. And a cigar.

First Place Winner: The bite. Thank you, trout, for making my job easy. Your recklessness creates the illusion of genius in the form of a fishing guide. I really appreciate it.

First Place Winner: The hatches. See “The bite.” Caddis (smaller creamy size 16 and big tan size 12s), midges, BWOs, and especially a bumper crop of Isonychia. All our trout came on the Squirrel and Ginger (caddis) size 14, size 12 February Red, and size 12 Hackled March Brown.

James’ brown. The hardest working trout in the Farmington River? Or simply one of the many fish James brought to net?

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Farmington River Mini Report 9/27/13: Like going into Wisconsin

I had just over two hours on Friday afternoon to scout some locations for Sunday’s gig. So I zipped in and zipped right out again. Speed fishing, if you like. Four different spots, all of which held fish that were eager to jump on the wet fly.

I’ve been seeing some creamy mayflies on the river the last couple weeks. A good size, about a 12, late afternoon. Apparently this fellow has been seeing them, too. 

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As usual, I was fishing a three-fly team of wets. Today’s selection consisted of a size 10 Catskill on top dropper; a size 12 Pale Watery wingless wet in the middle; and a size 12 Hackled March Brown on point. I took trout on every fly. With the most recent stocking just weeks old, I was expecting to find plenty of newly released wards of the state. But no. It was all wild and holdover browns along with a few juvenile salmon sprinkled in.

I did have a curious catch, a silvery brown that looked unlike anything I’ve ever caught in the Farmington. At first its color suggested a juvenile salmon, but when I got it to net I saw that it had a flat tail and the eye/jaw placement of a trout. Few spots, but large and haloed like a brown. Could this be a sea-run trout? The sensible side of my brain said probably not. But the side that likes to dream swirled the notion around and tasted the possibility that it could be.

Notes: cloudy skies, air temps near 70. Water temp 60. A strong Isonychia showing. A few caddis, a few of those creamy mayflies, lots of midges. Little to no surface activity. The water levels are lower than normal; they’re drawing down the dam to complete an every-decade inspection of the pipes.

It’s getting to be peak color time on the Farmington.

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And you can put your weeds in it

One of the more agreeable aspects of fishing salt pond outflows on a dropping tide is the conveyor belt effect: everything that was inside comes rushing past you on its way to the sea. Bait. Stripers. And sometimes, sadly, weeds. Lord, did I have my weeds Saturday night. Two of them were quite pleasant, a Cabaiguan Guapos on the drive down, then a Saint Luis Rey Corona Gorda for the trip back. The middle, not so much.

From an old, not-so-famous poem: “But all the outgoing tide decreed, was piles and piles of stringy weed.”

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Jon and I started out at dusk at Salt Pond A. We could see multitudes of bait in the water. But the only predators feeding on them were jellyfish, ranging in size from a salad plate to a more ominous-looking small platter. Off to Salt Pond B. Jammed with silversides, smaller unidentified baitfish, pods of worried mullet, needlefish, and — alas — precious few stripers. Jon managed a few small hickory shad, while I experienced a first: a mullet on a fly. I was fishing a team of three small bucktail baitfish patterns, ranging from two to three-and-a-half inches. Oh. I also caught weeds. Lots and lots of weeds. Dropper rigs excel at finding weeds. A 3/0 shot above the middle dropper provided a partial remedy, but I still got my limit of aquaflora.

On the way to Salt Pond C, disaster. Clumpthumplit! “What was that?” Jon asked, and immediately answered his question: he had left his rod on the roof of the car. A more fortuitous tumble might have kicked it into the breakdown lane, or even the grassy median. Positive waves were sent as Jon went off into the night to retrieve the fallen warrior. But no. DOA, including the reel. Last rites were given to both roadside, and Jon’s car, now playing the role of hearse, began the long, sorrowful journey back to Connecticut. But not without a detour. Salt Pond C still needed to be investigated. I made quick work of backing up the pool along a short channel. No fish. Several weeds. And lots of biolume.

So, it didn’t happen for us. Don’t bum out, man. Soon, those ponds will be holding.

Farmington River Report 8/18/13: Crash, Bang, Wallop

If you put in enough time, eventually you’re going to cross paths with a big fish. Yesterday was my turn.

I’m in the middle of working on a wet fly piece for American Angler, and I wanted to try to get some photos of trout-with-soft-hackle-in-mouth. Right off the the bat, I was into a good brown. Then things slowed a bit.

Conditions were perfect: 75 degrees, overcast, showers, water running at 400cfs and a cool 65 degrees. What the bugs lacked in numbers, they made up for in variety: small BWOs, light-colored caddis, midges, and a few stray Isonychia. The bird were working industriously overhead. I was fishing a team of a March Brown soft-hackle as the top dropper, a Drowned Ant soft-hackle in the middle, and a bead head Squirrel and Ginger on point.

Near the end of a mended swing, she hit the fly with untamed ferocity. I’ve encountered enough of these larger trout now that I can tell immediately there’s a big’un at the end of my wet fly leader. The surface erupts in swirling upheaval, and line is bulled from the reel. That’s the last glimpse I’ll have of the trout for a while. Bigger fish almost always go deep, and this one was no exception.

Now, I was faced with the predicament of where to land her. I was surrounded by treacherous pockets and swift currents. I had to manage both wade and battle — this was the kind of fish you really wouldn’t mind falling in for — but I finally  made it to a calmer section to claim my prize. And here she is.

What a gorgeous creature. It would have been nice to get a full-length shot, but I was flying solo, and I wanted her swimming freely in the water ASAP. A quick measurement against my rod placed her at just over 20″.  Clearly this trout could also be tallied in pounds.

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This was the kind of fish that, after you release it, compels you to sit on a rock mid-stream and contemplate your fine fortune in the scheme of the universe. So I did. And I smiled.

I took a few more fish, including one of the larger wild brookies I’ve caught on the Farmington this year, then headed to another spot. Juvenile salmon city, but at the end of the run I saw a splashy rise in the shallows. One cast, a partial swing, and whack! An eight-inch wild brown took the Squirrel and Ginger. I took a few more pictures, then headed home for dinner.

Nice work (if you can get it).

The winning fly, a Hackled March Brown. It comes from an English book published in the 1930s. Makes a fine Isonychia imitation.

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8/14/13 Farmington River Mini-Report

It was a slow day on the river for most of the anglers I spoke to. We were likely done in by the sudden shift in weather and the noon spike of the dam flow (the Upper TMA jumped from 370 to 480cfs; water was lightly stained and 65 degrees). Still, my friend Pete and his brother got into some very nice larger browns in the Upper TMA. As for your humble scribe, I had to be content with a mob of juvenile Atlantic salmon and one lonely rainbow trout. I was committed to the wet fly cause today — I just got an article assignment from American Angler on wets and was hoping to get some good fly-in-trout-mouth shots. Instead, you’ll have to settle for this simple flora-at-dusk portrait:

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