Given the cold, blustery conditions, cloud cover, and total lack of hatch activity (well, OK — I did see one tiny BWO and we witnessed one rise), Jason picked a good day to cover drop-shot nymphing under an indicator. We fished two marks within the PTMA and one below it, and fishing trout that wanted to eat was a challenge. Jason was a great student and asked plenty of questions. He’s going to do well. As always, when the nymphing is tough, you’ve got to move around, cover water, manage your drifts, and figure out where the fish are holding. Look for a reason to set the hook on every drift. Set hard, sweeping low and downstream. I can be discouraging when you’re doing everything right and have nothing to show for it. But, the generally persistent generally make out. Well done, Jason!
A bent rod and a focused angler, or: Things a guide likes to see. Things really haven’t picked up this week, but hopefully the warmer weather on Friday will give the bite a boost. I had Jason test-driving a new nymph today, and I’m happy to say that it worked.
On Sunday night I fished with surfcaster extraordinaire Toby Lapinski. We were after stripers that were after herring. I had a bump after a few casts. After a few more, I had a take with some head shaking and thrashing, and after a few seconds I had…nothing. No big deal as the fish didn’t have any size. I’d like to tell you that the night ended happily ever after, but that was it for me save a snagged herring. Toby got into a window of opportunity and connected with a few bass, landing one that was sub-slot, and one that was well over slot. Nice! I’d decided to fish elsewhere, so I missed it. Why should my spring striper luck change now? To add to my woes I stayed out way too late. Glory days are coming. But when? Yes. I know. After.
I’m guiding tomorrow, so today I bounced around the Farmington River looking for fish. I was on the water from noon to about 4pm. I hit five marks in the PTMA down to Unionville-ish and hooked up in three of them. However, it was a fish here, a fish there, and long stretches of nothing. It was hours before I saw a bug, and the bite was correspondingly slow. The cold air and rain showers and gusty wind didn’t help. I didn’t see another angler hook up all day. I saw a handful of small caddis, a few size 14 BWOs, and a couple stray Hendricksons. No risers.
Thanks to the currentseams readers who said hello today! This is good time to remind everyone to please come say hello. You’re not bothering me, and it’s good feeling to put faces and voices and smiles to names.
Today’s method was drop-shot nymphing under an indicator. I fished a BH Squirrel and Ginger size 14 on point with a size 18 Starling and Herl dropper. Every fish came on the BHS&G until the sun came out…and then it was every fish on the S&H. Droppers are a wonderful way to give the trout a choice.
A check of my records confirms it. By this date in 2018, I’d already landed a double-digit number of bass 10 pounds or greater. (And some of those were significantly greater.) This year, not so much. Not at all, really. I have yet to land a striper. I’ve only hooked one. The rest have been random nips and swipes from dinks. Where have all the big striped bass gone?
I have a couple theories. The first is that they (nor their smaller brothers and sisters) never settled into this mark for over-wintering. That explains the painfully slow fishing from January through now. The second is that absent any substantial number of over-wintering fish, there would now need to be a reason for them to be there. (Read: bait.) And the herring are in late this year. Wednesday night was the first time I saw any signs of those wonderful oily baitfish, and the stripers hadn’t yet got the memo. It’s not just my mark. I have a reliable report of another herring factory estuary that is currently infested with Alosa and there are — wait for it — zero bass on them. So we’ll wait for the next tide cycle for the chance to catch bass that can be measured in pounds.
Greased line swing fans take note: the only action I’ve had has come when I’ve been stripping the fly in at the end of the drift. Small bass will chase. Large bass won’t.
It’s been six months since I did something like this. (Insert heavy sigh here.) Photo by Toby Lapinski.
My smallmouth season doesn’t typically start until sometime in May. Not this year. Yesterday I went to explore a tributary of the Connecticut River, two marks I’d fished once, and one new one. Even though the water is fairly low, there was substantially more of it than the one time I fished it last June. The first mark gave me little current and stained water; no bites. The second held a few ginormous carp swimming around in lazy circles. Still a light stain, but more current. Easily some 20-pounders in the mix. It was at this mark that I hooked my first smallie of the year, about 13″. The last spot was not only a trying-to-catch expedition, but also to see if any fish had come up to prepare for the spawn. I know, a little early, but nature is always right on time. I didn’t see any signs of beds; I saw one smaller fish, and hooked another. I felt like that was a good way to spend two hours.
I hope you’re enjoying the weather. Me, it’s a yard work weekend. So I’ll be out, but not really enjoying it…
I fished the lower Farmington River yesterday from 12:30pm-3:30pm. I hit four marks and found stocked fish in three of them ready to jump on. I easily got into double-digit numbers, mostly rainbows with a few browns and one brookie in the mix. The method was a long leader with a jig mini-streamer. The water was cold, 49 degrees, and a great height, 540cfs. Lots of caddis and midges out, and a few stray small olives. Fish on!
Just when I was telling another angler that it was too cold for Hendricksons, look who shows up! There were a few stray bugs that came off about 3pm. This was in Canton. I only saw one rise all day, and it was to caddis.Safely removed from a tree. And I got to carry a lucky bonus dead dried worm around for the afternoon.
As tradition dictates, I went fishing on Good Friday in honor of Simon Peter, the greatest fisherman of all time. However, I mixed it up a bit. I couldn’t see driving down to the mouth of the Hous, my usual haunt, for what would very likely be casting practice (although we all could use it, right?) Even though I was tantalized by the sound of the surf and the smell of sea salt. So the decision was made: Salmon River, CT. It was an easy call when I considered that it was the day before opening day. That’s the Friday I fished with my dad and sons on that river for so many years.
I was joined by surfcaster extraordinaire Toby Lapinski. The water was on the low side of medium, 180cfs. With the warmer weather and Good Friday, the crowds were out. The FFO section was infested with anglers; the TMA section above, not as much. We fished four marks from 11:30am-2:30pm and found willing fresh stockees in all of them. Toby fished a streamer and I went with a small jig streamer on a long leader. I dead drifted, swung, stripped and jigged and caught fish all four ways. We saw caddis and midges and olives, and even a few risers. What a fantastic day!
I hooked my first trout with my streamer dangling in the current while I stripped line off the reel. Once Toby got in, it was only a matter of moments before he hooked up. How sweet to become an instant expert, if only for a few brief, shining hours. I must admit I do enjoy it in small doses.Tight lines and bent rods was the theme of the day. It was mostly rainbows, but we did encounter a couple stray browns. I was surprised by the power of some of the fish. Maybe it was the water temperature, an ideal 54 degrees. (Photo by Toby Lapinski)
Part One: Sunday. My original plan was to hit the Upper Fly Zone on the Salmon River, but after kibitzing with steelhead guide extraordinaire Row Jimmy, gears were shifted. High but falling water, some color to it — yes. The creeks. Creek A was surging along, and in addition to a moderate stain its waters carried a fair amount of leafy debris. I targeted two very likely holding areas, but over the course of an hour the only thing I could hook was the bottom. The UFZ beckoned, but its siren song was drowned out by the call of Creek B, which, as it turns out, was the right choice. Creek B was also running high, but much clearer. I was astonished to find that my secret spot was devoid of anglers. Third cast, right down the gut, the indicator dips and I’m on. I stuck the fish good, but as I’ve learned, now years into this endeavor, you can do everything right and the fish can still come off. (The reader will want to make note of this statement for later reference.) It was a fresh, gleaming bright fish, about five pounds, and it immediately skyrocketed out of the water and spit the hook. My disappointment was salved by the knowledge that there were fish here willing to eat. I ended up going 2-for-5, not a great batting average, but two of those were never really on, coming off seconds after a perceived hook set. It was good to be on the board. It was Sunday. It was sunny. I was steelheading. It felt good.
Our Lady of Blessed Blood Dot did not fail me. I set the hook so hard on this buck that I almost fell over. Being able to fish for steelhead in smaller water in relative solitude is a blessing. To show my appreciation, I made a burnt offering to the creek gods. Ok, so it was a smoldering cigar butt, and I was finished with it anyway. But it felt right.
Part Two: Monday Morning. The fishing on the Salmon River in Altmar stunk. We saw three steelhead hooked and landed. Despite the high flows (1.5K cfs) we were able to target known, proven holding areas (along with multiple other boats) and it just wasn’t happening. I’d been thinking it for a couple hours, but after we blanked in Ellis Cove, Jim suggested that we cut our losses and hit the creeks. It was 11:30am. Sold!
Part Three: Monday Afternoon. In what seemed like a flash, I was 2-for-4. The first one I stuck was a big ole’ fish that came up and planted itself in the main current. If it could think and determine a strategy — to bulldog and try to outlast me — I’d want to shake its hand or fin or however you congratulate a steelhead. Because as I steadily applied pressure to the fish, something gave and I was left wearing my leader around my body. By 1:30, Jim had to leave, so I decided to stay for a bit. I was glad I did.
Part Four: The Comedy of Battle. I was unfamiliar with much of this creek, so before Jim left I’d asked him for some advice on where to fish. One of his suggestions was a run under a dead tree whose branches extended down to just a few feet above the water. The target zone was a slot of deeper water, maybe 1 1/2 to 2 feet. This section of creek was so small that the surrounding trees and bushes would make casting difficult, to say nothing of a hook set. Landing a fish? We’ll deal with that if it comes. What’s more, its boulder and debris-strewn bottom was a snag fest, as I found out on my first few casts. But on the fourth cast, the bottom shook its head.
Steelhead on. Now what?
Twice, I whacked my rod against tree branches trying to set the hook. Things were so tight that I did my best to complete a hook set that was somewhere between a strip and a tip. The steelhead didn’t have too many places to go. Its first run was downstream. This fish had been in the creek for a while. Dark horse, spawning colors, and the biggest steelhead I’d stuck all trip. I decided the best chance of landing him was to strike fast. I spied an LZ across the creek, and charged into the river. Once I got to the shore, the steelhead had other plans. Ziiiiiiiing! Another downstream run. OK, so I gotta follow you. No, don’t swim into those submerged branches! But he did. I had to grab my line — usually the kiss of death in such matters — and free it from the snaking arms of a downed sapling, then pull the fish out of the maze of branches. Whew. Still on. I cranked the reel furiously, only to have the fish peel off another 20 feet of line. I dutifully followed it downstream, adrenaline and heart pumping. No! Not into more submerged branches! But that’s where he went. Again, I had to grab line and leader, fully aware that the tenuous connection between angler and steelhead could disappear at any moment. Again, I had to free the line from submerged branches. At one point I felt the leader go limp. But no. Salvation! Fish still on!
The last few moments were filled with exciting apprehension, if not terror. After all that went down, so many pitfalls avoided, how could I possibly lose the fish now? I eased it into the shallows. Twice, it would have nothing to do with my efforts. Keep the rod tip bent, Steven…drag just tight enough…easy. And then it was over. I made another burnt offering and decided that this was one of the best fights I’ve ever had with a steelhead. My prize earned, I slipped the fish back into the currents of its natal waters and watched it melt into the current.
It would be a good drive home.
Ooh. Ahh. Ohh. What colors! A brilliant display of nature. Well played, good sir. A valiant effort. Now, please, go make some baby steelhead.
I don’t have much to report about last night’s outing, other than I fished hard, and well, and intensely, and for those efforts I was rewarded with not…a…touch. Ye Olde Striper Spot is once again revealing its pattern. Either: there are no fish there yet. They never set up for the winter (this was my third blank in three trips since January), the herring aren’t yet in, so I’d be foolish to go back tonight. Or: fish congregate in this spot during the winter because it’s a good ambush point, there’s some bait, current, and deep water nearby. Sadly, it’s been all Option A. So, we’ll stay home tonight and hope for the best during the next tide cycle as I really don’t need to be climbing into bed at 3am for casting and mending practice.
I haven’t had an Arturo Fuente Canones in years, so I jumped on this one when I saw it. It was the highlight of the evening. A very pleasing, long-lasting double corona. (That’s a Rock Island flatwing for those who are interested.) Now, where dem strip-ed bass at?
I can’t remember the last time I had two consecutive blanks on the river. But there we are. To be fair, I only fished a couple hours on Tuesday, but yesterday I put in a full half day in five locations for not…a…touch. This was my first time to the Farmington since January. Tuesday was sunny and breezy and chilly. I’d planned on hitting the lower river, but settled for a few miles below the PTMA. Still, the water was about 800cfs. BWOs #20 flitting about. Headed up to hobnob with my friends at UpCountry, then with Sal at Legend’s, and then I re-hit the water. Observed airborne: tiny olives, small tan caddis, and early black stones #14. At my third mark, I stuck a fish, but it quickly became unbuttoned — we’re talking about two seconds of head shakes — which was too bad because it didn’t feel small. And that was it.
I should mention that over the two days, I was dedicated to the nymphing cause. I thought Thursday would be better with the warmer air and damp conditions — the olives loved it — but the Still River bumped up and we had over 600cfs in the PTMA. I nymphed the snot out of three marks, then hit two above the PTMA. Zero. Zip. Zelch. It wasn’t just me. Over the course of the two days, I saw one trout hooked among about a dozen anglers over six hours. In hindsight, I probably should have thrown streamers.
Fellow lefty Paul being bold and daring swinging wets in March. He was so kind and willing to share water, and I thank him for his giving spirit and positive energy. He even let me nymph the deep slot in front of him. Neither of us could believe that I blanked.
But what I really wanted to talk about are the new things I tried. I started with a different butt section for my indicator nymph rig. It’s 6′ long, and I flip-flopped the yellow sighter section with the clear section, making the sighter the bottom of two halves. I didn’t like it, so I’ll go back to my original configuration. (On a side note, everyone sees differently, and the yellow really pops to my eyes. Make sure you can see your sighter!)
The next thing I tried was a three-fly team for nymphing. I’d only done it once before, way out west on the South Platte, but the more I thought about it, the more it makes sense. I kept the bottom two patterns fairly close — about 16″ apart. The top dropper was a soft hackle. Obviously, this setup needs far more field testing with some willing subjects. It goes without saying that good casting form and minimal false casting is paramount to prevent tangles (which you will get).
And finally, I played around with some new flies — that early black stone I posted on Instagram, and a slightly larger version of Pat Torrey’s Little BWO. Once again, more field testing required.
Benjamin Franklin is famous for declaring the absolute certainty of death and taxes. I’d like to offer me with crappy weather for steelheading. It seems that no matter which days I choose months in advance, the conditions will suck.
I submit to the group this Tuesday and Wednesday. There are decent numbers of fish in the upper Salmon river, and the fly zones are absolutely polluted with steelhead. The bite has been, at worst, average. So what did we do? Dialed up a cold front and snow and wind for our two days. Thus endeth the bite.
There is a Christian tenet that says, “This is the day that the Lord has made. Let us rejoice in it and be glad.” Whatever religion you follow (or don’t) it’s good advice, especially if you’re a can-do kind of angler. There’s nothing we could do about the weather, so better be prepared for it, and be ready to adapt to conditions. I must confess, however, that I was not this happy by the end of the day. Thus endeth the lesson. (Photo by Gordon Culton)Yes, that’s wet snow blowing sideways across my jacket. After blanking for most of the morning, I stuck this fish in a soft water seam several hundred yards below the Altmar bridge. In fact, I set the hook so hard that I fell over into Gordo’s lap. Poor Gordo! He hooked and dropped a fish in some faster water just above this mark, and that was his only touch of the day. But he stuck it out and never complained. About a half hour after I landed this hen, I also dropped a fish in the same place where Gordo had lost his. Like son, like father?Both of my hookups came on size 12 Blood Dot eggs. If you don’t know that pattern, you should. (Photo by James Kirtland)We were so miserably cold on Tuesday that we called it around 2pm. Given the slow action, it was decided that if there was any open water in the LFZ on Wednesday AM before launch, I’d give it a few drifts. I don’t normally say exactly where I fish, but the mark opposite the boat launch is no secret, and it’s typically loaded with fish. As there was only one angler there, I waded in. Now, I’ve never fished this mark before, and it didn’t take me long to realize that I’d made a classic rookie mistake of wading too far into the river, too close to where I should drift. Once I adjusted my position, I started hooking up along the soft water edge. The problem was, the fish weren’t eating. I fouled four fish here, one in the tail (“Northbound train hooked on the southern end,” cracked Jim) and one on the dorsal. I didn’t see the third, and the fourth left me a souvenir of a scale. I really don’t like fouling fish — others where having the same experience — and I wanted to get Gordo fishing, so we buttoned up and began our float. (A fond note to Tom who was fishing above me, and was courteous and friendly and matey, and a boo-hiss to the churls below me who waded right where I was drifting, then couldn’t be bothered to move when anyone who hooked up above them had a fish roar down to their position. This is the dark side of crowded water, and it remains astonishing how rude some people can be.) (Photo by James Kirtland)Gordo had another rough day. He drifted an egg bag over a run with no love. Then I stepped up to bat and hooked up on my first cast with a Copperhead Stone. I stuck the fish good (I was really happy with my hookset speed, power, and direction on this trip) but it came off. A couple hours later, skippy here put a smile on my face in a fast-moving shallow glide/riffle. And that was it. Two-for-four for me on the trip, which isn’t a bad batting average, but I’d sure liked to have had more opportunities. I shouldn’t complain — Gordo executed dozens and dozens of quality drifts and had nothing to show for it. I’m proud of him for his perseverance.
I just got back form two days of spring — uh, make that winter’s resurgence — steelheading on the world-famous Salmon River in Pulaski. The weather was dreadful and so was the bite. More on that tomorrow. But for now, I’ll give you an image that perfectly sums up our Tuesday. As for the striper report, I went Sunday night for 90 minutes to Ye Olde Top Secret Striper Spot and am excited to report…not…a…touch. So it goes…
This photo needs no caption. Bonus points if you know the mark. Courtesy of Row Jimmy Guide Service.
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