This is a late report from last week, but it’s a report that I think is worthy of your attention. I fished the evening (virtually non-existent) rise with surfcaster extraordinaire Toby Lapinski at popular dry fly mark within the PTMA. We fished from 4:30pm-9pm. When we arrived, I was delighted to see that there were no other cars in the small dirt parting area; in hindsight, I wonder if it was because everyone else knew something I didn’t.
Here’s the bottom line: the sulphur hatch stunk like a salt marsh at low tide. I’d give it a 1 out of 10. So, that was disappointing. What was even more disappointing was the lack of fish over 8″ long. What was rising was, by and large, small wild fish, mostly brookies, with a few browns in the mix. Now, this could also be considered good news. In fact, I’ve never run into such a substantial pod of wild brook trout on the Farmington. Between us, we easily landed a dozen of them. Once, at dusk, I hooked one, and as it sped into the shallows in a desperate attempt to get free, a larger brown charged out of its hole in hot pursuit. I could see the bulge in the water as the predator neared its target; unfortunately at the last moment, the hunt was aborted. But that was cool to witness, and I wish you could have been there to see it, too!
We only put one decent fish in the hoop, this some-teen wild brown by Toby. It had three bird wounds; you can see one of them on the midway point of the fish’s flank.
I’ve been so busy in the yard this spring that I haven’t been able to get out to the Farmington as much as I’d like. But the rest of the summer is still ahead, in all its lazy, hazy, crazy glory.
I had a really weird session on the Farmington last Thursday. Despite a robust sulphur emergence — 8.5/10 — the wet fly bite stunk. Turns out it was due to a lack of fish. By my best estimate, this long time favorite pool was holding about 1/4 of the normal trout biomass. I had duns in the air, on the water, cripples galore, then mats of spinners. Instead of a boiling surface, I had….a rise here….and there… and then nothing…and then a lonely rise. It was incredibly discouraging. The feeding was over by 8:45pm, unheard of in these parts. I’m usually picking my way out of the river well after 9pm, crouched over, casting to trout sipping spinners. Not on this night.
On the plus side, I met some very nice anglers, and we shared the water with a most civil energy. Joe was trying to fool this wild brown, but just wasn’t able to connect. When he left, he offered me his spot. Second cast, bang! About 16″. Taken on a size 14 classic Catskills Light Cahill dry.
We are in prime sulphur time, which means you should have some soft hackles in your box. Here’s why:
Sulfurs take a good, long time to emerge from their shucks — and then sometimes, not at all. The trout get a good, long look at the food source as it drifts near the film. I fished this invaria cripple out of the water, and it was one of hundreds that never made it out of its nymphal case. Wet flies and soft hackles are a perfect match and method for this situation, as are dry fly cripple patterns.
I’m going to be writing an article for an upcoming issue of Surfcasters’ Journal. The subject will be the importance (or unimportance) of color in fly patterns. To the keyboard I go!
Finally, I hope to get on my horse and get some info out to everyone who requested a signed copy of the book. I’d like to do that by the end of the month. So stay tuned!
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.
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.
Happy Tuesday. I’m sure we’re all chuffed that it’s April, with winter (despite subfreezing temps tonight) in the rearview mirror. The glorious promise of a new season is spread before us like an all-you-can-eat buffet. Since I haven’t written anything instructional in a while, here are some considerations for April fly fishing in the northeast, submitted for your approval.
A handsome April rainbow, taken on a mini-jig streamer. Run silent, run deep.Photo by Toby Lapinski
Be prepared to go deep. The water is still plenty cold, and will be even on the warmest, sunniest April day. It may also be high. Which means that unless the trout have a reason to be active surface feeders, dries will be challenging. Your highest percentage plays are going to be dead-drifted nymphs and jig or traditional streamers, dead drifted, swung, or stripped.
The fish aren’t spread out. Generally speaking, the fish aren’t everywhere; rather, they will pod up. So where you catch one, you’ll likely catch another. An exception would be large, alpha wild browns. Look for them in the prime lies at the heads of pools, dump-ins, and even some whitewater.
Pick and choose your dry fly days. Just because it’s warm and sunny doesn’t mean the fish will be feeding on the surface. Rather, look for specific hatches and hatch windows. Hendricksons, caddis, and BWOs will all be hatching and, in the case of the mayflies, spinning and falling. If you must prospect with a dry, a nymph or wet fly dropper is almost never a bad idea this time of year. Of course, if there is hatch and feeding activity, rock on.
Don’t poo-poo junk flies. High water, off-color water, stupid stockers — these are all compelling reasons to fish Squirmy Works, Mops, and other ghastly creations.
Be (ware/aware) of shadow hatches. I write about this in greater detail in the book. Just because the Hendrickson are hatching doesn’t mean that the trout are eating Hendricksons. Know everything that is likely to be a food source and you’ll catch more fish.
Be courteous to other anglers. It can get crowded out there. Try to share the water when possible. Ask if you can fish near someone. Good fishing karma comes to those who are polite. And in a matter of weeks, the crowds will begin to thin out.
May comes next. Another topic that’s covered in the book. You think it’s going to be high 70s and sunny, and all too often it’s 50s and cloudy and windy. May is caddis month. So get those boxes filled on your April off days.
Is this a great time of year to be a fly fisher, or what?
A little random potpourri day on currentseams. I had written a post similar to this one, which was supposed to go live on Tuesday, but somehow WordPress ate my draft (don’t you just love when technology fails?). So here we are.
I received about two dozen requests for personalized copies of the book through me, and that’s enough for me to proceed. My next steps are to figure out how much all this will cost me (mailers, postage — probably media mail) so I can then pass the cost along to you. (How’s that for transparent business practice?) I’m hoping to have that information out by the end of the month, and if you want a signed copy from me, you still have plenty of time to let me know. I won’t ask for money until I get all those ducks in a row, and hopefully I can get books out to you before the official release day of August 4.
Fishing time has been scarce for me this spring, especially on the striper front. I didn’t go once from January through March. Normally, I’d go at least once a month in January and February. But every time I had a time and tide window, it was either sub-freezing cold front misery or a disgustingly high water. I’m really looking forward to being able to swing some flatwings in April. If the elements allow!
March can be a productive big-bass-on-the-fly-from-shore window. Not this year. At least, not for me.
On our local trout waters, it’s a tricky time of year. You basically have two options: targeting stocked trout or targeting wild and holdover trout. I must confess that playing the stocker game is fun for a while; however, I have a limited interest for that. Wild or stocked, the trout will tend to remain stacked up this time of year, even though it’s beginning to warm up and we’re seeing more bug activity. They’ll begin to spread out sometime in April. Bug-wise, think little dark stone flies and midges and caddis, which are plentiful food supplies. Of course, the Hendricksons will be the first big glamour hatch of the year, starting on the lower Farmington in about two weeks. But after last year‘s disappointing showing, that hatch remains a big question mark. We shall see.
Mrs. H, missing the middle fork of her tail.
I did get out to a small stream last week after the rains, but the water was high and cold. There were no bugs and the air temp in the 30s didn’t help. I went out this week in much warmer temperatures and a little bit lower water, and what a difference a week made. But I’ll give you more on that in a post next week.
As a newly minted member of the Regal Vise Pro-Staff, I’m working on a wet fly piece for their website (which is currently under reconstruction). I have no idea when it will post but I’ll let you know. Also look for a future blog post for me on the J. Stockard website, where I’m also a Pro Tyer.
Finally, many thanks to the Yale Fishing Club for hosting me on Tuesday night. It’s always a good time, and I’m a sucker for New Haven style pizza — well done, group! They’re going to fish the Salmon River in New York in a couple weeks, so we tied up some Blood Dot eggs which will serve them well.
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.
I don’t mean to sound greedy. But after potting 23 steelhead and breaking 300 on Tuesday, all I could think about was landing more.
Fair enough, but things don’t always work out the way you hope they would. How many times have you planned a fishing trip, only to see Mother Nature and the elements conspire to crush your dreams with cruel indifference? We were supposed to get 3-5 inched of snow overnight, which would mean slush-filled creeks for most of the morning. And with temperatures predicted in the upper 30s/low 40s, melting would follow, then runoff. I didn’t have a good feeling.
But forecasts change, weather people are notoriously often not right, and we got only an inch of snow, if that. We were so optimistic, we started the day an hour earlier than yesterday. There was a little slush in the system, but far less than the day before, and it was all gone within an hour. Best of all: no one was out fishing. We saw three other anglers all day, and then only for a couple hours. That meant I could bounce around the creek and fish wherever my little heart desired. (My phone later told me that I’d walked and waded nearly 3 miles).
The suckers are in! Or singular, if you like, as this was the only one I found over two days. It was a little early to be matching the hatch with sucker spawn or Crystal Meths, although the patterns absolutely work any time during the season.Despite the lamprey scar, a breathtakingly beautiful fish. The water was still barely above freezing, but on this day the steelhead had a lot more fight in them. We worked upstream, targeting likely holding areas, concentrating on the ones that held fish and presenting flies until the bite stopped. I went from one landed to a half dozen, and then a dozen by about 1pm. It was already a fantastic day.One tank of a hen steelhead. While there were several good battles, I had three over the course of the day that truly tested my landing skills. I really wanted to land this fish, as she kept bulldogging me and running and refusing to come civilly. By early afternoon, a front began moving through; it got gusty and noticeably colder, and while it didn’t shut down the bite, it definitely tapped the brakes. The water began to take on color. And then, there were no more eats. It was time for lunch and another section of river.As you can see, the final section of river had a tea-with-a-few-drops-of-milk opacity. My batting average was not the best in this last mark, as I went 2-for-5. But I have no right to kvetch. The hump day total was 17 steelhead in the hoop, giving me 40 for the two-day trip. Did this really happen? Wasn’t I trapped by hundreds of feet of deep, wet snow a few days before? Weren’t conditions supposed to be entirely unfavorable? This is the argument for, “You don’t know if you don’t go” — and this is steelhead number 322.
currentseams.com 