The book tour continues! Great turnout Tuesday night at the Crossroads Anglers in Foxboro, MA. They understand that a fed presenter is a happy presenter, so my pork dumplings and ghost pepper American cheese burger with fries, all washed down with a tasty IPA draft, was both delicious and much appreciated. We had a semi-lengthy (always a good thing!) post-talk Q&A session, which is my favorite part of presenting. I thank them for their hospitality and their enthusiasm.
Yesterday I decided to play hooky. Since I hadn’t yet done my annual fall Housy streamer outing, that was the call. The sun was welcome for feeling good, but not so much for fishing; and the wind was challenge in terms of casting and the volume of dead leaves it put in the water. Holy crowds, Batman! I counted eight anglers during my day, which is about six more than I would expect to see this time of year. So: water level excellent, leaves a problem. I fished seven marks and had bumps in only two of them, with one spirited rainbow to net. I spoke with several anglers who said they’d blanked; only one said he’d landed a trout. Hatch activity was basically non-existent; I think I saw three insects all day that weren’t midges. Oh. Yes. I also fell in. Completely soaked from the waist down. That wasn’t my favorite moment of the day.
The soft-hackled Mickey Finn is an oldie but a goody. (Speaking of old, this photo might be ten years old.) I started fishing a soft-hackled Black Ghost, but lost it at the second mark to a streamside tree. My action came on the SHMF, which has been a good producer on this river over the years. I was mystified by the lack of action, though. That’s why they call it fishing, and all that…
Last week I snuck out for a few hours on a local small stream. The water was medium-low, crystal clear, and the fact that the sun was out meant the locals were on high alert. Holy sandbars! The bottom structure of this stream had shifted quite a bit over the summer. In some sections, it felt like I was in brand new water. I fished a bushy dry (AFR Humpulator) and a BHPT dropper, and pricked four on the dry and two on the nymph. At the end, I switched to the Jiggy Squirmy Thingy and had a few small guys bull-rush the fly, but no char were brought to hand.
On Thursday, I guided Tim for a subsurface lesson. Like the small stream, the Farmington was low and clear, but plenty cold. We fished the mid and lower river sections. Mid-river was nymphing, and I was astonished that we didn’t even get a touch. What?!? We headed downstream to try our hand at wet flies, and we managed to stick three fish, although all of them became unbuttoned. Like many new to wet fly fishing, Tim needed to wait on the hookset after the hit. You feel the hit, and you want to set, but if you do, you’ll pull the hook right out of the fish’s mouth. You feel the strike, pause, asking, “Are you still there?” And if you do, the fish will always answer yes, having hooked himself neatly in the corner of his mouth. We will absolutely get them next time, Tim. A pleasure fishing with you, sir. Oh — we had hatches. Caddisflies and tiny BWOs and especially Isonychia. I love Isos.
If you own my book, Fly Fishing Guide to the Farmington River, then you’ve seen this photo. I love swinging wets for Isos, and I’ve done very well with my Iso Soft Hackle pattern.
Finally, all this rain. It really depends on where you live — we got pounded in Durham on Saturday, while the rain barely made a dent in the Farmington flows. Today, the storm is finally manifesting — the Unionville gauge has jumped from 230cfs to 540 — but I expect the river will clear up quickly.
This can be a challenging time of year to fish the Farmington, but I arrived on the river with a plan: swing wets in snotty, treacherous pocket water, then find a dry fly spot for the evening rise. The water bump from the dam, which put the flow in the PTMA at around 290cfs, was a welcome enhancement. (I got 54 degrees just above the PTMA at 6pm, which is wheelhouse water for trout.)
I was wading and swinging a team of three (Drowned Ant on top, LaFontaine’s Diving Caddis in the middle, my Iso Soft Hackle on point) by around 5pm. After a slow start, I connected with what would be the first of 6 trout on the wets — 5 of those fish were wild browns. And 5 of the 6 fish took the Iso soft hackle. While I didn’t see a single Isonychia flitting about — I’d rate the overall hatch activity on this evening a 2/10 — this underscores the importance of that bug as a food source for trout. Every year, some of the biggest fish I hook on a wet fly come in August on the Iso.
I’d already locked into a mid-teens wild brown when a big old buck ate the fly. Prior to this hookup, every take had come on the dangle. This one was on the dead drift, close enough to the surface for me to see the take. Three times the fish bulldogged its way upstream, twice, he seemed ready for the net, only to bolt. Between the speed of the current and the size of the fish, my forearm was on fire. I carefully walked downstream to a more favorable LZ. Finally, to the net.
Best trout of the year. No wonder this guy looks so excited!
The dry fly action from 7:30pm to 9pm was rather disappointing, having nothing to do with already landing such a fantastic fish. I found one fish working a foam line, but he was small, and though I rose him 4 times on three different patterns, there was no hookset. Finally, on the walk out in the fog, I spied a sipper that ended up clobbering my size 12 Catskills-style Light Cahill.
My victory cigar was one that I truly relished.
This is fly, minus the bead. This time of year, in lower light situations and moderate flows, there’s a good chance the fish will be looking up.
Let’s clarify: too much rain is harmful, even dangerous. But that’s not what we’re talking about today. We’re talking about a parched state that was experiencing some form of drought for several weeks. Then the rains came. From the July 4th weather brawl through yesterday, the skies were open for a much-needed watering.
At first, even though the rainfall could be measured in inches, there was no visible impact to our two major fly fishing rivers, the Farmington and the Housatonic. Two factors were in play: the ground was a dry sponge, and the trees and vegetation were in full leaf, meaning you had millions of thirsty plants. But eventually, the rivers got their share. The Hous has yet to spike, rising more than double its 350cfs pre-rain mark. The Farmington experience was more of an exercise in moderation. The Unionville gauge merely doubled from 250. The Still River, which meets the Farmington below Riverton, experienced a huge percentile flow boost. However, it was only coming in at a paltry 15cfs, and its spike didn’t even reach 200cfs.
We desperately needed this rain, and I’m thankful for it. But not just from a systemic ecological point-of-view.
Not that dramatic. Nonetheless, much needed and appreciated.
You see, I’m a total weather and stream flow nerd. I watch the River Data app like a hawk. (If you don’t have this app, get it. River Data provides on-demand access to cfs in select rivers throughout the US, and you can bookmark your favorite watersheds for fast reference.) Throughout the season, I eagerly anticipate rain events that will spike rivers — not too high, not too low. I’m looking for elevated river flows that introduce some amount of color to the water — not chocolate milk, but more like tea. This is when you can experience some of the best nymphing, and especially streamer action of the season. What’s more, water spikes shuffle the deck, move fish around, and provide a respite from warmer water temperatures.
You don’t need to wade very far from the shore. (In extreme cases, that may not be possible. Rules of thumb: never wade in water where you can’t see the bottom; never wade in water that you’re not very familiar with; never wade without a staff and spiked boots; never wade alone.) The fish, like you, aren’t interested in battling swift or raging currents. They’re close to shore, in pockets, behind structure, seeking the most moderate flows that will provide cover and food. In particular, I like to fish streamers in these conditions because the news gets even better: cfs and color spikes are when the big boys come out to play. These are often your best periods to up your chances of catching big fish, and sometimes multiple big fish. I like bigger flies, flies that create a commotion, and I will use both bright and dark colors, usually with equal success.
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.
