Salmon River Connecticut « currentseams.com

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)*

Game One: Team Cohiba Rides Again

Back when we used to get up early and go on Opening Day proper — we’re talking decades worth or fishing here — there was a guy who would always fish the same pool on the Salmon River as my father and I. Because of our omnipresent cigars, he dubbed us “Team Cohiba.” A few years back, dad and I had an epiphany. Why get up at 4am and battle crowds and cold if we’re going to release the fish anyway? Thus was born the new Culton tradition of fishing the Friday before Opening Day. We start at the rather civilized hour of 10am. Cigars will be lit. Trout are plentiful. Yahoos are few and far between.

I’ve been fishing with dad now on the the third Saturday in April — or the Friday before — every year since 1971. Okay. There was that one time in the 80s when he had to go to a wedding and I flew solo, but other than that it’s been a tradition as reliable as the firmness of the earth. And so we went forth on the 18th of April to match wits (or lack thereof) with dumb hatchery trout.

Me and he who taught me. His name is Paul Culton, and I watched him like a hawk when I was a kid because some day I wanted to be as good an angler as he was. Thanks for taking me fishing, dad.

The Salmon was down to 490cfs, a good height after all of last week’s rain, running cold at 44 degrees. Some years we get a good caddis hatch. On this day it was a few measly midges. The Woolly Bugger hatch was outstanding, though, and browns, rainbows, and even a tiger trout found my olive and white offerings to their liking.

Game Two: You can’t catch stripers on the surface in 44 degree water (except when you can).

Traditionalist. Creature of habit. Call me what you will, but I’ve been going striper fishing on Good Friday for years. What better way to honor Simon Peter, who, as you may know, was a professional angler before he became a Saint.

Today, the answer was yes. I expected the water to be high and a little off-color, so I tied up an opaque (by my standards) fly made of fluorescent white, fluorescent yellow, fluorescent chartreuse, and light blue bucktail, along with a chartreuse marabou collar. Think the stripers will be able to see that? Saints be praised, they attacked it with gusto. The fishing was so good, I decided to tap into my inner iconoclast. If I can catch a bazillion dumb schoolies on a floating line with a four-foot sinking T-11 sinking head, why can’t I catch them on the surface? Water only twelve degrees above freezing? Hah! Off came the T-11 head. On went the white Gurlger. Second cast, a spirited follow. Third cast, BAM!

I took over a dozen fish on the Gurgler, and had dozens more cartwheel hysterically at the fly. We soon discovered that simply dapping a standard-issue bucktail on the surface 20 feet in front of you was enough to draw follows, boils, and strikes. As they say in the UK, tremendous sport.

The last fish of the day came on the Gurlger. I was cold. I was tired. I had striper thumb. But I fished with my dad, reconnected with some old friends, and had more fun that any guy wearing baggy waterproof pants has a right to.

It was a good, Good Friday.