I don’t think I used the five weight once last spring. Must remedy that. I knew I’d be unable to sleep after my hockey game, so at 10pm I ventured forth into the sultry darkness with a new Rio Outbound 9 weight floating line on the reel and a Crazy Menhaden flatwing to tempt Miss Piggy. I tend to want to get my money’s worth from a line, so I had forgotten how good a new one feels in the hand. The five weight did not disappoint, and conditions were perfect for casting and mending a large fly in the current. Sadly, no bass, no bait. The Meatballs were out in force, though, proudly displaying their coordinates to the world (and perhaps some low flying aircraft) with their headlamps. I must confess to having a smug sense of satisfaction when they left fishless. As did I after two hours of fighting the good fight.
Tag Archives: Steve Culton
Farmington River Report 5/8/15: We’ll take six
Jefferson took my Wet Flies 101 class today, and he chose a helluva fine day to be out fishing. Sunny, warm, good flows (264cfs, 52 degrees)…and anglers. Lots and lots of anglers. Everywhere. (I didn’t know you could fit that many cars into the Woodshop dirt lot. Whoa! Is that Church Pool or the Wire Hole in Pulaski?) Still, we managed to find some water to call our own not once, but three times around the upper TMA.
Jefferson did a splendid job with his team of three wets. Here he’s making that critical first mend after his cast. And yes, the weather and the river were indeed as clear and lovely as they look.
To the fishing. I have been hearing a lot of reports of strong hatch activity with no fish rising to the bugs. That was our experience today. Spot A was heavy with midges, moderate with caddis, but very little surface activity. What risers we saw never got into any feeding rhythm; it was all rather haphazard. Jefferson still managed to stick four trout, which was four more than I saw anyone else hook. Spot B was largely devoid of hatch activity, except when the sun hid behind the clouds and we had a micro hatch of size 14-16 BWOs. Two fish on at Spot B. Spot C was the scene of a strong Hendrickson hatch (2:00pm-2:30pm) with one lonely trout making a few furtive slashes. He proved most uncooperative. But, we know where he lives. Thanks again to Jefferson for a fun day.
Mr. H stops by to say hello.
My best catch ever
You’ll find this pillow on the couch in the TV room. I cannot vouch for the great fisherman part. But I can tell you with absolute certainty that I married very, very well. I really did. We’re celebrating our fourteenth anniversary today.
Farmington River Report 5/4/15: In we go
Today was a rather nice day to fall into the river. A missed step. The current pushes you in directions you wish it wouldn’t. Balance is nearly recovered, then lost. Set on your ass, you feel that first shocking trickle that says the top of your waders have been breached. Standing up only makes it worse, because what was up now rushes down, and if you’ve worn old-school cotton/poly sweatpants instead of straight synthetics, the fabric acts like a giant cold water-eating sponge. Yes. From your waist down to your toes. And in front with the junk.
And that’s how I found myself kneeling on the banks of the Farmington River with my waders bunched around my ankles, backside pointing toward the heavens, hoping the the sun and the wind could do their thing right quick.
But, enough of my bathing habits. You will want to know about the fishing.
Aware of the sure thing that is the recently stocked upper TMA had me in a contrary, adventurous mood. Let’s see what parts elsewhere bring. Spot A was a bust. Nymphed. Not a touch. But I’ve never done well there, so perhaps disappointment is my lot. Plenty of bugs out. And a few Hendricksons at 11:30am.
Spot B was where I went for a swim. It’s also where I caught three trout on wet flies, all bruiser rainbows who declared in no uncertain terms that my intentions of landing them would be met with fierce combat. The genetic trait that compels them to leap is a marvel of nature. Steelhead in Connecticut, albeit on a miniature scale.
We could always call them “pearlescent trout.”
Spot C was a bust, despite a solid Hendrickson hatch. No trout on all those mayflies? Really? Yes, so it would seem. Hard to believe. But I know when I’m beaten, so off I went to greener pastures.
Spot D. Many more of those H-bombs. Clusters of them blowing in the wind. And a few slashing risers that…I could not catch. I think that’s a first for me on this river (swinging wets over trout feeding on Hendricksons and not even getting a courtesy swipe). Finally, some love from a rather large juvenile Atlantic salmon.
I wish I could say I know for sure why there was so little activity on so many bugs. But I can’t. Good thing, though, because that means I need to perform some more intensive research. And soon.
It felt good to be fishing on the warmest day of the year. Even the wild flowers were glowing.
The weirdness that is this year’s striper spring continues
I remember that Saturday afternoon like it was yesterday. About nine years ago. Bright sunshine, the middle of the afternoon, and we took striper after after striper on the fly. I can still see the gentleman who was fishing above me, how he so gracefully yet purposefully stripped in each bass he’d hooked. He’d recast, strip, and then he was on again. The only reason I left that day was because I promised my wife I’d be home in a few hours to spell her (we had two very young kids at the time). My friends who stuck out the tide each had a triple-digit day.
Well, that was then. This is now. Same spot. Same tide. Roughly the same kind of day. And I felt fortunate to get three dinks in the last hour of the tide. (These were river fish, as evidenced by their darker above-the-lateral line coloration.)
I’m fine that I haven’t yet experienced the Bass-O-Matic this year. Really, I am. It’s fascinating how every year is different. I know I’m going to have one of those world-of-hurt striper thumbs sooner or later.
So whoever is in charge of these things, if you’d like to make it sooner, I’d be totally cool with that. Or a thirty-pounder. Or a kick ass summer on Block Island. Whatever you think is best.
In the meantime, I’m going trout fishing.
When nature calls, a clamshell makes a fine ash ray for your Aging Room Quattro F55.
Farmington River Mini Report 4/30/15: A good day for wets
My best guess is that everyone looked at the five day forecast and decided that yesterday would be ideal for playing hooky. How else to explain the dramatic reduction in angler traffic today? Not that I’m complaining. I bounced around to several spots on the upper TMA, and fished all by myself for two glorious hours.
Conditions: Cooler than yesterday, mix of sun and clouds, chilly breeze (dammit, I left my fleece vest in the truck). Water 425cfs, 48 degrees, crystal clear. Not nearly as many caddis as yesterday, and that resulted in no takes on the Squirrel and Ginger. Size 12 SHBHPT was the runaway favorite fly. Plenty of midges, and some size 16-18 BWOs. No H bugs. Saw only one rise (as opposed to dozens yesterday).
Yes, dear, you have something on your lip. Hold still and I’ll take it out.
How I fished: three fly team of wets, two size 12 S&Gs and the pictured BHSHPT. The bead was copper tungsten. Mostly casting down and across, but I did some upstream and short-line deep presentations. I caught them on the swing, the mended swing, the dangle, and the short-line deep. A fair mix of standard-issue and Survivor Strain stockees. I stopped counting after a dozen. I say this not to brag (if you were there you would have likewise caught a multitude) but rather to illustrate how good the fishing was on the wet. If Woody Allen fished, he might have said, “80% of success is just showing up…with wet flies..after they’ve stocked the upper TMA.”
“Tell me, Two Caddis Humping, why do you ask?”
Lessons re-learned: If there’s a sudden pause in what has been fairly constant action, check your three-fly rig for tangles. Yep, that’s not helping. Make sure the line lays out flat on the cast. The wind will screw you every chance it gets. If you’re fishing wets, let the new standard-issue stockees take the fly before you set the hook. If you try to set on the bump/tap, you’ll miss the fish. Let them hook themselves. The Survivor Strain and holdover/wild fish will simply clobber the fly. Bless them. Expect a good fight. Some of the new SS fish are shaped like a rugby ball.
The obesity crisis in Survivor Strain browns. For newly stocked fish, they sure can swim. This one had to be coerced into the net.
Farmington River Mini-Report 4/29/14: The C Word
Everyone wants to know, “When will the Hendricksons be here?” It’s a fair question, but there’s another hatch that happens around now that doesn’t get much juice: tan caddis. I love fishing under that hatch, and today’s glorious weather made it even more enjoyable. The caddis were out in good numbers (as were anglers), with a fair amount of trout feeding on them (the caddis, not the anglers). I fished the upper and lower TMAs and by far my best action was in the upper. Part of this was due to some recently stocked fish; the caddis hatch also worked in my favor. Not much going in in the way of hatch activity for points south. Most of the trout I caught today were recent wards of the state, but I did get one wild brown and a fat 17″ holdover hen, with a head that was dwarfed by her prodigious girth. Wow, did she ever clobber my Squirrel and Ginger on the dangle. That was par for the course today: the stockees were all nip, nip, nip, and the old hands were take-no-prisoners-I’m-gonna-murder-that-fly. Water was at a good height in the upper TMA (433 cfs), and clear (sorry, no temperature, but it felt bracingly cold).
I want to go back. Now.
This 17″ chubbette picked out the Squirrel and Ginger from a team of three different wet flies.
Curl up baby. Curl up tight.
Back to the night shift. Dozing on the couch at 10:45, taking care to not really fall asleep because the bus is leaving at 11:30. On the road, JR Cuban Alternate Cohiba Esplendido ceremoniously lit at the appropriate landmark. Now past midnight, and it’s raining. Maybe it will keep the yahoos away. Only a few cars in the lot. That’s good. The weather people said showers, but this is more like a fine mist. Three other guys out fishing, more than I expected, but better than Monday’s daytime lineup. There are fish around — the spin guy to my left just hooked up. Now it’s really raining. I didn’t order this wetness. Everyone is leaving, and I’m all by myself. Thirty minutes in. The rain stops. A few stars try to wink through the parting clouds. There it is, a sharp pull at the end of the greased line swing. My first keeper of the year? No way. It feels like a short. And it is. Not why I came out tonight, but the stink is off. Working the stretch of water down, then backing up the pool, even though there is no true pool to be backed up. Over an hour of meditative casting, mending, swinging, repeating. Alone. Magnificently alone. Let’s try up there. I haven’t caught a striper up there in a long time. The answer is no. Until the answer is yes. A better fish, struck on the second mend, but still a short. I can see Scorpio and the Summer Triangle and it makes me dream of being out alone on Block Island in July. There’ll be some keepers there for sure. There probably are a few here, but not for me or my Crazy Menhaden. Perhaps when next I return. Big girls. Ready to eat.
Undercover of the night.
That’s AM, people. Very AM.
2015: A Striper Oddity
I never thought I’d be so excited about catching four school bass. But after this crazy spring, yowzah, woo-hoo, awwwright, yessiree Bob, good golly Miss Molly, I am all fired up.
Ahem.
Now that cooler heads have prevailed, I want to tell you about my funny faux pas today at Ye Olde Striper Spot. The wind was gusting out of the NNW, 10-20 easy, and the cloud structure was breathtaking. When I waded in, I was the fifth guy at the end of the line. We were all pretty evenly (and courteously) spaced. After an hour or so, our ranks had swollen to nearly ten. Some people were catching, others were not. I turned to look behind me and I noticed that the angler above me had closed the gap to about 30 feet. He hailed me. “Do you mind if I ask you something?” I thought I was going to get a question about the two hander, or the floating line, or what color fly I was using. No. “Can you stand back a bit? You’ve moved quite a ways toward me.”
Well, to clean up Jack Nicholson’s line from “A Few Good Men,” didn’t I feel like a freakin’ butt hole.
Sincere apologies were offered, as was a fly. I appreciated his politeness and understanding. We talked about fishing for a few minutes. Then, fences mended, we returned to our precious avocation on this strange grey-green-blue windy day.
Monday’s implements of destruction, drying for the next session. Water temp was 50 degrees.
Skunk cabbage, brookies, and…snow?
Just when you you thought it was OK to go outside without a jacket, Mother Nature throws a day like today at you. Well, I had my heavy fleece on when I stepped into the woods and headed toward yon brook trout stream. But snow? Geez, I knew it was cold (41 degree air temp at 9:30am). I guess I was emotionally unprepared for frozen water to be falling from the sky.
The stream was up, running clear, and warmer than the air. No hatch activity save for one lonely caddis witnessed on the hike out. I don’t know what to make of this stream. In two hours, I pricked ten, landed one. I fished dry upstream and wet downstream. The significance of that is that I drew only two strikes subsurface. I would have expected more action below.
This leads me to several possible conclusions:
1) This stream is continuing the downward trend it has exhibited over the last few years.
2) That cold front last night sucked the life out of the bite.
3) I have absolutely no idea what’s going on.
I can say with certainty that are are far worse ways to spend a morning than wandering along a thin blue line with a fly rod in your hand.
Amidst the dreary browns and greys of winter, wondrous chlorophyl makes a statement.
Holding the first native of the year in your hands — then releasing her — is always a special occasion. She took the dry, a size 16 Improved Sofa Pillow.
currentseams.com 