The Last Steelhead Blast from 2024

Dec26

For the last three years, I’ve driven out to Ohio in December to pick up Number Two Son Cam from school for winter break. Oh! That’s right. There are steelhead creeks out that way. So let’s fish a couple days before we make the trek home to Connecticut.

It was somewhat miraculous that we even got to fish this year. After months of relentless drought, Steelhead Alley got bombed by lake effect snow in mid November. Then, it rained and the snow melted. Creeks were impossibly up and the color of chocolate milk. By the second weekend in December, there was a short window that we lucked into.

The price of admission was bitter cold and slush-filled, shelf ice-choked creeks. These are the times that try men’s souls (or at least those men who steelhead). Still, I’ll take time on the water in adverse conditions over not going at all — especially since Cam’s a senior.

Saturday morning was the third coldest temperature I’ve ever fished in. We slept in and went to a diner for a proper, civilized breakfast and coffee. We hiked through snow down to the river at 10am. Fishing was difficult due to slush conditions; you can’t catch steelhead if your fly isn’t getting down to them. Even though there had been some recent higher flows, the numbers weren’t up to the level we’re used to. What was there was in very cold temperature mode; getting them to eat was a matter of persistence, precision, and plain old fine fortune.

A chunky, pre-spawn hen, just beginning to color up. At the first mark, it took me hundreds of casts to get two fish to eat. I was targeting a pod made up of several fresher hens and a fish we dubbed “Old Blackie,” a very dark horse buck who was not the slightest bit interested in eating while he guarded his harem. At a second spot downstream, I fouled six fish; they simply would not eat. Finally, after pecking away, we found a hole that held a good number of steelhead that did not have lockjaw. The fish pictured here came from that group. Despite the non-optimal conditions, I had myself a day: sixteen steelhead fair hooked and in the hoop. I was so excited, I almost had a third cigar.

Cam had a tough go on the first day, mostly because he doesn’t really fly fish, and the conditions demanded flawless presentations. By the second day, he was nailing it, and tripled the number of fish he put in the hoop. This is from day one. Pro tip: apples are a great way to get some quality calories and a wee bit of hydration. I carry several in my pack on every steelhead trip.

Sunday presented an entirely different form of winter fishing misery: temperatures just above freezing and rain. We thought the fishing would be better. It wasn’t. The steelhead had lockjaw like I’ve never seen. The creeks remained slushy and ice shelf challenged, and that certainly didn’t help. This guy would not eat, would not eat, would not eat, and then on one drift he did. No backing sighted, but he took me for a good hike along the creek bank, out of the pool, down a long, shallow shelf, down a riffle, then into another pool. Fantastic color, impressive shoulders, and a worthy opponent. And yes, it’s as cold as it looks.

We could see the fish, but when they’re not eating that can prove to be highly frustrating. Late morning, the bite suddenly turned on. After hours of lethargy, we actually witnessed a fish move to take my fly. Instead of repeated rejection, we had the jollity of our only double of the trip. But what we thought was the start of better fishing was merely a short bite window that snapped shut with cruel finality. The rest of the day was grind for every fish. My last steelhead of 2024 was a good one, though. We returned to the scene of our first stop on Saturday. Old Blackie’s harem was now one. Expecting only to maybe, possibly, hopefully getting the hen to eat, my first cast was, instead, stomped on by none other than Old Blackie. Poor guy was worse for the wear during his extensive time in the system: missing one eye, and he had foul hook scars all over his back. We removed a couple hooks from his flank and fins, then sent him back to make the next generation of Erie steelhead this spring. A shout out to our guide extraordinaire, Bob Packey of Solitude Steelhead Guide Service. Well done!

Farmington River Report: A good time to tie flies

Jan15

I drove along the lower Farmington TMA yesterday, and it was either frozen over, framed with shelf ice, or filled with slush.

Of course, the closer you get to the dam, the more open water you’ll find. Still, I’m going to save my chips, wait for a wee thaw, and tie some flies.

Take heart, cabin feverish types: Hendrickson spinners are just a little over three months away.

Odds and ends on a cold January night

Jan7

I built a fire last night because I didn’t feel like turning on the downstairs heat. While an open fireplace is considered to be an inefficient method of heating, you can’t beat it for ambience. I did manage to raise the temperature five degrees, and it felt rather grand to stand on the hearth. No fire tonight, but I’m staying warm with a nice Italian red (Caparzo Sangiovese Toscana 2013, an absolute steal at $11.99).

Farmington River: If you’ve been out fishing, good on you. Me, I’m saving my chips for warmer weather. And transferring my fishing energy to tying.

Steelhead: There is a sense of derring-do about embarking on a single-digit temperature adventure, but see “Farmington River” above. If you’re not aware, there’s been a fish kill this season on the Salmon River. Here is the latest theory: http://wrvo.org/post/fish-die-salmon-river-could-be-caused-vitamin-deficiency

Small streams: I’ve driven past a few, and after the last two nights they are looking more like frozen tundra than running water.

Stripers: I used to fish for them in January. Right now, the pragmatist in me is crushing the romantic. Not that the romantic really minds.

Currentseams: I see we have surpassed the quarter-century mark in followers. Thank you all for your readership and support. If you’re new, stop by and say hi. The shortest distance between two people is a hello.

I remember this day. It was about 400 degrees in the shade. Tonight, not so much.

The Un-Dead of Winter

Jan24

One from the archives. I wrote this several years ago to remind myself that Pete Seeger was right. Not to mention Paul.

The Un-Dead of Winter

By Steve Culton

I was heading out of the office on a freezing January afternoon when the receptionist, noticing how I was dressed, asked me if I was going fishing. I told her yes, and she responded with an incredulous, “In the dead of winter?!?”

I smiled in affirmation, but on the way to the stream, her words got me thinking about the bum rap winter takes when it comes to natural rhythms — and angling — especially if you plan on forsaking the homey comfort of the ice fishing hut in favor of wading. The reality is, fall is when things die. Winter is when life begins. And it truly is a wonderland, alive and well and overflowing with vitality.

Step into your backyard or some nearby woods. The trees and bushes are already covered with buds, nature’s amazing automated leaf and flower systems, full of life (in the dead of winter!) and waiting for the warmth of spring to pop. As I write this, the mercury is well below freezing, yet my forsythia is as green as a springtime lawn, stems so bud-laden I can only imagine the yellow riot that awaits me in April. Mountain laurel and rhododendrons proudly display the evergreen banner, and from my window I can see a cardinal and his mate searching for seeds in the compacted snow.

An exquisitely parr-marked Farmington River brown. Even on a cold January afternoon, she was more than happy to chase a swung fly.

Even on the small stream I was fishing the day our receptionist questioned my sanity, there was life in the air and beneath the water. Though the high never made it past 30 degrees, size 14 charcoal grey midges flitted about. Wild trout were holding low on the river bottom, ready to gobble any food that came tumbling along. It started to snow, and as my cigar smoke drifted slowly into the windless air, creating a tapestry with the chunky flakes, I felt as alive and happy as I would be sipping lemonade a warm July afternoon.

A few weeks later, I was fishing a salt estuary in Rhode Island. The temperature had plummeted into the low twenties, and a bitter west wind tormented the exposed skin on my face. Yet, there were snails and grass shrimp and, as this was the new moon, perhaps even clam worms doing what they always do: living. (The stripers, sadly, were living somewhere out of casting range.)

What mysteries remain uncovered along the frozen banks of our rivers and shores? You don’t know if you don’t go.

I used to view winter as a time to store the rods and gear and prepare for the reawakening rituals of spring. No longer. I’m out on our streams and rivers and in the salt, almost always gloriously alone, left to my thoughts, the wonders both seen and unseen, and the bounty of life that reminds me spring is on the way.

Farmington River report 1/17/14

Jan17

Today was a pretty darn nice day for January, and there was no shortage of anglers taking advantage of the last of the thaw. Plenty of vehicles in Greenwoods, Woodshop, along Church Pool, and in the lot. The upper TMA was running about 550cfs, clear, and in the low thirties. High air temp was low forties (no ice on the guides — huzzah!), abundant sunshine, and a good southerly breeze that kept most of the dry fly anglers away. Not much to write about in the way of hatch activity. I nymphed from 11:30am to 1:00pm under an indicator, and the trout preferred the smaller of my two flies, a size 22 (really an 18, 2x short) soft-hackled BHPT. Always a happy moment, landing your first Farmington River brown of the year — or for that matter, landing a trout in January. An angler below me also did well on small nymphs. Switched over to streamers and ventured to some different water, but could find no takers, though I did speak to another angler (Colin — pleased to meet you) who told me he had gotten into two trout on streamers. The cold is coming, so get out while you can.

Remnants from the last ice age — about two weeks ago.