Thank you to my Patrons; Erin, David, John, Elizabeth, Brandon, Christopher, Shawn, Mike, Sara, Franky, Geof, Luke, Noah, Justin, Sean, Tom, Mark, Jake, Chris, Oliver, oddity on Display, Sammy, and Cris & Jennifer, Courtney, and Hunter for making Connecticut Fly Angler possible. If you want to support this blog, look for the Patreon link at the top of the right side-bar in web version.
Connecticut Fly Angler
Learning on and off The Water
Friday, July 26, 2024
Surfing Ducks and Tailing Carp
Saturday, July 6, 2024
Down in Brown Town
The road to the Norfork Tailwater from Mountain Home was a sad one in June. Early in the morning on May 26th, 2024, at around 4:30am, a large tornado carved a six mile path, almost paralleling the main road. It was rated EF-3 and killed one woman, injured others, and destroyed multiple homes. Emily and I passed through the wreckage of people lives before dropping down into the valley where the tailwater was. Though it hadn't caused as much damage down there, word is the tornado and associated severe thunderstorms had blow the last of the Great Southern Brood periodical cicadas in this area away. Given that was the main reason for the visit, it was hard to feel confident about the daytime fishing. The sight of people's lives scattered around in the woods and fields like so much tissue paper by winds over 120 miles per hour was, much, much harder to stomach. So perhaps I ought not see much at all? Brown trout, especially big brown trout, are very nocturnal critters anyway.
Northern Arkansas may not seem the most likely place for one of the best big brown trout fisheries in the world, but combination of factors, most of them unnatural, have resulted in just that. In 1944, construction was completed on Norfork Dam, which was originally designed to be a flood control dam but modified to include generators, and in 1949 stocking of brown began. Bull Shoals Dam was opened on the White River in 195, and Greers Ferry Dam created the Little Red River tailwater in 1962, and soon all three tailwaters would become robust trout fisheries as the massive and deep reservoirs created by these dams would keep each at a steady, cool temperature even in the stifling Ozarks summers. As time passed, aquatic insects would populate, stocking regimes would change, and instances of gigantic trout would grow more and more frequent. On May 9th, 1992, Howard Collins caught a 40 pound 4 ounce wild brown trout out of the Little Red, solidifying Arkansas in the annals of brown trout angling history. Each of these tailwaters could at any moment kick out a brown trout as large as anyone has ever seen to some lucky angler.
I'd first learned about the White River in the context of streamer fishing. When the big-streamer-trout craze hit its peak, there were essentially two epicenters- Michigan and Arkansas. The White River, with its size, heavy generation cycles, baitfish population, and monstrous trout became a big fly mecca. For a long time I thought that if I ever got to fish the White it would be in the winter to chuck big streamers and sinking lines. About a decade later and I first wet my waders in the White when they turned most of the generators off, when the water was low and manageable in the black of night. Instead of a high-octane, fast stripping, covering a lot of ground, I was in for a different experience, but one that is very much my style now- the subtle approach, covering water with careful deliberation, alone, with somewhat subtler tactics. I'm still very much after the same sort of fish though- big, predatory Salmo trutta.
The specific allure of night fishing for me is its tactility. I read water by feel, a keen awareness of the tension on my line and what it means guiding me through seems, eddies, pockets... time taught me that I don't need to see to read water, even somewhere I've never been. The take, the feeling of the take, is the prize. A fly line is a glorified handline. We manipulate our flies primarily with our hands to achieve a specific action, then the take often registers through that line rather than feeling the rod bend holding the grip. The feeling of a grab in the dark, with all visual aspects removed, is an electric feeling. It isn't always jarring, aggressive, or violent. Oftentimes the larger the fish is the more subtle it is, which makes good sense to me. Even with a fairly large, buoyant fly, the take of a large brown trout may just be an increase in tension. There's often no loud blowup or surface hysterics. Think of how a 20 inch trout eats a mayfly dun. There's no need for it to race up and attack it violently. It can just gulp it down. That seems to be exactly how giant trout eat frogs, injured baitfish, mice, and other such things in the dark. Sometimes though it is explosive, and that is of course quite jarring and exciting. But if I'm honest, I like the subtler takes better. I feel they result in fish to hand more often. The subtle bite and subsequent hookup is an affirming bit of confirmation that technique and approach are on point.
I crept my way out into the low flows of the river blind in one sense but with the added confidence of useful intel from a friend. On such a big river, its more than a little intimidating. But I have a lot of good friends that have fished all over, and Mark Sedotti had given me all I really needed to know to be safe- what wading would be like and a list of places I could park. I'd have tackled the river without the intel anyway but my approach would have had to be more cautious and slow. Careful daytime examination was performed, though the flows were much higher than they'd end up being.
My process was very simple- slowly work the available water with a large, neutrally buoyant confidence fly, altering my presentation periodically and moving only when I was sure I'd thoroughly covered the water I could reach and didn't believe it was worth waiting for more fish to move in. This was unlike anywhere else I'd night fished though. The maximum possibilities were outrageous, the number of fish were as well. The forage variety isn't what I'm used to either. But trout are trout no matter where you are in the world, so I was sure I'd be able to catch. Sure enough the river delivered in fairly short order.
The night two highlight ended up being a short window in a big eddy when a fairly quick two hand retrieve seemed to be favored. This is counter to most of the deathly slow presentations I make at night, but it works now and then so I use it. A gnarly 22" rainbow and a 19" brown fell first, neither take being particularly noteworthy despite the aggressive retrieve. The next fish to move, though, absolutely blasted out of the water for the fly and completely missed. That one was clearly a much larger fish, which I could see partially in the glair of a house's lights. I'd guess it was in the high 20's, though I really don't know for sure. It never made contact with the fly that I could feel and I couldn't get it to come back. Though 25 fish came to hand on that second night and plenty were 18-22", the real monster still alluded me.
Once again there was a little light in the sky as I peeled my leaky, smelly waders off after that finale stand. I reflected on how exceptional the fishing I'd just had was. On a lot of the rivers back home I typically go a whole season without catching as many quality wild trout in the dark. It's pretty cool to step into a place where the standard is a little different, and the possibilities are almost hard to fathom.
Thank you to my Patrons; Erin, David, John, Elizabeth, Brandon, Christopher, Shawn, Mike, Sara, Franky, Geof, Luke, Noah, Justin, Sean, Tom, Mark, Jake, Chris, Oliver, oddity on Display, Sammy, and Cris & Jennifer, Courtney, and Hunter for making Connecticut Fly Angler possible. If you want to support this blog, look for the Patreon link at the top of the right side-bar in web version.
Wednesday, June 19, 2024
Eclipse
Emily and I trod out into a snow-covered clear cut in Northwestern Maine, with hardly a cloud in the sky and the sun bright overhead. It was warm despite the snow, perhaps 55 degrees at that time. We'd come to this place for a very specific reason, and for once it wasn't fish or snakes that had gotten me to Maine. We were two of many in fact. People of all walks of life had driven to a strip of Northern New England to watch a quirk of astronomy that has been stunning earthlings for as long as there've been such critters scrambling around the surface of this planet. We had all come here for the solar eclipse.
I've been captivated by the world in a very absolute way as long as I can remember, from microorganisms to such cosmic displays. I'm drawn to see and experience as much as I can while I'm here. That all consuming need to be wherever something huge, powerful, and awe inspiring is what drives my storm chasing. The feeling of being in front of the updraft of a supercell or braced against the wind of a landfalling hurricane isn't easily described, but I know I need it like I need water, food, and sleep. I can't stand when I miss a tornado within 10 hours of home. The idea of missing the eclipse was similar, if not more so considering how easily predicted they are. But I must say, my excitement was tempered a little. Not knowing what to expect was the tricky thing. How many people would there be? Would there be an immense traffic jam that would stop us from getting there? would it actually live up to the hype?
But that had all settled when we found that clear cut. There were two other small groups, each a hundred yards or more away, so we more or less had a spot to ourselves. The view was tremendous, and the clean snow would make a canvas for a mysterious phenomena known as shadow bands to dance across. We laid down a blanket and made a snowman to where an extra pair of glasses, then settled in to watch as the moon slowly began to traverse the face of the sun.
Shadows on the ground soon began to take a crescent like shape, mirroring the shadow being cast by the moon. The light began to take a more and more bizarre quality. Though every morning the sun is shadowed the same amount as it rises and sets, the way that light looks is so familiar. It's refracted by the atmosphere in just such a way, coming from just such an angle. Coming from almost over head its something else entirely. Then, as totality approached, shadow bands wavered across the snow. And in moments it was nighttime, if only for a few minutes.
It's pretty easy to understand why people without the knowledge of the earth's orbit around the sun and the moon's orbit around earth though the world might be ending for just a moment, then chalk the event up to a higher power's wrath, or even a warning. It was astonishingly surreal and breathtaking, more so than I'd anticipated. It moved me nearly to tears.
I'll be 47 the next time an eclipse's path of totality will cross the contiguous United States. There's not much that could stop me from being there to see it happen again. It's very much one of those things that must be seen at least once, and to me left a need to fulfill that same feeling the next time the opportunity arises. Like seeing a humpback whale breach. Or flipping a rock and seeing the vibrance of a smooth green snake underneath. Or looking up into the heart of a massive, rotating thunderstorm that could at any moment touch the earth with the ferocity to kill and destroy. When people don't feel a raw and intense emotion from such experiences, I don't understand that. When they do, to the point of taking off time from work, getting friends and family in the car gathering in a place far from home all to see the same natural spectacle, it makes much more sense. And in some ways it's almost as beautiful as the spectacle itself.
hank you to my Patrons; Erin, David, John, Elizabeth, Brandon, Christopher, Shawn, Mike, Sara, Franky, Geof, Luke, Noah, Justin, Sean, Tom, Mark, Jake, Chris, Oliver, oddity on Display, Sammy, and Cris & Jennifer, Courtney, and Hunter for making Connecticut Fly Angler possible. If you want to support this blog, look for the Patreon link at the top of the right side-bar in web version.
Thursday, May 30, 2024
Knee Deep in The Trees
It isn't terribly common that I stay out on the same piece of water I just guided on for five hours. Typically I've seen what I need to see and am keen to go elsewhere and explore or make sure some other bite is setting up. But sometimes a bite so good is underway that I'm compelled to stick around. That was the case one day in late April this spring. I'd found hoards of carp churning the water into a muddy soup in a flooded area so thick it made approaching them in the boat tricky. But I knew I had waders in the car, and that the bottom was firm enough I could approach these fish on foot. So after I parted ways with my client, I hastily dawned my waders again, offloaded some un-needed weight from the canoe, and paddled back to the area in question. With the boat hauled up safely onto a dry embankment, I crept my way out into the flooded forest trying to make as little wake and disturbance as possible.
Carp often have somewhat predictable feeding patterns and paths in lakes and rivers that maintain a semi predictable route unless spooked, but in flooded woods they don't set up the sort of home territories. The same individual fish are often in the same area- I've seen the same orange koi in the same patch of flood plain for the last three seasons -but their feeding is very random. There'll be a post up on Patreon about carp feeding patterns soon for those interested. But for the context of this story, what that means is that I had very little clue what each fish I spotted was going to do next. They might tail 15 feet away one moment then pop up right at my feet, linger in a bush for a while, or just go in a straight line. It was very erratic, which made things both interesting and quite tricky. The thick mud they were stirring up was also a complication, making it near impossible to see some of the fish. I've become fairly good at both finding the fish and intuiting the strike without feeling or seeing it though, and that makes all the difference. It really wasn't all that long before I go one, a feisty little common. I maneuvered the rod and put a lot of pressure on it to control the fish in the tight quarters and snaggy environment. It's a close quarters brawl, no room to see backing here.
2024 has been the year of the fantail here. Last year I only put one in the net. This year there's been more trips when one made it to the boat that trips where one didn't. Often we've managed more than one! I'm not sure what accounts for that abundance in the genetic stock, but there sure are a lot of them. I'm not complaining. They're such absurd and cool looking fish, with crazy elongated fins, droopy long barbles, and wild pom-poms in their nostrils. They're really quite beautiful fish. Especially the one I got on the other day I stayed late and waded after a trip....
I count myself so, so lucky to have a fishery of this caliber at my fingertips. Though the flood game is short lived its just so incredibly engaging, even on the days when very few fish commit to eating. It's like being in a bayou, but right here in the northeast. And in that bayou there are 5 to 30 pound fish cruising around and feeding, and with the right boat and gear I can get clients to put flies in front of those fish. It's just so, so cool and there's really no other fishery like it around here.
After getting four nice, feisty fish in a short session, I made my way back to the canoe, taking a shot at an unwilling much bigger fish up way shallow on the way. It's pretty wild to see how far up into the floodplain a fish of over 20 pounds will wander.
If you'd like to experience this fishery with me next season, it's best to book early. By mid March this year my calendar was pretty darned full and the only open dates were when I had cancelations or had to shuffle folks around. So be prepared to grab dates as early as February.
Thank you to my Patrons; Erin, David, John, Elizabeth, Brandon, Christopher, Shawn, Mike, Sara, Franky, Geof, Luke, Noah, Justin, Sean, Tom, Mark, Jake, Chris, Oliver, oddity on Display, Sammy, and Cris & Jennifer for making Connecticut Fly Angler possible. If you want to support this blog, look for the Patreon link at the top of the right side-bar in web version.
Saturday, April 27, 2024
Morning Blitz
Fall 2023 was a struggle in most of my normal striped bass haunts, and I stubbornly stuck to my guns in those places working under the incorrect assessment that if I kept going, eventually the fish had to show up. Meanwhile, friends were having much better fishing just a short bit further away from home. Not only were the encountering good stripers but big bluefish as well. I stuck to my guns on my home turf for a while before finally seeing reason and venturing out further. It was desperately necessary at that point, as I the season looked to be about to wind down.
Fall is when I basically live out of my car. Really, that could happen any time of year. But it's definitely more likely from September through November. The same clothes may not come off for days on end, the interior of the vehicle starts to smell dank and musty, and I consistently look both manic and tired. Loved ones say "you should get some rest", I say "when I'm dead". Pushing even just a little further from home and learning a relatively new to me area demands even more than the usual effort, and when a bite is in progress that means methodically fishing different structure in the new area, drawing knowledge of how similar spots in areas I already know fish at different tides, winds, and times of day. Some may require a significant number of visits at different times and tides to really dial in. I look or bait and make educated guesses as to where it may go next if it is liable to leave- always a factor in the fall -and watch for concentrations of fish eating birds or even seals. This often mean spending the majority of a week in the same general area, catching naps here and there and eating when I can and what I can between tides. But I always feel the pressure of the approaching cold season and the inevitable departure of the fish.
On the first day of my exploratory I found a spot in daylight with very promising structure and bait activity. I made careful note of the tide level and current speed at the time of that visit and came back later that night on a different tide. There were fish feeding heavily and some very large ones in the mix. The next night, same thing but on the opposite tide. This was an ideal setup, and a spot I'd throw into the rotation for a while. Unfortunately it ended up serving up absurdly fickle fish. Though there was near constant and hellacious surface action I struggled to get bit. I tricked just a couple into taking very large Hollow Fleyes, but nothing else seemed to draw any attention and that just barely worked as it was. I fell asleep in my waders in a park and ride that night a bit dejected and frustrated but with intrigue as to the following morning. I hoped that bait might dump out into the adjacent bay and start a blitz.
The next morning, a huge blitz was in progress in a spot I couldn't get to as I drove to where the fish had been the night before. I pulled off for a bit to watch the birds dipping down to catch juvenile menhaden as stripers and blues churned the water underneath them. It was a fun show for a bit, but I wanted to feel a tight line. Things were quiet over by the mouth of the creek that had been loaded with bass the previous few nights. There were a bunch of cormorants hanging out up the beach though, and they seemed expectant. I decided to take their lead. I made some blind casts while I waited and picked up a few errant schoolies.
It was more than an hour without much change before some of the cormorants began to take off confidently, fly across the bay, then land and swim around a point that was obscuring another small cove. Soon the whole flock- perhaps more than a hundred birds -were following their lead. I did the same. Rounding the corner, diving gulls and a few swirls marked the school. Eagerly I hopped out, dropping a camera in my waders pocket and grabbing the rod. I doubted tis would last very long and didn't expect I'd need to perform any fly changes. Twenty minutes, a dozen fish up to about 20 pounds, and a bit of sitting and basking in the chaos later the action departed and so did I.
Thank you to my Patrons; Erin, David, John, Elizabeth, Brandon, Christopher, Shawn, Mike, Sara, Franky, Geof, Luke, Noah, Justin, Sean, Tom, Mark, Jake, Chris, Oliver, oddity on Display, Sammy, and Cris & Jennifer for making Connecticut Fly Angler possible. If you want to support this blog, look for the Patreon link at the top of the right side-bar in web version.