Way Out

The fall run is winding down in Long Island Sound. It isn't done yet, and won't be until the first week or two of December probably, but most of the big migratory fish are gone. Those of us who were bit by the striper bug and just can't go a week without hooking at least a little one, well, we aren't done yet. Further and further from home we go to put ourselves in the thick of it. By December some of us will be driving through the armpit of America to get to the fabled blitzes of New Jersey, but for now we still have some fish close to home and not all of them are small.

On Saturday Alec and I went out in near perfect pre-frontal conditions, the kind of weather that just get big stripers on the feed, and we were going to an area I had not yet explored. In the sound there are a lot of places where gravel bars, sand bars, or rock reefs extend far out into open water and make it possible to wade long distances from the beach. These places are consistently dangerous, but also extremely productive at the right times, so those of us smart enough to follow the tides and understand how the work will fish these places with minimal risk involved. But for those who aren't experienced in fishing "way out"... don't do it. Getting stranded by the tide is not good. It could just be inconvenient, but it could also be the end of you.

This time of year a lot of birds are migrating and some make stops in Long Island Sound, many winter over here too. Today we were fortunate enough to be using the same stretch of shore as long-tailed ducks and white-winged scoter, two ducks I had never seen before. That's not to mention all the gulls and terns, of which there were hundreds.

The first few hours on the water were frustrating, with little action in close and blitzing fish staying painfully distant, despite taunting us a few times by working gradually closer. But with the tide falling rapidly, white bait washed over the bar and became easy targets for both birds and fish. The approaching weather system, warming air, and strong southwesterly wind set the stage, and as with countless other late fall days here on the CT shoreline the play of life and death was acted out within fly casting range. The fish were mostly small, as has frustrated me all year, but you take what you are given. Chances were given, I had a 15-18 pound striper swipe and miss in the boulders where I'd expetect the big guys to live, but all 20 of the fish I caught we shy of 20 inches.

The most bizarre thing happened at the while I was landing one of the many aggressive little school bass. I got it withing close range, last 15 seconds of the fight, and Alec and I both watched it cough up something colorful. I immediately waded out and grabbed the object. It was a bag of peanuts, minus the peanuts. I've found some odd things in the mouths and stomachs of fish, but this one takes the prize. Please, I can't believe anyone still has to say this, DON'T LITTER!

As the sun set I went to the windward side of the reef, and found that the fish on that side had come right into the wash and were feeding in less than a foot of water. I waded out a short distance to cast parallel, and caught fish after fish on my white Hollow Fleye. It's easy to ignore the brutality of the conditions, and how soaking wet you are, when it feels like you could hook a 20 pound striper on any cast. Though I do get frustrated I am eternally optimistic. Even now, sitting at home, I can imagine the fish I'm looking for. Big broom tail, cavernous mouth, deep bodied and iridescent... she has been around longer than me and has seen more sights than I ever will, but all she knows is that she needs survive, keep going, keep eating.. And that's just what I let her do. Soon. The clock is ticking.