Another herring run has come and gone here in Connecticut. In April the alewives came in moderate numbers, danced their dance, drew in all the creatures that eat them, left their fertilized eggs and left. In May we had the worst blueback runs I've ever seen, there were hardly any herring. With June just a day away and temperatures hitting the 90's, it's just about over.
My fishing flows with the tides of my mental state. I'm almost always fishing, unless I'm even more depressed than is normal. The intent and discipline that I exercise on the water is what really changes, at least that's what I'm coming to learn. What apparently happens is I fish at my absolute best and hardest when I'm trying to hide from some festering thought. I'm both chasing a high and forcing myself to think about one thing. I don't stop and let introspection happen, I just role with the conditions and force myself to stay zoned into the task at hand. In the spring, my personal task is to get the largest striper I can, on the fly, one foot. My successes and failures are recorded in logs along with volumes of data, some perhaps irrelevant. The story those logs tell is that of a man possessed. The story ignores a whole myriad of existing problems, important issues, but it's the story I want to play out. For the first two thirds of the spring herring run season that story played out the way I wanted it too. Then it crumbled when the external plot could no longer be kept out. This is that story and its bitter end.
I started early this year. Having screwed up in the past starting much too late, I wanted to get a jump on it this year. There really weren't many herring around yet, but the bass were there. I started out tallying low numbers each night, one or two fish but no more. Those fish were all good though, I wasn't finding small bass. They were all 30 to 38 inch class. Then, a week in, I broke 40 inches. It was a solid confirmation that I was on the right track, as I typically hope to break that mark just once in a spring. Getting one so early on I was sure I'd have another shot, and I did.
It was the night my partner and I broke up, something that had seemed imminent. I was also lost deeply in the weeds of cow madness, and wouldn't let myself out of that. Just a couple hours after we broke up, I was standing on the bank making that first short cast that I do while getting line out. I fished it out even though it was just a 25 foot shot because that's what you do if you actually mean to catch fish. Just seven feet off the rod tip, I came tight. The fish exploded to the surface ferociously, proving instantaneously that she was huge and a force to be reckoned with. That fish ended up being the first striper to get into my backing on my 12wt and the first large striped bass I've lost in three years. I'm not sure exactly how big she was, just that she was huge. I'm not exactly sure how I lost her, but it was a bruise to my ego for sure. My resolve hardened, though. If one big fish was around, surely I could find another.
Many nights blended together, with work, guiding, and scouting for guide trips occupying my days and fishing harder than is reasonable eating up the time I should have been spending asleep. I won't soon forget the night that I found the next big bass of the spring convergence. Oddly it was so memorable because it wasn't remarkable compared to many of the other nights that have yielded cows. Conditionally, it sat squarely mid playing field. It was good enough but not remarkable in any capacity. There were big fish around though, I could hear them occasionally. I've fished with enough people for stripers to know that most are horrible at interpreting the size of bass making surface feeding sounds at night. These, though, were completely obvious to my ears. Massive swirls created by large bodies. They weren't holding though, I don't think at any point a fish topped in the same spot twice. That meant I'd need to stand in one spot and just hope a cow moved in front of me at the right moment. I made cast after cast for two hours, being patient. A few fish came up fairly close to me, yet no touches. I decided I may as well try something different. Moving would make no sense and I had confidence in my fly, so I changed my retrieve. I went fast. Fast is rarely how I turn a cow bass on the fly at night. Big bass are lazy, they like easily caught pray. Usually. My first retrieve I got hit hard, jammed the hook, and for a little while thought I might have stuck a mid sized bass somewhere other than the mouth. It was an odd fight, completely lacking the trademark sweeping head shakes, instead consisting of short-ish extremely fast runs. When I got the fish close I could see that it was, in fact, a really large bass hooked exactly where she should be. Soon I was wrestling my largest shore-caught striper in the margin of the river, letting her make me bleed a little. She was 43 inches and very heavy. In that moment, I was completely elated. I'd tapped the right vein, put in the right stuff. Damn did it feel good, right there and then.
Unwilling to back down, I pushed on, continuing to fish that night and each one that followed. Though I managed a few more high 30 inch range fish in my typical spot, two things rapidly deteriorated the quality of the fishing. The first was simply the amount of water. We've had a fairly dry spring and fishing totally slack water isn't a good bet for big bass on the fly. Also, the morons started showing up. That started to deteriorate my mental stability.
One night, Garth and I were out in a pretty solid tide window when a jeep load of evidently drunk college age guys rolled up, being obnoxiously loud, parked illegally, and basically fell down the banks of the river with their headlamps on, scanning the water. Unable to conceal my displeasure, I yelled across the river. "TURN THE F***** LIGHTS OFF". They ignored me. I went and found the largest rock I could carry and dropped it off the center of the bridge before we left. I'm not proud of that, but if you're going to be an asshole on my river, I'm going to retaliate.
Another night, a car pulled up in the center of the bridge and two guys got out and lit up the whole river with spotlights. I again voiced my discontent and was ignored. I go out of my way to be respectful of the place, the fish, and the other regulars that fish there. I call in poachers when I see them, I avoid being in close proximity to other anglers if they arrived at the spot before I did, I respect the neighbors and their property, don't shine my headlights into their yards and windows when I park, so on and so fourth. The lack of respect I see from other anglers pisses me off to no end. I didn't feel like being around that, so I decided to move along and explore new water in the latter half of the convergence season. I'd hit the old faithful river when the conditions seemed ideal and venture elsewhere otherwise.
Though I do most of my herring run fishing alone, I sometimes have Garth tag along as he tends to share values and has the right mindset. He was with me on one of these exploratory mission, one that got me particularly excited about the new water I'd found. We didn't catch anything extraordinary but I did move a fish that was about 40 inches and we each got some beautiful little bass. I felt invigorated... just in time for the universe to kick me in the ass.
I was back on the same river, this time fishing with Alex Peru. Alex is quickly becoming one of my favorite people to fish with. He's obsessive, detail oriented, and deeply intuitive. He's also really good at making things that solve problems. Alex is the brains behind Albie Snax and Super Snax, two of the most effective soft plastic lures on the market. Alex and I had both been grinding hard throughout the herring run in an effort to catch the largest bass possible. I was eager to have him deciphering this new water with me as there were some aspects of it that reminded me more of the herring runs he fishes than the ones I'm used to. Seeing another angler, especially one as intuitive as Alex, pick apart the water with a slightly different eye and different tackle is often hugely helpful. There's a reason I don't just fish with guys that are unilaterally fly focused. That would put me in too much of an echo chamber, there'd only be so much I could learn. Most fly anglers, I find, are too rigid and stuck to old concepts. There's been a shift away from that in streamer design, thankfully. Much of that has been driven forward by anglers that gear fish too, or at least have a background and knowledge in that realm.
Alex and I hit a few spots and got a few fish to hand, nothing big but it was progress. It felt like we might be hitting a stride, and I was saving what I felt were the best couple spots for later in the night. We were actually fishing a run I hadn't tried at night yet when Alex picked up one smaller fish. I had waded out to the edge of a strong current tongue to try to cover the opposite seem, but had no success. I waded back in and got up on a flat, dry rock. Alex and I were discussing the dynamics of the water in front of us, where the fish seemed to be holding, and what the next course of action should be when I suddenly went down. I don't recall even adjusting my weight, my feet just went out from beneath me and I went down hard, slamming the right side of my head on the very rock I'd been standing on.
That probably could have been it. Had I hit a slightly different part of the rock or a different part of my head, even just an inch or two of deviation, and that fall could have killed me. If not, it might have severely disabled me. But instead I wasn't even knocked unconscious. I immediately got back up. I can't remember exactly what Alex said or what I said, though I know that for a short time my ears were ringing and I couldn't really hear myself speak anyway. What I do distinctly remember is feeling the side of my head and my fingers dropping into an obvious and shockingly deep indentation that shouldn't have been there. In a state of complete shock, I grabbed a small tree growing out of the rocks next to me. My head was spinning. The ringing started to fade, but I wasn't sure I was going to remain conscious at that point. Alex suggested I sit down, and that did seem like a good idea. We both took stock of the situation, and it was pretty clear what needed to happen. We were able to walk back to the car fine. Alex drove me to a clinic that was a bit close to my house. I called my mother on the way, trying to remain as calm as I could. The car ride was an odd and blurry experience, as were the next few hours. I was realizing that whatever I'd broken had severely altered the range of motion of my jaw. Moving it put me in excruciating pain.
The clinic checked my vitals then did a CT scan. I'd fractured my zygomatic arch in three places. They decided to transfer me to Hartford Hospital to see a specialist. Alex was still waiting in his car when I got out of the clinic. I gave him the lowdown of what was happening, thanked him profusely, and he headed out to fish the morning tide, as any real angler would. I cannot emphasize enough how thankful I was to be with Alex when I fell. He handled it about as well as anyone could, really. I don't know what I'd have done were I alone. That would have been utterly terrifying. It was scary enough as is. Thank you Alex. You're a good friend.
I was in the hospital for a while. The specialist came and took a look at the situation. She explained the surgery I'd need and how it would be done. I wasn't really all there at the time so I digested what information I could and forgot the rest. I had never broken a bone or even sprained an ankle or wrist before and I'd just skipped right ahead and broken part of my skull. I was just trying to remain calm. Exhaustion was also catching up. It was time to sleep.
Having been given sort of an all clear from the doctors to go about life with only minor alterations, I pushed my limits. I knew if I stopped and thought for too long it would all come to a breaking point. There was a notable severe weather setup forecast the day after I was let out of the hospital, one Garth and I had planned to chase. You can bet your I wasn't going to sit it out. There was a different convergence about to happen, the meteorological sort, and when mother nature puts on a show I want to be there to see it, whether my skull is fractured or not.
Our target area was the Hudson Valley, my specific initial pinpoint was Poughkeepsie. We left early to get in a good position to watch things develop, stopping for bagels near Brewster. I must have looked like a complete moron, struggling to eat my bagel in exceptional pain yet still enjoying it. Behind the bagel joint there happened to be a trout stream. We had some time, so we walked over to take a look at it from a bridge. On the downstream side there were quite a few rising and nymphing fish. All browns, it looked like. We fiddled around there for a short time. All the while I was glancing at the radar. I small renegade cell had fired to our west, and it was tracking nearly straight north. These renegades were going to be the best bet for photogenic structure and tornadoes. It was time for us to make a move.
We headed north, stopping near Milan, and let the storm progress. It underwent a split, weakening as it did so. The left split rapidly fizzled, but the right split seemed to be growing a bit. From our vantage, we could see a defined anvil and some inflow streaming in. "I think its turning right" I said, and a distant rumble of thunder punctuated my sentence. Turning right is a sign that a storm's updraft is beginning to rotate. This one had started to veer from a nearly straight north course to a Northeasterly one. It might be happening. My heartbeat quickened.
