Convergence '22: Life

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. 

We blasted west then a bit south to get into a good position to observe the developing storm, and when we reached a cleared hilltop it already had a compact little updraft base, complete with rear flank downdraft cutting through the cloud base (this is called the "clear slot) and a  low wall cloud. The rapid rising motion on the right side of the wall cloud was incredible. This little cell wasn't even severe warned yet, but it was trying to do something.

We watched the storm evolve, breathing in from warm moist environment it was moving into and exhaling cold air and rain. The updraft was indeed rotating, and it was pulling rain around itself and lightly cloaking its inner workings in translucent curtains. As it did so, a laminar funnel appeared from the wall cloud and a couple of vorticies danced up from the ground. This was what we'd driven out here to see. This brief tornado lasted no more than two minutes and did no reported damage in the vicinity of Ulster Park, New York. Indeed the storm that spawned it still wasn't even severe warned, though nickel sized hail was reported. It quickly lost tornadic potential for a little while, perhaps interacting with the Hudson River Valley. Garth and I bailed from our position on the hill top with positive cloud to ground lightning raining down around us. I ran down that hill laughing like a mad man, the earth shaking around us from the thunder claps and fat rain drops starting to beat the grass. I was truly alive in that moment, happier than I know how to describe. Sitting in the car catching my breath, I think I may have said something to the effect of "That was the shit right there. That's what it's about".

We briefly left the storm, which may have been a mistake as it went severe warned just a short time thereafter. In a desperate bid to catch back up, we ventured into the hills near the New York/Massachusetts Border. We struggled to get a good position on those winding roads and in heavily wooded terrain. Near West Stockbridge, we gave up. 

While we were diving back south into Connecticut the linear mode was taking shape. That resulted in one tornado-warned northern tip echo and some straight line wind damage along the leading edge of the line. We were on the tornado warned area, it did not produce but exhibited a classic rain wrapped QLCS circulation.

When it became clear we could no longer keep up with the line it was time to head home. I was exhausted by that point anyway. 

The next few days, I was forced to stop. I couldn't keep chasing the highs in my injured state. I tried to get out after the big stripers here and there, and I did have some opportunities. Alex got a 44 incher the one night I didn't go at all. I had a few decent little fish to 30 inches but no monsters. Mostly, I couldn't find the energy to get excited. Staying at home and trying to focus on work suddenly devolved into a deep depression. Unable to get enthused by the little things and physically prevented from doing anything grander, all the thoughts and problems I'd been trying to keep out for the previous months came rushing in. Struggling to grasp at something, I began trying to make progress on my business plans. I found I couldn't. The energy wasn't there. Every bump in the road began to feel like an impasse. Just filling out or printing paperwork felt like it would be as difficult as lifting a boulder with one hand, so I didn't even bother. The fact that my truck was still, three months later, in the shop from the Florida debacle was grating on me. I worried if I'd be able to afford the bill. The loss of a good friend suddenly felt real when I got what should have been a brief moment of respite and caught an incredible brook trout in a new spot. I thought to myself "Alan will love this", then remembered that he's gone. The date of my surgery came and the procedure seemed to go well, though I was and still am in a constant odd state of discomfort or pain afterward. It all came to head when I found myself lying in bed one morning, shaking, tears soaking my pillow, cold, and feeling completely alone. An intrusive, awful thought that has made its way into my mind in the past was back again. I've struggled on and off for years with mental health. There have been times when I just didn't want to continue. I wished, that morning, that my fall had killed me. I had had enough.

Why am I telling you this, you are probably wondering? It's an incredibly vulnerable story to tell in a blog post. I honestly don't want to put a spotlight on myself. I've hemmed and hawed over how I should tell this story or if I should tell it all, but I keep coming to the same thought. I alone am far from important, but I'm also far from the only person that has wanted to end their lives. Many of us have lost loved ones to suicide. It's horribly common. I just want those who may feel similar to the way I do to know that you aren't alone. I'm sure plenty of people are putting off a public facade of happiness and deeply wishing you didn't exist as I have done many times. Someone may look to be leading a privileged and joy-filled life but be dying inside. I'll tell you, it fucking sucks. I don't wish this on anyone. Nobody deserves to feel this way. Like me, you may be chasing highs, hoping to forget the things that are hurting. It may be working for now, but if one thing is becoming clear to me its that chasing the highs is a temporary solution. Fishing is as much a symptom of  my problems as it is a cure. The chemical releases in my brain give me a buzz when it's good and the hard-headed focus required to be the best angler I can be keep my mind off other problems, but it can't be sustained. Please, if you're suffering similar feelings, don't let them go unchecked. I'm not remotely qualified to therapize anyone and I'm not going to try, but there are options out there. Don't put it off. It's easy to, I know. I have done and actively am doing so. But if you are hurting, please know that people do love you. You've got someone, even if you don't feel like it. I promise you do. I'm here still, and I care about you. 

I often struggle to find a direction in life. Other people try to sway you, to direct your course. That's not something that's really up to them, even if your course isn't ideal from their vantage point. I don't know if what I'm doing now is the right course of action. Sometimes it feels like I will never get ahead. With the economy spiraling, a service job like guiding may well become difficult or impossible to hold. It is, after all, a luxury. Some have pushed me towards this line of work while others try to drive me away, and in each case the reasoning isn't unsound. I can only base my decision on one thing, though, and that's the way I feel when I'm standing on the poling platform or in the river next to a client when they hook a good fish. In that moment, I'm often happier than I'd be had I hooked that fish myself. The joy I get from showing other people, wonderful people, a slice of my world is one of the few things that has kept me here. It's hard to describe, really. I had a client out for carp not long ago, and he had numerous shots at feeding and sunning fish and landed a few. There was a moment of deep clarity for me when he was casting at one particular fish, a tailer in just 7 inches of water. I realized that my legs were shaking more than they would were I casting at that fish myself. My client's excitement and my own were so palpable I could almost hear it, like the low buzz of high tension power lines. Flip Pallot said something on the Millhouse podcast how "life is focused like a laser beam into (a) skiff". That applies to more than just flats skiffs. When I'm with a client, I'm doing what I feel I was meant to do with my life. I have meaning, then. I'm on the water, I'm teaching, and I'm giving people unforgettable experiences. It is one of a small handful of things that continue to give me meaning. That meaning is there when I'm on the ground in rattlesnake country, taking down data or even just observing for the sake of seeing something incredible. 

I wish I could hold onto that feeling when everything comes crashing down around me. Some moments its there, others it blinks out.  

I'm trying. I don't really want this to be over, at least not at this moment. I may be running headlong down an impossible path, but it's all I seem to be able to do so I may as well. You may very well feel the same. Well, friend, we'll let's enjoy it while we can. It is, after all, as fleeting as the sound of a cow striper eating a herring. I'll see you at the end of the path, beaten down and broken I'm sure. We'll look like we just ran down a big hill trying to escape the lightning, splattered with rain and sweating profusely. Or perhaps like we just lost that cow striper, sore, exhausted, cold, and smelling a bit ripe from not showering and sleeping in vehicles for multiple nights. But I think, maybe, there'll be a smile on our faces. I'll look at you and say "That was the shit right there. That's what its about." We'll feel alive for a moment. Then it'll be over. Our stories will come to an end when they're supposed to, as does everything else in the universe. Let's not force that along. What would be the sense in that? Life will kick our asses, that much is true. Maybe we can still have fun in the process. 

 Thank you to my Patrons; Erin, David, John, Elizabeth, Brandon, Christopher, Shawn, Mike, Sara, Leo, C, Franky, Geof, Luke, Noah, Justin, Sean, Tom, Mark, and Jake 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.

Invasion of the Knobfin Sculpins

 An alien has invaded CT's Pomperaug River and its tributaries. This creature lives in the holes and crevices of the bottom, eating native fish's eggs and young, devouring macro-invertebrates, and breeding like rabbits. This creature is called the knobfin sculpin, Cottus immaculatus; and it hails from the Ozark Mountains of Southern Missouri and Northern Arkansas. Small though it may be, the knobfin sculpin has wrecked havoc where it was introduced accidentally. The native minnow and salmonid numbers in the Pomperaug watershed have crashed, and the is indication that insects have been impacted as well.

Not long ago, Garth and I went to the Pomperaug with a dual mission: first, catch out lifer knobfin sculpins on hook and line. Then, observe the situation in that river and its tributaries and determine if the sculpins have in fact had a significant negative impact. 

The first goal was extraordinarily easily accomplished. The sculpins were very abundant. Looking around larger rocks in the stream bed I could see holes with little cleared out patches of sand or pea gravel at their entrances. I knew right away what these were, as I've caught slimy sculpins and mottled sculpin already and have experiences their habits. These were sculpin "dens" and there were surely fish under these rocks. Indeed, jigging a nymph in front of these holes often resulted in a knobfin rushing out and taking the fly. Garth and I each had our lifers with relative ease. 

Life List Fish #187: Knobfin sculpin, Cottus immaculatus, Rank: Species

Now, there are two ways to catch sculpins that live under rocks. The first, the polite method if you will, is what I just described. You knock on the door, gently wiggling your offering at the entrances of the sculpins' homes. The second method is a bit more rude. You can rip the roof right of their houses. If you are careful, you can lift in-stream rocks, revealing the sculpins underneath, and believe it or not they will still eat. I think that says something about just how ravenous they are. I should add, absolutely do not move rocks in CT streams that have slimy sculpins. They are a species of special concern in this state and such actions are highly detrimental. On the Pomperaug though? Have at it. De-housing invasives isn't exactly bad. 

After catching a few knobfins I set about trying to see what else might be kicking around. Garth and I both saw a handful, and I really mean a handful, of blacknose dace and juvenile white suckers. And I mean very few. In a river the size of that which we were on these species should have occupied certain niches heavily, such as tailouts, eddies, and backwaters. We didn't see as many as we should have. The only trout present seemed to all be of hatchery origin, and subsequently don't portray a successful ecosystem. I only observed adult white suckers in one spot, and not many of them. Fallfish or creek chubs and their spawning mounds were absent. No other minnows, darters, or shiners were observed. Insect levels seemed low. 

It truly does seem that the knobfins had invaded this habitat. They are the quintessential invasive. Thankfully, unlike some introduced species, nobody is so obsessed with fishing for them that they're inclined to advocate for their continued protection. There could be a problem, however, if someone thinks they'd make good bait and moves them elsewhere, releasing them when they're done for the day. No live bait should be moved from water to water. Live bait should not be released alive. Mottled sculpins need to stay where they are now and spread no further. If they are moved, the consequences could be shocking. The Pomperaug certainly is a different ecosystem now, and a much less healthy one. What exactly its future is remains unseen. With at least one listed insect, a seemingly extirpated brook trout population, and ever dwindling native fish biomass, it doesn't look good. 

 Thank you to my Patrons; Erin, David, John, Elizabeth, Brandon, Christopher, Shawn, Mike, Sara, Leo, C, Franky, Geof, Luke, Noah, Justin, Sean, Tom, Mark, and Jake 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.

Monster Connecticut Brook Trout

 I've been on the hunt for big brookies this spring. After a number of years of less dedicated wild brook trout fishing, wherein I'd just occasionally revisited easy spots already well known to me and caught very typically sized fish, I'd got the bug again this year and wanted to find something impressive. I hadn't caught a wild brook trout of over a foot in Connecticut in quite a while. Catching fish like that can sort of just happen if you fish for brook trout enough, but I didn't just want to go out and hammer brookies every day. That isn't really my thing anymore, and I don't think it does the fish any favors. I've taken to resting streams and having a measured approach. I'm not trying to catch every brookie in the water I fish, just the largest ones. I'm also not just fishing any old water. I've come, over time, to understand what makes big brook trout in CT, and it doesn't happen just anywhere there are brook trout. If you think I'm going to just go ahead and tell you the magic ingredients, well... I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I won't. They make sense though. If you follow the natural patterns, understand the biomass factors, and think about how different habitats work you'll figure it out on your own. That's a great feeling and I don't want to deprive you of that. 

Once I'd figured out the formula it was just a matter of time, and not much time. I'd stacked the deck in my favor, if I caught brook trout at all in the places I was fishing there was a strong probability one would be a monster. To catch the fish, I'd also stack the deck by using larger flies than I might otherwise. I've never been a big fly for brook trout guy, in large part because bigger hooks and small delicate fish do not mix. But I wasn't after small fish, and there wouldn't even really be any small fish in the places I was fishing. I'd fish larger streamers, mice, gurglers, and things of that sort unless I saw fish actively feeding. I wasn't taking that strategy because the fish would want really big meals, more so because I needed flies with a bit of calling power because I didn't know exactly where the fish would be sitting a lot of the time and wanted to fish in a way that would potentially draw a big brook trout from further away.

It's funny, frankly, just how quickly it came together. Of course that's ignoring the years it took to put everything in place to make it easy to do, but once I had the idea in my head it was a matter of days. The location I had the most confidence in showed me two giant brook trout on my first visit of the year, though I didn't catch either one. On my second visit, I caught one of the largest brook trout I've ever caught in CT. At fourteen and a half inches and carrying about a pound, it was an extraordinary specimen of a native salmonid. 

As we shift into what feels like a very early summer here in CT, I do intend to devote a bit more time over the coming month or so to these big brook trout. Since I got that one I managed a few other monsters as well, but I'd really like to break the 18 inch mark here in CT. I think it's possible, though I don't know of anyone that has done so recently. If nothing else, it's a relief to see that our only remaining wild native salmonid is doing well enough to kick out specimens as big as a pound. That certainly is a good thing. 

Thank you to my Patrons; Erin, David, John, Elizabeth, Brandon, Christopher, Shawn, Mike, Sara, Leo, C, Franky, Geof, Luke, Streamer Swinger, Noah, Justin, Sean, Tom, Mark, and Jake 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.

Fly Fishing For Invasive Goldfish

 Recently I took a quick ride south to a park pond. I was after an invasive species. I often fish for non-native and invasive fish, as there are plenty of them around (definitively, of course). I don't fish for this species that often though, as they haven't really taken hold here in Connecticut just yet. In other parts of the country, they've filled significant niches, displacing native species and causing ecological issues, as an invasive must do to be designated as such. As with other cyprinid species, goldfish in large numbers can cause increased water turbidity due to their bottom-based feeding strategy, diminishing plant life and degrading water quality. These negative impacts could well happen in Connecticut if they are allowed to spread. Concerningly, two of the places I know of that contain them drain indirectly into the Connecticut River. Fishing is not permitted in either and it seems the goldfish are welcomed by those managing those waters. In another case, a pond had a large number of big goldfish that were thankfully eradicated before they spread into the river below. On a couple of occasions I've seen individual goldfish in rivers where they were likely dumped as unwanted pets. This day, though, I was heading to an isolated pond where the goldfish couldn't leave. They still shouldn't be there, but it's less of a concern for spreading. 

This pond ecosystem itself is an odd one. It contains a single large common carp, western mosquitofish, and the goldfish as the non-native species. For natives, it contains pumpkinseed sunfish, golden shiners, and brown bullheads. Being a tiny, man-made pond it doesn't represent a great example of how these species would interact in a natural ecosystem, but the golden shiners seem to be quite stunted there and rarely attain the sizes I see in similarly sized waters that don't contain goldfish or mosquitofish, so maybe there is a negative impact at play. 

The goldfish themselves are finicky creatures and tough to fool with a fly. They often school up tightly at the surface in the spring and sit motionless, just sunning themselves. When they aren't doing that, if you don't chum you won't see them. At all. They may as well not be there. I wasn't prepared with chum so it was a good thing they were sunning. That didn't make it an easy task though. I spent the better part of an hour fishing to them with unweighted nymphs, soft hackles, and a few dry flies. I had them move to the fly numerous times but discerning the take is often the hardest part of the whole deal. I rarely feel it, and with goldfish the size of these at a distance more than 25 feet seeing the exact moment they nip the fly is a real trick, one I usually don't perform well. Eventually though I usually manage to make it work, and this time I did get a nice orange one. Only the one, but I'll always take one over none. 

Goldfish are tough to get a handle on once they do take over. As is often the case with similar species, angling can't really stop them, so even if you kill every one you catch you aren't doing any good. Because of the habitat they spend most of their time in, mechanical and chemical methods of removal often either don't get them all or are too indiscriminate. So the best strategy is actually curbing future infestations. Anglers should report seeing goldfish, especially in interconnected waterways, to their state environmental protection agencies. It's also important to pass on information and educate, since goldfish are a common pet that is all too often released into the wild. The ramifications of goldfish taking over a watershed are not insignificant and should be taken seriously. 

Thank you to my Patrons; Erin, David, John, Elizabeth, Brandon, Christopher, Shawn, Mike, Sara, Leo, C, Franky, Geof, Luke, Streamer Swinger, Noah, Justin, Sean, Tom, Mark, and Jake 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.

Your Recreation Isn't Passive, Even if It Is

I was walking on a publicly accessible piece of land around a drinking water reservoir. A sign caught my eye, a classic water company land sign. One that said what you could and couldn't do. It said "Passive Recreation Only" and "no fishing, hunting, motor vehicles". It also stated "dogs must remain leashed".

I thought about that sign. It was meant to reduce activities that could pollute the water. The irony there being that the water volume in the reservoirs was so huge that any pollutants introduced by the sorts of prohibited actions would be so diluted as to be completely negligible. But dog walking was allowed, along with their urine and feces which would undoubtedly run off into the reservoir. And allowing people to walk around an area isn't really passive. People don't float inches off the ground, thereby leaving it undisturbed. If you are in a place, you impact that place. 

I've been thinking more and more about that term, "passive recreation", recently. That term is generally used in reference to things like hiking, biking, bird watching, and other activities that don't have a direct and clear impact on the landscape. I don't agree with that terminology, though. I don't believe any outdoor activity can truly be passive. You always impact something, and almost always negatively. The question is simply just how severe that impact is. Something like fishing, obviously, isn't at all passive. You may not have though into it that much though, so lets do that.

When you travel to a fishing spot, you add wear to existing paths or start beating your own. Those of us who are very obsessive anglers can probably remember beating a well trodden path into a spot that very few people were fishing before you came along. That's an impact... you trod down existing brush, probably moved some seeds around, cause erosion, and so on. In the process of arriving you alter the behavior of the wildlife that are present, and they have to make changes in their behavior. Then you start fishing, perhaps you hook some fish- you stab a hole in them, more insignificant if it's a small barbless hook, pretty severe if it's big and barbed. More than one hole if you're using a treble hook. Then you force the fish to expend energy, fighting for it's life. Maybe you keep it, removing an organism from the ecosystem. If you release that fish, you still haven't actually done it much of a favor and there is some chance your actions result in that fish dying after you let it go. Not very passive, that's for sure. 

But what about something that would be considered passive? Let's take the most common example, hiking. To hike you need a trail. Trails can cause a serious amount of damage to the landscape depending how heavily traveled they are and where they are located. A trail right along a stream ran result in bank erosion and disruption of the habitats of fish and other stream dwelling wildlife. Trails on rocky high ground can severely impact slow growing low brush, nesting birds, and herpetofauna. If trail thoroughly spiderweb an area and are heavily traveled, large wildlife may struggle to accomplish important life functions even in daylight. Trail also represent access, and not everyone that can access an area will do so responsibly. In the world of CT herpetology, we're fighting mountain bikers right now. They're moving into new areas, building new trails, and causing huge habitat disruption. They likely don't perceive their actions as destructive at all, but the have been. One unauthorized trail I've been working with the state on represents a substantial threat to an endangered species. It must be stopped. And trails like it are popping up all over the state. Actions like moving rock, beating back brush, moving leaf litter, and building structures always have a negative impact. Sometimes that impact can be huge. 

A CT DEEP herpetologist installs a remote camera to monitor an unauthorized trail through protected habitat.

We don't often think that hard about the impacts of our actions. What I've written thus far could be pissing you off if you've ever done any of these things. That's completely understandable. I know how I feel when someone point out something I'm doing that might have some negative impact. It's annoying to have to think about your own actions, especially when someone is making it sound like you've done something bad. I'll tell you this: nobody is immune. This isn't meant to be an accusatory piece, I just want people to think about this stuff more consciously. Is a new trail a good idea? Should I build this cairn? Should I get so close to this animal? Should I pick it up and handle it? Should I fish for these fish? Should I pick all of these wild edibles? The answer to these questions is "no" an awful lot more than we're comfortable believing. Recreation is never passive. It always has a negative impact. It's up to us to value the continued existence of habitats and species over our own personal enjoyment and recreation. 

Thank you to my Patrons; Erin, David, John, Elizabeth, Brandon, Christopher, Shawn, Mike, Sara, Leo, C, Franky, Geof, Luke, Streamer Swinger, Noah, Justin, Sean, Tom, Mark, and Jake 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.