Are Mackerel Returning to the Sound?

 One of the most noteworthy occurrences in local saltwater fishing this past season was the return of Atlantic mackerel to Long Island Sound and surrounding areas. Historically, mackerel have been present at various times and life stages, from tinker mackerel that were present in shore-accessible locations in the western sound to large "horse mackerel" roving the deeper water. There's been a distinct lack of mackerel activity in the Sound for many years. That is, until 2022. 

In the spring there was an awesome striper bite in The Race. One day my buddies Joe and Jerry invited me out to get on the action. Sand eels were fueling this activity, with the bass averaging toward the low end of the slot. Birds were diving and fish were hammering heavy jigs as well as flies fished on depth charge sinking lines. The surprise of the day, though, was an adult mackerel that took my big sand-eel Jiggy. The fly was large, even for a full grown mackerel. That fish, which I noted with some surprise, served as a quiet precursor to what would transpire later in the season.

In early August, Noah and I headed out to ply the warm summer water, again focusing on The Race and surrounding zones. Initially, we focused on bottom fish. We raked up a healthy number of big scup and black seabass before deciding to go look for big striped bass. We didn't find them. Instead, we encountered acres upon acres of tiny Atlantic mackerel. They were feeding at the surface on minuscule baitfish- like a blitz in miniature, only that blitz would cover many square miles when scaled up. There must have been a few hundred thousand of the little mackerel out there. I was able to catch quite a few on small flies, and though most would scoff at the idea of trying to catch these tiny fish they meant something to me. Each was a shimmering, flopping, colorful ray of hope in my hand. 

In the following weeks, these fish would spread, with reports as far west as the Norwalk Islands. My friend Ian Devlin sent me photos of tinker mackerel from his local waters, an area he hadn't seen the species for many years. They had once been a staple fishery, with angler using sabiki rigs to catch the small fish either for use as bait or to bring home and eat. Mackerel are very enjoyable table fare, with good flavor and fairly flaky texture. Of course there was more meat on the larger adults. Mark Sedotti told me about catching these bigger macker in his younger days, some weighing a few pounds.These were around earlier in the year and were present in deeper water, like the individual I'd caught earlier in the spring. Regardless of size, it seemed mackerel were back in the sound! They lingered at least until early December, with anglers going out into the western sound encountering them on sabikis intended to catch Atlantic herring. 

This lead to some interesting questions. For a long time many of us had thought that warming water played a factor in the Atlantic mackerel's choice to abandon the Sound. But when they arrived in CT in 2022, it was mid summer and water temperatures were quite high. Their presence coincided with that of banded rudderfish and Spanish mackerel, notoriously warm water species. If the mackerel were tolerating temperatures in 70's now, warm water couldn't really account for their absence in previous years. Charles Witek pointed out to me that overfishing was likely the cause for the absence of Atlantic mackerel in our waters in recent years- we are at the periphery of their range, and therefore more likely to lose them when overfishing is occurring. I think he's most certainly right, but why the abundance this year? And how could we keep them coming back.

First of all, I must say that I do not know the answer to the question with certainty, I merely have a hypothesis. In March of 2022, the Canadian Federel Fisheries Minister announced an emergency closure on the commercial and bait mackerel fishery in Atlantic Canada and Quebec. Obviously such a closure would have notable impacts on the Canadian mackerel abundance, but I feel there is a chance it could impact our numbers as well. Mackerel are a fast growing and rapidly breeding species, maturing at about 2 years, with individual females releasing as many as 450,000 eggs in a season. In such species, fisheries closures show fairly abrupt results. I don't think our fish came from Canada, necessarily, but a sudden increase can move biomass around, perhaps shifting the southern extent further out to compensate for the new abundance. If this closure ends and suddenly the local mackerel vanish in turn, that would be very suggestive. Only time will tell. 

Really, that is somewhat of a shot in the dark, but that I'm aware of there haven't been any other significant closures or policy changes to or affecting the mackerel fishery that could have an impact on our numbers. 

Secondarily, this may be a flash in the pan, driven by some natural course of events related to current, water temperature, or weather that doesn't happen every year. It may have nothing to do with an increased population at all. In that case, we can't expect them to return next year. I for one am extremely curious and excited to see if they do. Mackerel provide another forage fish for a variety of species, and history tells us they should be here. So to that second question, how can we keep them coming back? Well, we can advocate for more restrictive regulations on the commercial fishery. This is one of those cases where the commercial fishery take is leaps and bounds more impactful than the modest recreational take. I take part in that recreational take. In Rhode Island, a modest and seasonal hook and line mackerel fishery exists that I quite enjoy. Participants are often not English speaking, so it's hard to gather opinions, but this season I struck up conversation with folks when I could and was surprised by how much the sentiment leaned towards curbing harvest. In a fishery dominated by anglers hoping to fill the freezer, I was surprised by how many supported a curb on the commercial take. Some of these anglers were even commercial fisherman earlier in their lives. The general idea expressed was that there are far fewer mackerel than there used to be, that they aren't around for as long as they used to be, and that commercial quotas are too high. NOAA placed the Atlantic mackerel cap at 4,963 metric tons for the 2022 season.  

Unfortunately it may not be particularly easy to drive change with so little supporting voices. The recreational fishery, especially this far south, is tiny, and hardly and economic driver. Mackerel also have been gone from the broader area for long enough that most anglers don't really feel their absence, in fact many have no idea they were ever there in the first place. This is one of the largest hurdles in species restoration. Most people don't care about mackerel in Connecticut, Rhode Island, or New York. They don't even know what one looks like. So how do we pull enough voices together? It feels like an impossible task. That said, if you weren't aware of the history and predicament, now you are. If you want to share that knowledge I'm certainly not going to stop you. 

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

Trouting About in Vermont (Pt. 3): The Wild Trifecta

 I've caught scant few wild rainbow trout in New England, which is okay. They shouldn't really be here and they can create significant competition for brook trout especially in small, cold, headwater streams. Because they require very cold runoff in the spring for their early spawning behavior, they're restricted to northern New England, largely Vermont and New Hampshire. Most of the wild rainbows I've caught have in fact been in Vermont. I personally love O. mykiss as a species. They're insectivorous, surface oriented, vibrant, and also as adaptable as is any salmonid. They possess substantial diversity, with forms and subspecies that behave and look quite differently. Unfortunately, most New Englanders' experience is limited to the worst examples of the species: the hideous, hardly functional, barely even real trout hatchery raised version. I'm always looking forward to getting to interact with wild ones again, and when I get to fish for them within their native range I will enjoy that even more. After getting our butts handed to us on the Battenkill on our second morning, I suggested we try a river that was known to hold wild rainbows. In fact, all three trout species we'd have opportunity to target on this trip would be present in this stream. 

This was a classic New England trout stream showing multiple characters; descending from the granite hills as a clear, broken freestone before lazily twisting and turning into the valley, gaining size but meandering and creating wonderful cut banks and slow pools. We took a top-down approach, starting in the picturesque and boulder filled upper end. This was a stunning, classic piece of New England brook trout water. 

We quickly found, though, that when we say a salmonid in these clear waters with visibly white-tipped fins, it was pretty much without fail a rainbow. I was a bit surprised by how much the rainbows looked like a brook trout in the water, and I'm not quite sure why it was the case. But each time I spotted a fish and watched it for a time, I eventually realized that I was looking at an Oncorhynchus. These elegant little fish acted much like brook trout would in the same water, often hovering mid water column and rising to intercept anything and everything they could. It's an eat or be eaten world for a small trout. Tiny brown trout occupied some of the same water, and they proved easier to bring to hand initially. Perhaps just because I was far less interested in them. 

I fished bombers, the perfect sort of fly for this water. In fact this was probably the closest I'd fished the Ausable Bomber to its home of origin. I wasn't that close, really. The waters where Fran Betters had tested his messy yet immensely productive flies were more than 50 miles away. But his flies were just as at home on the surface of this lovely brook in the Green Mountains as they'd be in the Adirondacks. That bright orange thread, fuzzy possum dubbing, buggy hackle, and buoyant and visible calf tail wing pull up surface oriented and opportunistic trout on small streams everywhere. Eventually, I manged to draw up a wild rainbow with mine and kept it stuck long enough to come to hand. 

That upper end proved to be difficult as it had just been fished prior to our passing through. We managed just a handful of fish and covered quite a lot of water. I felt it was time to go downriver, into the flat lands. There we might find larger fish and hopefully less pressure. 

When we reached our next destination, I promptly came to the conclusion that this was my kind of stream. Down here, it had a very different character. Meandering through dense brush and farmland, this felt like the kind of small water where some trout of not-small proportions might lurk. Garth and I went separate ways. He headed off downriver while I went up. In the first good run I came to, with another fly of Adirondack origins on (the Ausable Ugly) I deceived three small trutta. Each looked similar, but had very different character from those I've caught in other waters. This is something you'll notice as you begin to really know wild trout. They take on different appearances and characteristics based on where they live. These browns lived in extremely clear water with light colored sandy bottom, they were notably pale by comparison to brown trout I'd catch in other streams on this same trip. I would go so far as to say that I could tell you what stream certain brown trout were caught in just by their appearance alone. The browns in this stream had very plain fins, pale red spots, and salt-and peppery heads. There was variation within the stream, of course, but it was just variation on an identifiable theme. Were I to catch a brown that looked dramatically different here I'd be inclined to believe that it had moved in from a part of the watershed with different habitat. 

Continuing upstream, I found an active riser. It was clearly more substantial than any of the other fish I'd cast at, and I figured it would be a fairly easy sell. I tied the bomber back on, and one cast later stuck a very feisty, colorful wild rainbow. 

So began a stint of wildly productive small stream dry fly fishing. Most of the fish I'd catch would be rainbows, with the occasional small brown mixed in. Many were fish I spotted prior to making a cast, I luxury I don't always have on Connecticut's small streams. I was having a very enjoyable time. 

When I reached the limit of what I could fish headed upstream to meet back up with Garth. Though he wasn't skunked, he'd yet to catch a wild rainbow and I wanted to make sure he did on this trip. We ate lunch before heading out to try to find another stretch even further down to fish.. Both access and cell service were poor and we failed to locate another area to park and fish. That was alright, because on the way down to meet back up with Garth I'd seen a rather impressive fish, a rainbow in the mid teens residing in a classic meadow pool. I though we might get a shot at that fish if and evening rise started. 

We found ourselves on that pool as the sun set. Tiny mayflies, I think they were needhami or something similar, and a few caddis were emerging. There was maybe a half dozen trout rising in the pool. I gave Garth the first go, knowing most of these would be rainbows. Two were sipping bugs towards the back of the pool. We were careful and deliberate in getting into position as well as presenting to the fish. I figured they wouldn't all that selective given their behavior throughout the day and the mixed hatch. When caddis are mixing in with small mayflies, I find that trout will often pick caddis out willingly even when slurping the slough of smaller bugs. I figured a Sedgehammer would be an effective fly.

Garth got into place and began casting to the furthest back of the fish in the pool. It took a little time, he isn't well practiced in the dry fly game, but he finally got his wild rainbow. Now I was up at bat. I set my sights further up the pool where what I suspected was the larger fish I'd spotted earlier in the day was rising. I landed the Sedgehammer in the seem and the trout promptly rose to it. I lifted the rod and a silver bullet went airborne, flying across the pool. It landed darn near on the bank and caught some loose grass on the leader. Moment late it came off. Bummer though it was to lose the king of that pool, that was quite a spectacle to end the day on as well. Rainbows fight especially well. The spirit of a sizable wild rainbow is almost unbeatable. 

The unfortunate reality is, though the whole length of this stream would indeed have wild salmonidae and be spectacular brook trout habitat, the only brook trout we'd catch in that stream was one Garth got that looked to me to be a stocker. I caught one brook trout that morning on the Battenkill and she was a stunner of a wild fish. 

It was quite clear that the abundant rainbows, which more or less match the niche that brook trout would fill in this small stream environment, with the added factor of brown trout also being present, is keeping this from being the incredible native brook trout stream it so easily could and should be. It's a shame that our species so often feels the need to play God. Though I enjoyed fishing for these wild rainbows, had that been a mid-teens brook trout I hooked in that one pool I'd have been no less happy. Where possible both physically and socially, we should be reclaiming these streams. This stream likely isn't the easiest one to reclaim. There are so many others like it across the country that could be thriving native fisheries no less interesting and fishable than the currently existing non-natives. 

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

In The First Minutes of November

 Garth and I dumped the canoe in last few hours of October. There'd been some large striped bass around and I'd been using personal watercraft to explore new territories. A couple days prior I'd caught my largest surf striper, a roughly 44 inch 30-plus pound fish. Minutes before that fish another 40 incher had come to hand. This was in daylight... I was a bit taken with that and felt the need to ply the same waters under the cover of darkness. Access was tricky but Garth and I found our way in.The canoe would be our ferry, the fishing itself would be land based. We just couldn't get where we planned to fish by wading outside of extreme low tides, and we'd inevitably not be able to do the fishing we wanted to in such a scenario. The canoe that Drew Price fished on the waters of Lake Champlain was now getting two young anglers onto the dark waters of Long Island Sound, where we thought we might just have a chance to run into a sea monster. 

There's often a deeply ominous feeling when I climb out onto the furthest rock I can reach to cast into a powerful rip. The water is rarely calm, certainly not on the most productive nights, nor is it clear. A headlamp provides some security but it mustn't be on long and I've learned to do nearly everything I possibly can without one. That darkness envelopes you, as does the sound of the incoming tide flushing around the boulders. All this rock was left as the glaciers receded and is now home to a plethora of baitfish, crabs both native and invasive, the odd lobster, oysters, muscles, and of course striped bass. My hope was that within this particular pile of current ravaged, life encrusted granite, there could be a truly huge striped bass. My mind created all sorts of other creatures though, and as I scrambled onto my rock of choice I looked back at the dry land behind me nervously. The point I was on formed a ridge extending out toward deep water. It's descent was quite gradual, meaning I'd needed to wade a long way through unfamiliar territory to get where I was. I knew the holes between some of these boulders could be surprisingly deep. I also knew that seals and brown sharks like to hunt this same water. Though I knew that rationally these large creatures posed no threat to me, the ingrained fear of that which I couldn't see crept up. The intent, really the necessity of pulling on a large striper prevailed though, and any unwarranted fear faded in the pursuit of a striped bass of a lifetime. Expectation overshadowed reality out on that point that night. One take from a bass of unknown stature was all that resulted.

I had other tricks up my sleeve though. Nearby a shallow muscle bar marked the passage between island and mainland. Despite being very shallow it was enticing structure with good current and multiple ambush points. We picked our way out into the rushing current. I was keenly aware that much of bottom I trod on there was a living mosaic of mollusks. I tried not to drag my feet or step too hard. When I could I walked on what sand I could find. The current here was perfect for swinging, and I worked the water by casting down and across with my large white Hollow Fleye and simply letting the tide carry it. Large stripers are lazy and bait often doesn't suspect pursuit under the cover of darkness. A slow and deliberate presentation will often beat out a fast retrieve.

It was just a few minutes into November when I felt a pull. I pulled back hard and buried the hook. The fish's actions were deliberate and slow. It didn't really define its size, though I knew it wasn't small. My size guess changed again and again as I waded into the shallows, walking the fish back to where I could land here. When I finally did get her on her side in about five inches of water where her silhouette was just visible, I could see that she was a good one. At 39.5 inches and 20 some pounds she was easily my largest November bass. It can be all too easy to ignore the bass in front of you when you feel confident that there are much, much larger ones within a mile of where you, and I'd had a such a good October that I'd started to tire of the smaller fish. I wanted a 40 pound striper on the fly, on foot. And this wasn't it. But I realized her significance... she was a reminder to stay on my toes, to expect the unexpected. I thought there was a chance big fish could occasionally slide onto that muscle bar, but if I'd had to pick one spot in that area to fish that night it would have been where we started and we would have gotten skunked. 

And we almost did. That was the only fish we laid hands on that night. It proved the importance of exploring all the possibilities of a spot, analyzing it critically, and fishing thoroughly and with intent at all times. Though I'd try again, that muscle bar never produced another striper this fall. The point nearby did give me some opportunities. It will take a few seasons at least to really grasp the dynamic of this new-to-me water. After fishing it an hour more that night we paddled the canoe back to our starting point. The whole way I was formulating approaches, considering conditions, and picturing the fish I knew was out there somewhere not far away. Scales as big as quarters. Mouth wide enough to swallow a fluke. I need to catch her. 

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

Trouting About in Vermont (Pt. 2): Tag-Team Sight Fishing Brook Trout

A washboard dirt road was shaking up everything in the 4Runner as Garth and I descended the hill from our first stream of the trip. At the base of the hill, we knew there was another river. We'd crossed it on the way in the previous night and I'd examined satellite imagery of it prior to the trip. It looked marginal, but if you don't check the bridge pool on a new stream on and exploratory trout trip, can you even call yourself a trout angler? We pulled off just before the bridge and hopped out. There was an man leaning against the upstream rail, looking at the water. We looked at the downstream side, scanning the slow, mirror calm pool for signs of salmonids, and patiently waited for the man to continue on his morning walk. We just didn't want to encroach. When he left, Garth took his place on the upstream side. "Oh", he said, having spotted what the gentleman had been looking at. There was a school of brook trout there, maybe 20 strong, some of them quite substantial. These couldn't possibly be wild fish, but when presented the opportunity to sight fish anything I take that opportunity. At very least they'd been in the river for a while and would be very selective in the slow pool. 

Knowing they'd not be visible from the position we'd have to cast from and that accurate casts would be necessary, we decided to tag team sight fish for them. We'd take turns, one of us would make the casts while the other stood on the bridge and called out the shots. This is a very fun way to fish and can be a fantastic learning experience. We rigged up a long, light leader with a small dry initially. My recollection of what that fly was is a little fuzzy, I believe it was a tiny nameless emerger pattern. Garth was at bat first. I positioned on the bridge while he waded slowly and quietly into place. It took a short time to dial the operation in, but he soon landed the fly over the fish and I watched one peel out and rise to the fly. 

We each managed a fish on the dry, but had other plans in mind. We opted to move on but return later in the trip if we didn't get distracted by something interesting somewhere else. 

A couple days later, there we were on that bridge again looking at that school of brook trout. This time they were un-inclined to rise, so we'd fish small and lightly weighted nymphs. I was exited. Though these were merely hatchery raised trout, one of my favorite sorts of fishing is fishing small nymphs or wet flies to salmonids in nearly still water. It s a game of long leaders, careful stalking, and diligent observation. There's no room for carelessness, lest the angler want to spook fish and cast to dead water all day. It is best played by sight, whether tag teaming as Garth and I were or independently when conditions allow, or with intimate knowledge of the water you're fishing. Whether its a lake, pond, or big flat on a river, there are places the trout will be and places they won't. This style of fishing grew on me first when fishing the East Branch of the Delaware, where brown trout dwelling in long flats feed on tiny mayfly nymphs blend in so well in the cobbled, multi-colored bottom that I would lose track of them even if they didn't move just by glancing away for a second. It progressed to Maine, where I approached weed edges and spring holes in a pond where trophy wild brook roamed in search of damselfly nymphs and could be caught with long, delicate casts and traditional wetflies. Then at home in Connecticut, when I found that trout rising in the slowest pools on misty summer mornings could be deceived better with minuscule pheasant tail nymphs than with any dry fly in my boxes. These scenarios all require similar presentations, and we'd be employing them on these brook trout in Vermont. 

Of course these char would be quite a bit more forgiving than a lot of those mentioned in the scenarios. We'd use a slightly shorter leader than I often would, somewhat larger flies, and they'd likely give us more opportunities. Whereas pulling one large wild brown out might spook and entire tightly packed pod sometimes, we could almost certainly get quite a few of these stocker brookies before the school got too nervous.  

We set about the process. I got up on the bridge while Garth got into position. I called out the location of fish, Garth made the most accurate cast he could, then I announced what the fish did, suggested presentation changes, and called out when a fish ate. Then we switched. This fish were indeed pretty easy. It didn't take all that much to draw them and it took much more to put the school down. We periodically rested them, remained delicate in our approaches, and Picked off fish after fish. There weren't any particularly big takeaways from fly selection, presentation, or anything else like that for you all to learn from. Those stocker brookies just weren't picky enough for that. What I took away and want to impart on you fellow anglers regards to setting the hook. Regardless of what the guy on the bridge said about the fish taking, the angler casting had to be patient with the hook set. The set itself was nothing special, a pointed but gentle lift. It was all about timing. I noted that no matter what Garth  said, If I waited a moment after he said I had a take, oftentimes until I felt the fish, I got a good hook set. If I set the moment he said I had a take I usually missed. This isn't really a surprise but it is a clear-cut example. Trout don't always spit a fly in an instant, I'd even go so far as to say they don't often do so, and giving the fish time to turn results in more fish to net. 

There were a few really big males mixed in with this school and obviously we wanted to catch one of those. I like to say, if I'm going to fish for fake trout that were raised in a concrete tank, they may as well at least be big. It came to a point of intentionally missing and pulling away from smaller fish, which were consistently getting to the fly first. One of the fatter males did make it to net, though it was still dwarfed by a couple of the fish in the school. 

Garth and I each ended up having goes at one of the largest fish. He missed a take from one of the giants. I ended up loosing one. It was frankly one of the heftier brook trout I've ever hooked, taking off on an exceptional run of the bat and putting a deep bend in the 5wt. The size 18 pheasant tail while rolling on the surface well downstream of where it had taken the fly. 

One of the things this trip was doing, quite unintentionally, was reminding me that I enjoy warm season daytime trout fishing. In recent years, I've been reserving it for the late fall, winter, and spring. In the warmer months I've pretty much just fished at night in recent years. CT's summer fisheries, with the exception of the Farmington (which I just don't enjoy anymore) and some small stream (which I don't like putting pressure on with frequent summer visits). There are also just plenty of other things to do close to home, things I often like more. For the last couple years, it's been carp. It can be hard for those of us who like to fly fish for any and every fish in all kinds of water to pick what to do. Here in the northeast there are an awful lot of options. Perhaps next season trout will be on the agenda for me a little bit more often. Though I tend to shirk the way many fly anglers hold salmonids up as the supreme fish to target, I devoted quite a few years to hard focused trout fishing for a reason. I know a lot more than I did then, and I'd like to improve my game a bit more. 

We shall see; come next summer the pull of double digit bowfin might be a impossible to resist. 

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