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.

An Extremely Meaningful Blitz

 I learned the ropes of striped bass fly fishing in a localized area on Long Island Sound. It was the perfect training ground, with tidal creeks, rocky points, beach front, and sand flats all in close proximity. Many parts of the Connecticut shoreline have all of these geographic features within close proximity, but I stuck with one area initially. I gained confidence in this area, as there happened to be a lot of fish there that year. There were even some pretty nice fish in the mix, and some encounters I had that year will stick with me for a while. I was ecstatic with what I'd found in this fishery. I made the faulty assumption that it would always be that way. 

The next year things were a little different. The tidal creek that had been the epicenter of my fall run the year prior had some fish but very few. There were some nice fish in the spring but the fall was underwhelming. These spots then wouldn't produce well for five years straight. I began to think that first year would never be repeated. Though some years saw good numbers of bass, especially small ones, there was never a lot in that specific spot. 

Then came the fall of 2022. October was one of the most spectacular- probably the most spectacular -striped bass fishing months I'd experienced. For a while I was following one body of fish almost daily, and it was epic. Then I sort of lost track of them. Deciding they must have moved on, I began driving around and stopping to watch for birds or blowups on my daytime missions. Two days after I'd lost track of the fish, I crossed one very familiar bridge and turned my head to see a massive cloud of birds over the creek. I whipped a u-turn as soon as I safely could and parked. Not even donning waders, I grabbed a fly rod and my sling pack and ventured into the marsh with a palpable sense of anticipation. I didn't even make it to where the birds were before spotting a blitz in a marsh cut where I'd not seen loads of breaking bass in years. The fish were on peanuts, averaged about 27 inches, and were ravenous and easily caught. 

I roped in bass after bass on a white Hollow Fleye, many of them being low end slot fish and a fair number being smaller. The size of the fish and ferocity of the blitz were very similar to those of that formative year of my striped bass fishing. It felt like a homecoming of sorts. After years if lackluster results this water- one of my favorite places -was suddenly giving up the goods again. Things slowly winded down right in front of me, and in time the decision was made to go to where all those birds had been. I couldn't have anticipated just how crazy that would be. 

I had just walked up to the most spectacular, expansive, and prolonged blitzes I had ever encountered. There were acres of bass and hundreds of birds laying siege to peanut bunker in a narrow tidal creek. This was a show to beat all others, a display of life and death that touched every sense. The visual spectacle was, of course, plainly evident. Thousands of iridescent juvenile menhaden sprayed out of thew choppy water, often followed by a linesider going airborne in hot pursuit. The birds provided their own sights to fixate on the laughing gulls dipping to grab the peanuts, hovering low over breaking fish, wings not beating effortlessly as they often can but, rather, completely frantic. Nothing I could see in that little part of the world at that moment was calm. It was chaos. If I closed my eyes, and I did a few times, I couldn't hide from it. The sound may have actually rivaled the sights as evidence of the mayhem. The gulls calling was audible from afar of course but so was the sound of the bass. It was a dull roar, like a waterfall, with higher pitched splashes and pops coming through. I could almost feel it. At times I really could when the bass would pin a school against the mud bank at my feet, the vibrations of their many bodies impacting the sod transmitting to my feet through the very ground I stood on. There was a smell and even taste to the air the signified the death of baitfish as well. It's an almost sweet smell with some vegetable like aspects. If you've been around a wild bunker blitz, you know what I'm talking about. It's an almost melon like smell with hints of fishiness to it. 

It's hard to really put into words what a blitz like that is like and what it feels like to be in the middle of all of that. It's even harder to describe what it was like for me being in such a special place with all of that going on around me. This was a meaningful day of fishing for me. Though I knew that this wasn't likely to produce any out-sized fish, that getting larger fish was no more predictable here than winning big at a slot machine, this blitz was more significant to me than so many of the big fish blitzes I'd already experienced this year. 

There were certainly big fish in the mix, so the chance was always there. At one point, having downsized to a kinky muddler just to diminish the damage to my larger flies, I hooked a smaller bass. It wasn't tiny, maybe 20 inches long, but much smaller than many of the fish I was catching. I was fixated on the activity around me and not really paying any mind to the fish I had on when there was a massive explosion, as if a large dog had just jumped into the creek. My rod buckled and I just barely caught sight of the flank and tail of the preposterously large striper that had just engulfed the schoolie I had on. My hook pulled free mere seconds after the attack and I'd never get to know quite how big that fish was. It'll certainly be a memory that will stick with me for the rest of my life though. 

Another sight that is ingrained in memory from that day was a school of bass so thick that they filled and darkened the water column, with the fish at the very top sunning their tails and dorsal fins in dry air. This wasn't a blitz, just a school of fish so thick it occupied the entirety of the water column. I'd never seen anything like this, and maybe never will again. 

After a spell, I actually had to go back home. I left the blitz in progress. Being gone long just wasn't an option though, returning that very same day had to happen. I also felt like I needed to share this spectacular thing with some friends. I asked Garth if he wanted to come and he did. My friend Boots and I had talked about fishing that day as well, so I gave him a call. He'd actually been with me one of the last good days of that formative first season in this spot as well. These two guys would get the gravity of this, that's what was important. 

Some people might think it was foolhardy to think this epic blitz would still be going on. In my mind, there was no way it wouldn't be. It was just too large, too vigorous, and had already been going on at a somewhat subpar tide... had to continue. Well...

Garth and I drove down together, Boots would get there a little later. We were in the fish right away, and if anything the spectacle had increased in intensity in some ways. This event had now seemingly been in progress for six hours. It would go on for many, many more, and that was something I couldn't have anticipated. 

We gawked. We caught fish. We struggled to process the extraordinary event that was right in front of us. There are bigger blitzes, I've seen plenty of them. But for a blitz of this size and duration to take place in a narrow system of tidal creeks is very special. It doesn't happen every day. Boots finally found his way to us and joined in the revelry. He was soon trying to catch bass on all of the plugs he'd not yet caught stripers on, plugs that had special meaning to him. And because the fish were so ravenous it wasn't all that hard to get one to eat almost anything. 

For the fish, this day represented and important and yearly part of a migration. Water temperatures were falling and the days were getting shorter. These fish were heading towards their winter homes, and their biology drove them to pack on the pounds while they could. Some of the fish we were catching were so heavy set they looked downright rotund. They had round, saggy bellies. The really small ones almost looked like tadpoles, carrying their freshly gained weight exclusively in their stomachs. As with so many aspects of the day, photos just didn't do it justice. 

As it got darker I anticipated that this blitz would end. Nighttime blitzes are rare. Nocturnal surface feeding isn't, but concentrated blitzing is. This was the blitz that refused to end though. The sun fell and it was still going on in the fading light. 

As the sky darkened, the fish merely moved rather than calming down. We followed them down to the mouth of the creek and continued to catch fish into the night, our hands becoming shredded and raw from the rasp of countless striper mouths. The number of fish to hand was likely well in the hundreds at that point, and the thought of tying into something much bigger convinced me to continue casting. That and the knowledge that this was a special event. I told Garth, "enjoy this while it lasts, because we may never experience this again. These are our good old days". I'd love to believe that I was wrong, but there's no way to guarantee that we'd experience a tidal creek blitz like this in our home waters again. So we stuck with it until it seemed absurd to stay a minute longer. My hands were bleeding, my sleeves were crusted with salt and dried bass slime, and I'd waded into the creek wearing leather boots and khakis in air temperatures that were dropping into the high 40's. When the fish put on a show that good, I don't let much stand in the way of being in the middle of it all. Sharing this show with a couple of good friends in a location that was incredibly important  to my development as an angler was priceless. 

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. 1)

 Back in mid September, with some rains bringing rivers back to life and temperatures on the fall, the trout itch started to need scratching. With the Farmington still too low to be of particular interest in daylight, Garth and I set our sights further afield. The Rangeley region seemed like one decent choice, it had been a while since I'd tangled with large brook trout. Night fishing in the Catskills also didn't seem like a bad plan. We settled on an area between the two, and one I'd not spent as much time exploring. Though I'd fished Vermont many times, rarely ever have trout been the target. With input from Drew Price of Masterclass Angling, a lot of research trough USGS data, satellite imagery, and the limited available fishery data, I created a hit-list of rivers and specific spots within rivers. I packed up the 4Runner and picked up Garth after he got home from work one evening and we headed north. 

The plan was simple: car camp, fish, and explore. We had a few days and nights to work with on some of the prettiest trout waters in the Northeast. The Green Mountains have a rich trout and fly fishing history; being home to Orvis's headquarters, the famed and fickle Battenkill, and some exceptionally beautiful and large wild salmonidae. It is a stronghold of native brook trout, though some of the Green's streams are now dominated by nonnative brown trout and in some cases, rainbows as well. We hoped to catch all three species in some beautiful and at times quite remote waters. 

We arrived in the dark and caught some rest near the stream I wanted to fish first. It was the most remote of them and a totally blank slate for us. It was going to be cold and there'd be trout in it, we just didn't know how many, what species, or how big. When I first got a look at the river I liked what I saw. Flows were strong, the water was a little tanic, and the surrounding woods were beautiful mixed forest dripping with moss. Spring seeps poured out of the hills and the river valley itself was spotted with beaver meadows. Varied habitat makes the best habitat, and this felt like a clean and healthy ecosystem. I was getting pretty excited. 

This environment may actually have had the highest density of Eastern newts I'd ever encountered. The wetland areas, be they active beaver ponds or the remnants of abandoned ones, were crawling with hundreds upon hundreds of the aquatic form. Walking through the woods we turned up the bright orange terrestrial form as well, know as red efts. 

Also occupying the beaver ponds were creek chubs and a variety of dragonfly species. The stream itself was cold and fast and seemed fairly sterile, harboring caddis and midges but very little in the way of mayflies as far as I could tell. It seemed a bit too "clean" and nutrient deficient to be brown trout habitat- remember that point - and out initial visit seemed to indicate that the stream was very rich with brook trout and hardly any other fish of any kind. These fish were beautiful, dark specimens averaging 6 inches. Some exceeded that mark, but it didn't feel like encountering one much in excess of 10 inches was likely. They were quite numerous though. I fished the ever reliable Ausable Ugly, and it produced handsome fontinalis one after another for a few hours. 

After months of fishing urban, industrial, and suburban habitats almost exclusively, it was a relief to get away from people and signs of people. Unfortunately some of this was an illusion. Neither the forest itself nor the stream were in a fully natural state. The land it was contained within was is fact, in essence, a protected tree farm open to recreation. It was timber in reserve. We passed patch cuts on the long dirt road in. But at the very least signs of human presence were limited down in the river valley. There weren't angler foot paths. The fish didn't have the injuries so common in pressured fisheries where trout are caught and released repetitively throughout their lives. Trash wasn't merely scarce, there was none. It was rejuvenating. 

I can only catch so many small brook trout in a day, though, before I feel bad for disrupting their natural rhythms. Garth and I then decided to go disrupt the rhythm of some non-natives. It was time to look for a big brown trout. Though not a widely known big trutta destination, Garth and I had a bit of intel to act on. Perhaps we'd stop somewhere along the way that we knew nothing about as well. This was an exploratory mission after all.

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.

Thunderstorms & Cows: Big Striped Bass on the Fly

 Early October featured some of the most consistent striped bass fishing I've ever experienced, offering regular opportunities at 20 pound class fish on the fly from shore. One of the major factors at play for me was a storm named Ian. Hurricane Ian hammered Florida's west coast, severely impacting thousands of people, destroying homes and businesses, and inundating an area I fell in love with on my very first trip to Florida in 2017. Ian would go on to continue up the coast as it dissipated. By the time it's effects were being felt in southern New England, it was a wide but weak storm. Ian's dying remnants brought some moderate rain and wind to the Connecticut shoreline, and during the inaugural Eastern LIS Tightlined Slam Alex, Noah and I battled rough conditions to find some spectacular bites. Despite, or rather in some ways because of the horrible weather, some truly incredible things transpired during that tournament. We found exceptional adult bunker feeds, including some all out raging blitzes of 20 pound class striped bass. It was difficult, tiring, and very, very wet, but also two of the most exciting days of fishing I've ever had. 

Though we caught a lot of fish, including some large ones, I don't think any of us were satisfied. I certainly wasn't. Ian's death was a slow, labored one, and it continued to throw wind and rain at the Connecticut shoreline for days on end. I took full advantage of the poor weather and low pressure, fishing every night and most days I could. It wasn't exactly easy, especially for a fly rodder. I needed to pick my spots, often walking and wading huge distances to where I could reach fish with fairly short casts. Large flies that imitate menhaden don't exactly cut the wind, not do floating fly lines. I was often casting into or perpendicular to a 20-30 mile per hour wind. The water was churned up and murky. If I didn't have completely that there'd be fish in front of me, and likely big fish, I might not have stuck it out the way I did some of those nights. It felt ridiculous at times. One night, Garth and I slogged it out for a few hours of tide in a ridiculous headwind at a spot I'd never wade fished before, but felt positive would be holding fish. It was, and we caught some good ones, though not as big as I was really hoping for. 

The next night, I revisited the same tide and location with Alex. We started catching a few fish, again good sized but not quite what we were really hoping for. The wind was a little harsher still this night and it had the water seriously churned up at that location. Alex convinced me that we should try to fish another spot to see if the bass had pushed deeper into sheltered water, and I agreed. We'd still have enough tide to come back if we decided we wanted to. It turned out that we'd not be returning. The secondary spot was absolutely stacked with good sized bass. Alex and I slugged it out with 20 pound fish after 20 pound fish while the wind howled and distant lightning gradually came closer and got brighter. The fish ranged mostly from 36 to 44 inches, though we're sure some larger ones were present.  They were stupidly easy. Big flies, big plastics both worked incredibly well. I fished white and black, it didn't seem to make any difference. These fish were just chewing in a way that I'd not encountered before. It was a rare window in which getting sizable striped bass on the fly was just easy.

Well, there's a caveat to the "it was easy" thing. I'm a very stubborn fly caster, and I refuse to let wind dictate when or where I can cast. That has resulted in a lot of practice pounding hard casts into a strong wind, which is what I was doing that night. It also took a lot of time and effort to pattern bites enough to know that these fish might be where they were under those conditions. It was also the wee hours of the night and the weather was about to get a little dangerous. All of that to say, easy is relative. Catching big striped bass on the fly in the surf is never truly easy. It takes time, effort, and resolve. Through the entirety of this early October bite I fished until I no longer could, then slept in the car. I wasn't home much at all through most of the month actually. I took breaks to get work done and check other bites so I'd be prepared for clients. But any time I could be I had my boots in the salt, heavy fly rod in hand, and a large white or black fly tied onto the end of a short 40 pound leader. 

Unfortunately, some of the largest fish from this night were quite skinny, so a few fish that had the potential to exceed 30 pounds were pretty close to 20 pounds. It was, however, the first night I'd ever caught more than one 40 inch class fish on the fly. I could hem and haw over how much bigger these fish could have been had they been more bulked up, or about the one that did get away that sounded and felt huge. But the reality was that when that storm really closed and Alex and I decided to make our way back to the vehicles, we'd had spectacular fishing. I bid Alex a good night, of which there was very little left anyway, and sat in the car eating a snack while some of the loudest thunder I'd ever experienced rocked the ground. 

That night was not to be the last of the spectacular fishing this season. I'd put my hand in the mouth of the third 43" striper of the season, a truly epic year, but my sights were set on a larger target. They still are, though the biomass has now thinned dramatically as we creep into mid November. I'm hoping for one last shot at fly cow glory before the winter fishery sets in... of course, I won't be putting the striper flies away for the winter either. 

Of course, all this fantastic fishing has me very worried that some people will feel that the stock is going to recover with ease. It might, we currently have a fairly strong spawning stock. There have been good spawns coming from the Hudson as well, it seems. But the Chesapeake is going to continue to be a problem. A combination of climate change and human habitat degradation may eventually render the Chesapeake spawning stock incapable of maintaining its share of the fishery. I don't think anglers are remotely prepared for the level of advocacy it would require to slow that train, and it may not be stoppable at this point anyway. It has been hard enough to sway species management and we barely get anything done there. ASMFC is still not adequately dealing with conservation equivalency. Any measure that has been made in regards to striped bass management is little more than a half measure, and a poorly enforced one at that. A lot of anglers don't care. Snag-and-drop is still being done, guys are completely ignoring the circle hook law (which might be a problem as well, I may elaborate on that soon). When anglers that do care see poaching behavior, it seems they're either too lazy to call it in or just don't think anyone will come. Well... nobody comes if you don't call. 

We've got a long way to go. I've been over the moon with the quality of the fishing this fall. it was spectacular. I worry that this will be my good old days. This may not continue well into the future. There are too many problems that aren't being addressed. 

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.