The Hike In

 Scraggly, low hanging clouds concealed the higher hills on one late September day in the Green mountains. Moisture clung to every surface as dainty glass like droplets, slowly gathering and gaining size as they combined with others before splattering to the forest floor. The sound of the drops permeated the forest. Indeed it was just about the only noise, though a soft and calming one. At the time, Garth and I may not have been able to enjoy it much at all. It reflected our own damp state in the moment. Both of us possessed waders with inconsiderate holes in them that slowly turned any dry pants or socks we layered underneath them into soggy, unpleasant garments. We both complained vocally as we inserted a leg at a time into our damp waders one last time for this trip. We had a walk ahead of us though, and we'd need to suck it up and bear it. 

The woods still very much gave these hills their name, and it was made all the more fresh by the dew... green was everywhere. Moss, ferns, hemlock, maple, birch... the forest couldn't have felt more alive. It was early fall though and little touches of other color were scattered throughout our view. Some trees were beginning to turn;l branches here and there adorned with yellow, orange, or red. Taking advantage of the misty rain, the terrestrial form of the eastern newt moved about on the forest floor. These vibrant little creatures stand starkly against their other amphibian relatives in the same environment, bright orange and red rather than brown, grey, green, or black. They moved with purpose. Each seemed to have a place to be, and though even something as minimal as an oak leaf acted as a massive impasse to these little animals they traversed them with unwavering determination.  

Our walk was significant too, though our purpose was certainly different from the efts. This was our twisted form of leisure... not really relaxing or even comfortable by the standards of the modern middle class vacation. We were wet, tired, and mentally drained, but adamant on making the most of our last hours in Vermont. We treated our pleasure more like business. And in many ways it was... work like, that is. We were certainly not hear to earn a wage. But we had goals and effort must be expended to reach those goals. The first and not least of which was simply getting to our stream of choice. 

As we began our walk, the sound of dripping water gave way to rushing and tumbling as we approached the first of two foot bridges. The river below tumbled over pale granite boulders creating a long stretch of pocket water. We already knew there wasn't much to off in that lightly tannic water, though in my younger days I'd have wasted time fishing that very sterile water. We were going elsewhere, a tributary with colder and more consistent flows and a series of old beaver meadows that lent nutrients to the stream in a way that bare granite never could. 

Days before I'd been sitting in front of a screen, looking at this same landscape in a disconnected fashion. In the blue light before me, an array of pixels depicted imagery gathered by a satellite. I studied the course of the river from above, trying to read its bends and contours, to get an idea of what it might look like in person. I'd grown good at this over the years; learning to read satellite imagery and topographic maps and what they had to tell me about where fish might be. A particular stretch of river, sinuous and coming in and out of a number of meadows, stuck out to me. It was well away from any road in an area I had little knowledge of. In my lap lay an open atlas, a forgotten tool for many a young angler. It was already dotted with marker and pencil, denoting places I'd been, places I wanted to go, and notes. My gaze shifted between my laptop and my Atlas, and I jotted down notes and added new pinpoints. I wasn't sure how cell service would be where we were going, so I wanted an analogue backup. Though it didn't end up being necessary this part of the process still had its benefits. It forced me to take a closer look. When we ended up there, on the ground, though my phone would have and did function as a source for direction and information, I had in the back of my head a picture of where we were and what we should do. 

Leaving the bridge, out path jogged to the east and up hill. The hemlock darkened this area and gave it a primordial feel which was further exaggerated by the return of the dripping noise as the river's loud sound faded behind us. The trail was crossed by uneven, moss covered roots. It was the kind of woods that smell fresh and alive and where one can picture some long though extinct animal traipsing out of the shadows and into reality. In fact, other than the little efts and the odd bird and red squirrel, we saw very little in the way of animals at all. Certainly nothing large or unusual. But it sure did feel like we could. We moved swiftly through down the trail, the sense of passing time pushing us forward. In a short time we came to the bridge crossing our stream. I knew we'd need to follow its course upstream to reach the stretch I really wanted to fish, but I wasn't sure there'd actually be a trail. There was. We followed it for about a mile, it's tunnel-like passage through the undergrowth taking us closer and closer to our goal. Though our hike from the gravel road had not been a particularly long one, we were pretty far from anything. There was no road noise, no other cars in the pull-off, nobody already in the river, and nobody hiking on that trail. Our intrusion was the only human one this day in this place. 

I paused eventually, noting that the sound of tumbling water had calmed and dense forest had been replaced with open, grassy areas to our left. This was our cue to leave the beaten path. We dropped into the river's narrow valley, where little braids coursed like veins through the thick tufts of grass, and made our way to the main artery. The river itself flowed dark and cold, and we didn't know for sure what we'd find as we worked its runs and pools. Garth went down, I went up. Both of us were keen to find out what we'd made that walk for. 

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

Ploop

 A grey squirrel sits on the branch of a mulberry tree, stuffing its face with almost-ripe fruit. The oblong white berries are just starting to get the brushed-on red tint look that means they're ready for the taking. The squirrel haphazardly plucks them from the small clusters they grow in, losing some now and then. Each berry falls, bouncing off branches and tumbling as they go. The tree would have it that these berries land on dry ground where some other animal might find them and spread the seeds to areas not already thickly canopied. But this tree loses some of its potential offspring each season, because this tree happens to grow over water. Each mis-picked berry, dropped by a squirrel, grackle, sparrow, or starling, falls to the water below with a distinct "ploop". And there it is met by hungry fish. Cyprinus carpio, as foreign to the landscape as the starling above, gather en masse under each mulberry tree and greedily feed on the sweet fruits each berry season. They have grown so familiar to that "ploop" sound that, even when one is far way from one of the trees and the berry fall is long done, they still frequently come to inspect anything that lands in the water in such a manor. 

The well rounded and observant fly angler will learn to predict such events. Food drives fish and when such abundance of calories- one which exceeds normal standards but isn't so high as to drive down competition -the angler can have not only excellent fishing but striking opportunities to watch wildlife interact. On this day, the angler sat poised below the mulberry tree looking up into its branches rather than down into the water. The squirrel busily worked in the foliage, and eventually knocked another berry free. The angler's gaze followed its indirect path to the water. It bounced off of one twig, knocked a leaf, then fell to the water's calmly rolling surface. Two shadows rushed to the berry's sound, creating wakes in their rush to obtain sustenance. Neither one actually found the berry, which was then slowly sinking to be battered about by bluegills before resting on the bottom. One of the carp mouthed at a peice of flower peddle but found it lacking. 

The angler observed not because he didn't want to catch a fish yet, but simply because he felt no pressure to. He'd stood in this spot before, watching the same show. He knew what would happen when he pulled line from his reel, made his cast, and let his spun deer hair fly land with a "ploop". He was in no rush. That would only lessen the amount of activity he saw before him now and there was no need to disrupt it just yet. He'd watched this show, sure. But he was far from tired of it. He was content to remain a passive viewer for a few more moments. 

When the desire to interact with the carp in front of him finally overruled his enjoyment of their un-bothered feeding, he wet his fly in the water at his feet. This would give it the weight to convincingly approximate the sound of impact as well as the buoyancy of the natural berries. They don't float high and dry as a foam fly or completely dry deer hair fly would. Then, with a sharp flick, he delivered his artificial lure underneath the mulberry tree. A chestnut colored mirror carp rushed to it, needing to beat out the competitors lurking nearby. It was completely and utterly duped, slurping down the berry with no sign of apprehension. The angler raised the rod and in time made work of taming the specimen. It was a lovely creature. The fly was removed and the fish returned to its habitat a lot more weary than it had been before. Indeed the battle had made aware the other carp as well, and only two remained near the tree. Their actions were flighty and quick though, and the angler felt it prudent to call it a day. Though he'd enjoy catching another, he knew he could so elsewhere thereby allowing these fish to return to their natural rhythm. There was no sense in not only making the fishing harder for himself down the line by over-educating these already clever fish, nor did he feel making their capture harder for the next angler down the path was a kind thing to do to a fellow watcher of the interplay of berries and animals. Whistling as he went down the path, the angler thought about "ploop" sounds, clumsy squirrels, and hungry carp. 

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

Podded up Wintertime Suckers

 Suckers. Just the name alone has a complete lack of glamour. Who waxes poetic about the lowly sucker? Not enough people, if you ask me. White suckers are a fabulous and difficult fish, averaging larger than most trout in Southern New England. Plenty of times an angler will hook what they think is a large trout only to be disappointed by a modestly sized sucker. Why? That 16 inch sucker just fooled you into thinking you had a 22 inch brown trout! Imagine what the 22 inch sucker will feel like.... Well, if you're very experienced you know that a sucker fights a bit differently from a trout. They twist and death roll more, and stay deeper generally.  Fighting aside, a lot of people think suckers are ugly. I tend to think describing any living organism as ugly is a very archaic and perhaps even immoral prescription. There is beauty in survival, and when I think about the form and function of any living fish I feel the same deep feeling that life is beautiful. Suckers evolved in their environment to fill a nice, and their oft-thought unappealing head and mouth structure is a remarkable work of natural art, at least to me. Different species have very different shapes, be they longnose suckers, shorthead redhorse, river redhorse, or indeed our locally abundant white suckers. And then there's their coloration and scaling. White suckers look like they've adorned thousands of tiny pennies, shining copper under a late afternoon sun. They're a lovely fish, deserving of as much respect as any other. 

They're also infinitely more interesting to angle for than are hatchery trout. So it was that I dropped my plans completely one evening while doing some mono rig practice when I came across a large school of wintering suckers in a crystal clear deep pool. These fish would not be eating as readily as the holdover rainbows I'd been catching. I promptly made some rig alterations and tried to figure out how best to present to the school. The task was made difficult by a significant amount of ice and depth between myself and the fish. I opted to fish to them from below, though it was a little further away. I went through a quick rotation of flies before deciding that the fly wasn't as much of an issue as the presentation. I schlepped on an indicator and that problem was solved. it wasn't lock an load, despite the tightly packed school. It rarely is with suckers on artificials. But I started to pick off fish on a large Hare's Ear, their takes registering as gentle double and triple ticks on the indicator. 

A couple came up fouled, a regrettable but unavoidable aspect of fishing tightly packed sucker schools. Happily though, I managed a half dozen to hand hooked squarely in the upper lip. Funny enough I did rotate through some other flies, including a mop and some tiny pheasant tails, and the preference leaned decisively to the size 10 Hare's Ear. I tend to find that if suckers are being picky smaller in better, but it wasn't in this case this time. The key, especially in the winter, is having the fly roll right along the bottom. I was accomplishing that with ease with each fly by adding and removing small shot, though the hare's ear didn't need any. That may have been the difference maker. When I've been in position to closely observe the suckers I'm presenting to I've noticed that they'll move out of the way if they feel the tipped, and with a split shot rolling ahead of the fly they're far more likely to encounter the tippet before the fly makes it to them. This can be negated by utilizing the down and across technique often employed for Great Lakes salmon and steelhead, but I'd found this results in a higher percentage of snagged fish. 

I've fished intentionally for suckers for many years now, and on many a day found myself completely unable to convert opportunities even when there were large schools of them in front of me. Back in my formative years, we'd revert to snagging them. It was silly, but as kids there was this urge to see these weird, big-ish fish out of the water and hold them. When we found them much more picky and moody than the stocked trout, sunfish, and largemouth bass we were used to, we forced our will upon them  I feel bad for doing it now, of course. But I think it somewhat speaks to the intrinsic curiosity these fish resulted in. We'd see them plastered to the river bottom in so many of the places we fished, and just had to catch them. It wasn't until I started fly fishing that I had any thought of them being undesirable. The stupid, pointless hierarchy so common in fishing- that which sticks certain species on a pedestal while considering anything else as worthless trash -almost got to me. But the child-like curiosity won out, thankfully. Those odd, big fish plastered to the river bed still capture my imagination. All that really changed is that now I know how to properly catch them. 

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