Spring 2023 is in the books now as the most frustrating herring run year of my short time chasing this sometimes magical event. It had its moments though, as any year does. And when I think about it, every year is a slog. Long, long night hours are spent casting at nothing for the occasional crazy night of heavy action or just one or two very large fish. And though on the whole this season was frustrating, the highlights really felt special. Though I managed only about a dozen bass from my favorite river, the first of the season there topped out at 41 inches. My goal each season there is to get one 40 incher and I have accomplished that each year since 2018, last year being the standout with a 40" and 43" and a few fished that missed the mark by no more than half an inch. Getting my big fish there was a relief- and lucky given the overall lackluster success I had.
In other parts of the state the story was a little different. My friends Alex and Dave were having an banner year. Twice I fished down their way, and both nights far exceeded anything I saw anywhere on my side of the state during this run. The first night was slow save for a short window at what has become one of my favorite spots to fish in the state. The tide was low and a few alewives were jetting down the riffles to the head of tide, where some would meet their demise. Not only were stripers there to take the desperate little fish. Like miniature fisherman, night herons were visible in silhouette up and down the riffle. It wasn't quite fully dark yet when we got there, but it took hardly four casts to come up with a quality fish. Two 20 pound class fish in quick succession fell to a swung Sedotti Slammer tied with Devlin Blends yak hair. These weren't long fish, they were over-slots but not 40 inchers. They were just absolutely rotund. That short window was enough to make that night special, as only a few more fish came to hand between then and sunrise.
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| Photo Courtesy Alex Peru |
The second trip down was the reverse. Alex was fishing different spots most of the night with another friend, but we met up early morning to hit what should have been a prime tide at a new spot he really wanted to show me. Action had waned there though, and we bounced around a few spots on the same creek with only a couple small fish to show for it. I was beginning to drag a bit mentally. I'd started to fish well before dark for trout and was now going on hour 13 of fishing and hour 40 of being awake. I almost considered calling it a night. Fueled by caffeine and addiction, I didn't take too much convincing to follow Alex to another spot. I did have a feeling about it. I'd fished the same river earlier in the night and seen better bass than I've come to expect there. Perhaps the falling tide would concentrate herring and stripers in a particular chokepoint in a gritty, urban, junk filled stretch of the creek. Upon arrival it was clear that exactly that was happening.
Herring swirled and waked through the shallows. There weren't too many as there sometimes are either, just the right amount to make the bass crazy. And we saw and heard predations within moments of our arrival. What followed was the most remarkably hot and heavy herring run fishing I'd ever had, all of it in water less than 3 feet deep. We had fish in front of us chowing on herring until the light of the new day brought the chorus of morning birds up. It almost seemed there was no end to the slough of fish. As the water fell we just kept following them downstream until the bite died, leaving me unsure how many 30 inch and better bass I'd just caught. None were giants, but two or three may have exceeded 20 pounds. One in particular stands out, feeding loudly in a narrow choke point that herring were attempting to pass through. It was in such shallow water that it probably occupied more than half the water column, and it couldn't help but make some incredibly huge swirls in such a place. I really thought it could be 40 inches. It took a little while to get that fish. In the process I got one right at my feet. I dropped the fly in the water to re-cast and set the hook unintentionally when I went to back-cast. A few casts later my fly stopped dead and I set the hook on the bigger fish, which was about 36 inches if I remember correctly... and I probably don't, though I do know caught fish that big that night. It was so good it was disorienting.
My brain didn't really fully process that bite. I was at the bottom end of my processing power when we got there and the excitement was just enough to keep me focused and functional enough to drive home, where I promptly crashed almost fully dressed. I woke up later that day with one sock on and my t-shirt sort of knotted around my wrist. I never remembered trying to take it off. The memory itself of the late night chaos was more vivid then but already distorted. Many of these herring run memories hold like that. I'm so beaten down and exhausted that they don't register in full but in fragments.
Sounds.
Momentary glimpses.
Feelings.
Smells.
Words uttered between tired fisherman.
The sensation of a heavy striped bass grabbing a fly.
It's almost dream like to me, as if I don't actually live the herring run but fabricate it in my mind instead. And it would work, because even when its slow like it was this year, its unquestionably my favorite kind of fishing. It would make sense if I were just making it all up for myself. I'd put big migratory fish in small water, chasing bait that is only there for a finite time. I'd make them heavy and powerful, and the streams themselves not only beautifully structured but at times dangerous to navigate. And of course this would all happen at night, with a lot of other wildlife around even in the most urban spots.
Yeah, the herring run really was made for me. Or, more likely, I was made for it.
Well, it's over for this year. It always feels so short. Till 2024...
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