Yooper Wolves

 The hour or two I spent on the Two Hearted River was tantalizing, not satiating. The Lake Superior don't have the steelhead reputation that the other lakes do, but this river's reputation proceeds itself through the writings of Hemingway. I confess, though I have read The Old Man and The Sea and Big Two Hearted River, if Hemingway had never fished the Two Hearted and written about it I'm not sure it would have changed my opinion of it for the worse at all. I mostly mention it because that's how others know of it. The Two Hearted is a low gradient, winding, tannic river whose predominant year round salmonid is the native brook trout. The lake run rainbows reportedly average about six pounds here, though my first hand experience cannot corroborate that claim as I saw no evidence of any such fish in my time there, aside from a very small number of other anglers fishing for them. Spoons seemed to be the method of choice up there, which is a departure from the float-based or bottom bouncing approach I've seen in most other places I'd fished on the Great Lakes. There were also far fewer people here. By leaps and bounds, in fact. I made for five in total on a few hundred yards of water. This certainly owes to the remoteness of the location as much as anything. Michigan's Upper Peninsula is a sparsely populated place that reminds me of Northern Maine superficially. Resource extraction is the primary industries up here. Logging and mining lead the tables. Iron and copper both come from ground here. Later in the trip we'd meet a rock shop owner on the lower peninsula who's family were Yoopers, and she talked about inheriting large pieces of float copper that were found on her family's farm. Indirectly, it was the extraction industry the got me there. On November 10th, 1975, the jewel of the Great Lakes big iron boats, the Edmund Fitzgerald, sank during a monstrous storm. Losing big boats was not a particularly rare occurrence on the lakes up until that point, but none had quite the impact on popular culture that the Fitz did, and her end was a wakeup call that essentially ended a long string of lost vessels and crew. This November 10th was the 50th anniversary of the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald and that was why we were on the Upper Peninsula, and how I ended up stripping streamers in the languid, black runs at the very end of the Two Hearted River.

The river almost parallels the shore of Superior at it's lower end, though it would be hard to call sucha  winding path parallel to anything. The very last leg almost is straight before it juts sharply north and into the lake. Before that, though, her course is a very winding one, through the stark landscape of dunes; all sand with scattered pines, many dead. The weather on November 10th 2025 was much, much better than the weather on the same date in 1975, but a stiff breeze out of the northeast made standing facing the lake a fairly unpleasant experience. It was easy enough to avoid that, thankfully, tucking in behind the dunes. Tolerable though it may have been, and as much water as I was able to cover without impedance, no chrome flashes lit up the darkly stained water. No grabs met my slowly pulled swings either. Hours spent casting were limited, though, and perhaps a future visit will go differently. There are other animals to encounter on the Upper Peninsula, though. One is certainly rarer, but less out of place than the introduced rainbows. 

Across much of the Eastern half of country, wolves are a thing of the past. They eat our cattle and sometimes us, so settlers pushed them back hard. Though rumored sightings circle, the claimed last wolf in Connecticut was killed by Isreal Putnam in the town of Pomfret. Wolves held their grasp in Michigan longer. It wouldn't be until the 1910 that wolves would be beaten down from the Lower Peninsula. Even when they were gone there, the declining UP population was faced with bounties that remained instated until 1965¹. Though granted full protection not long after, it would take Wisconsin's population rebounding for animals to filter back onto the UP and repopulated. They've grown in number since, exceeding 762 in 2024 according to Michigan DNR. Isle Royale has the most significant density, but wolves are seen in other wild parts of the peninsula. 

As I've written about before, I adore large animals, predatory animals, and dangerous animals. Though I had no delusions of getting a chance to actually lay eyes on a wild wolf- they are very good at not being seen when they don't want to be -maybe, just maybe, I might be able to hear one. 

Being some sort of strange freak, I've spent countless hours standing in the woods in the dark listening to the sounds of wildlife. From endangered frogs to owls to coyotes, to even cryptids, I've put a lot of time in "with my ears on". A cackling pack of coyotes, barking fox, or overhead barred owl alarm call stopped fazing me years ago. Hours of annotated and carefully sorted sound recordings going back to when I was just 14 of woodland noise lace multiple hard drives. To say my comfort level in the dark is high would be an understatement. That, and my cursory understanding of topography, predator habits, seasonal prey movements, and modern satellite imagery gave me the confidence to go see if I might hear the wild wolves howl. I picked a spot where a wetland river corridor abutted rolling hills with hardwoods and patchy logging cuts. It was well out of town and closer to an area with reported sightings than some other decent looking habitat. Three of us- my partner Emily, our friend Ian, and myself -split from the group at our little cabin, hopped in the rental van, and went on a little adventure. 

The woods in southern New England don't feel wild at night. It's impossible to get away from anthropogenic noise or sound, so you always know you're near dense settlement and civilization. There's always a plane going by overhead and low enough to hear. Even in the most remote place in Connecticut, on a dry night you'll hear someone's broken muffler in the distance. Light from towns illuminates the bottom of the cloud deck and reflects everywhere. The only time you can really get away from that is during a heavy snow storm. But there, down a long dirt road and away from town, the Upper Peninsula had that feel... that silence. The air wasn't moving. We heard no car, no plane. Any crunch or scrape of gravel from our feet was deafening.  Those who appreciate such desolation seem automatically inclined to speak only in hushed tones. And that we did, remarking in amazement at just how silent it really was. I just hoped, maybe, that silence would be broken by a sound that has sent shivers down the backs of our species for millennia. 

It was almost funny how long it didn't take. The three of us were all whispering when something low and distant caught my attention and I made an abrupt "Shhh, SHHH!". Ian and Emily went silent, and we all heard them. They were far away, but it was hard for me to mistake what we were hearing. Those were not coyotes. There were only a few  voices. No yips and barks, just long, low, mournful howls. I stood in awe for just a moment before being overtaken by the urge to get closer. "Let's go, we can get closer to them", I urged, and we hopped back in the van. The howls had come from our north, so we followed the road that direction, up into the hardwood forest. We stopped again, and after a little while, heard another- this time apparently individual -caller. It seemed just as far off as the first howls. Once again, we hopped in the van and drove north. This time, our wolves wouldn't talk again. Instead, a single truck, tooling around the dirt roads on a joy ride, interrupted the silence and darkness. It made me realize just how load and obvious our vehicle certainly was, and how unlikely it was that we'd be able to gain ground on animals that had a vested interest in not being seen. We decided to call it a night, the echo of those distant howls still reverberating in my head, another voice that would surely call me back to this place some day down the road. 

¹ James H Hammill,  2013. "Wolf Recovery in Michigan" https://wolf.org/wolf-recovery-in-michigan/

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, oddity on Display, Sammy, and Cris & Jennifer, Hunter, Gordon, Thomas, Trevor, Eric, Evan, Javier, Ryan, Dar, Eric, and Truman 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. 

October-November Guiding Updates

 Hey folks! It's fall, right? Spastic weather aside, it is, I guess. We're in drought conditions, streams are very low, and the leaf hatch has commenced. So despite the temperature aggressively flip-flopping and the disappointing lack of good storms, it is indeed fall here in southern New England, and that brings a few changes to my guiding program. This late summer/fall transition period certainly wasn't unproductive though, with a few really cool highlights. I did as many big river floats as I could, and they all had their moments even on the slower days. Though smallmouth were the primary headliner, pike and stripers made plenty of showings as well. 

Greg with a nice one on a soft plastic

Barred up aggressor for Andrew

Schoolie for Dar... we were seeing a few much bigger than this!

Javier's pike put on a good show waking off the bank.

And of course there were plenty of good carp too. Late summer often gives up a few really good ones and this year was no exception. Winner goes to JK with this record breaker:

The carp are, of course, still going. It isn't as predictable at this point in the year, so I wouldn't recommend trying to book for them unless you have some flexibility with your schedule. Warmer days, especially after warmer nights, will be much better. 

In the salt, I'm still plugging away at the multispecies trips. They've got a heavier weakfish bend this year than last, they're becoming even more widespread and abundant. We're getting them both in daylight hours and at night, and some pretty nice ones are showing this year too. That's keeping me around the creeks and rockpiles. There are bonito and albies around as well, and when on anchor at rockpiles it's not at all out of the question to get shots at them from the canoe. Tautog season opens October 10th and I'm more than equipped to put you on your first fly rod blackfish! I do light tackle jigging for them as well, both shore and canoe based in shallow waters taking an approach very few others are. It's an interesting game, if you care to try it!

Jason with a good fly rod tautog

Jonathan's lifer weakfish.

And its salmon season again. Just like last year we're in drought conditions and the Shetucket is quite low, so it will be walk and wade trips only for the foreseeable future. This low water does provide shots to catch them on dries though, and that's always fun. If you have a flexible schedule, it's always best to try to hit an evening window or a cloudy or even rainy day, that's when we do our best, but conditions aside I can always put you in front of a salmon with the best flies to get the job done. I'll be taking Salmon bookings right into winter, and if we do start getting water enough to float I'll be doing float trips in the NRS, so look forward to that! 

Mark with a late season salmon from a productive float.

Aside from those saltwater and salmon targeted trips, there are other options coming up as well including kokanee, stillwater trout, and a continuation of the warm-water floats for bass and pike. I love this season, it's one of those times when there's just so much that can be really good it can be hard to decide what to do any given day. I love the fall but it does go fast. Don't let it slip you by!

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, oddity on Display, Sammy, and Cris & Jennifer, Hunter, Gordon, Thomas, Trevor, Eric, Evan, Javier, Ryan, Dar, Eric, and Truman 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. 

The Great (Stocked) Trout Migration

 (This is intended to be read as if in the voice of Sir David Attenborough. If read in any other affect, it will not be received as intended)

In a concrete raceway swims a mature rainbow trout. This trout, like many others it shares it's current artifice with, lives a most peculiar life. A scheduled one, in fact. A couple times a day, always at precisely the same times, the trout partakes in a massive feeding frenzy, the likes of which are extremely rare in the wild. Fish froth at the surface on schedule as their prey, little brown pellets, enters the water. It and many of it's brethren, were all conceived, born, and reared in a highly regimented manor, by a specialized species known as "hatchery manager". The hatchery manager is at the whims of the trout as much as the trout are at the whims of the manager. He must keep them alive and growing before the migration, and they must feed, move, and breed when he says. It's an unusual sort of symbiosis. 

 This trout's schedule dictates that is must soon make his final migration, though he doesn't know it or even want to. His majestic grey and speckled sides and short nubby fins ripple as he navigates the habitat he's known his whole short life, flanked on three sides by concrete and by netting above. It's a trout's dream... consistent water temperature, regular and fattening meals, and little fear of a predator. It is a little crowded, though...

(60 seconds of seconds of b-roll of trout bouncing off of each other in a hatchery raceway set to dramatic music)

Unlike many species before they migrate, the trout has no urge, no drive to leave. But suddenly one day it is swept into a big net. Flopping franticly in a pile of it's own tank mates, the trout only knows that this is different. Not where it could be headed or what is in store. But this is, in fact, what he was born for. It is his final purpose. from the net the trout enters a tank, similar in some ways to the one he just came from but smaller, darker, and metallic. and this one is on wheels. When the lid is closed the trout is plunged into darkness. Soon, there was a sensation of moving. Nobody knows how a trout perceives the passage of time, but some say this journey feels like an eternity. In reality it is only a about 30 minutes before the lid to the tank is opened again. In a net plunges, and wriggles trout leave the vessel. The trout are frantic, and our little friend cannot see where his tank mates are going. He just knows that with each scoop of the net, there are fewer and fewer. After a few nets full, the lid closes again, and the travel continues. Next stop... the wheeled tank parks atop a concrete bridge. The hatchery workers hop out and repeat the process. Once again the trout are startled be the abrupt introduction of light when the lid opens, and once again a net enters the water. This time, it's our trout's turn. He flops in the net deliriously as it is passed between hatchery workers. Then he is dumped most unceremoniously off the side of the bridge, plunging ten feet into his new habitat and the endpoint of this admittedly short migration. This place is completely foreign to the trout, though someplace so far back in his genetic code that is barely gasps a whisper are the relics of his ancestors, trout that lived their whole lives in places like this. 

(b-roll of a wild trout with it's brighter colors, intact fins, and robust musculature swimming past the stocked trout)

This place is wholly unfamiliar. The food comes in forms the trout has never seen, and at times that seem random. There is no protective net and the trout watches some of his hatchery mates get taken by a predator just hours after reaching the destination... a heron, merciless in it's intense desire for trout, stabs a few. Incidentally, he is intended for a predator. A very specific one. The trout has no immediate fear because this predator looks exactly like the hatchery manager he could always trust. And that's the cruel trick. This predator comes bearing snacks. The trout, growing hungrier with each passing hour after the regularly scheduled feeding should have occurred, hears something enter the water and goes to see. Its a pellet, not brown like the ones he usually eats. It's bright green... but has a profuse and enticing flavor, so it must be food. The trout spends his final moments thrashing helplessly on the end of a line as a vest-wearing man sitting on a bucket reels him in. 

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, oddity on Display, Sammy, and Cris & Jennifer, Hunter, Gordon, Thomas, Trevor, Eric, Evan, Javier, Ryan, Dar, Eric, and Truman 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. 

Gotham Fish Tales & Fishing Culture

 Kevin, Rick and I plumbed the murky waters as Kevin's Maverick gently drifted the edge of a deeply dredged channel in the harbor in the shadow of industry- giant industrial oil storage tanks, wharfs, and smokestacks were the backdrop. This is the case for many places where rivers meet the ocean in the northeast. Though much disrupted and in many ways ecologically compromised, there are still fish in such places. Periodically around us a flipping menhaden disturbed the otherwise flat surface, and overhead ospreys whirled and periodically dove to catch them. Kevin and Rick were working flutter spoons this particular morning, and in a short time some arches began to appear on the sonar. Not long after that, they were doubled with slot sized striped bass. The iridescent flanks of a striper may seem a stark contrast against the unnatural surroundings, but fish and city harbors are entirely synonymous. I've fished urban settings for much of my life, and though I certainly love to get away from obvious signs of human disruption, there's also just something that appeals about catching fish where they seem to be thriving despite monumental human pressure. I've long enjoyed catching fish in the shadow of industry and intense population density, because it can sometimes give me a glimmer of hope... if they can live there, we can bring back so many things that have succumbed to human impacts. This is a modern American luxury in many ways, as in many cases the centers of industry in this country had long polluted the waters they were built on to a point of lifelessness, and without the clean water act and clean air act, among other pollution controls both state and federal, there likely wouldn't be much fishing to do in the Cuyahoga River, Newark Bay, or Providence River. In other parts of the world; developing, industrializing nations, there are places where one wouldn't want to fish, where dissolved oxygen is a rarity and human waste is not. I must admit that the fact that urban fishing is in any way productive or appealing is a fortune of my place, both in time and geographically. And that doesn't mean that people are still trying to eek ichtyes from waters in Delhi, Phnom Penh, and Nantong. 

Angler and guide Geoff Klane works an urban New England canal

New York is our country's most populous city, with around 8.48 million people. Depending where you look, it ranks somewhere from 28th to 11th in the world's most populous cities. I've long wanted to fish New York City. I've not made the effort yet, but I'd like to. One of the big reasons was a documentary I stumbled on some years ago called Gotham Fish Tales. Photojournalist Robert Maass started filming crabbers, shad netters, charter boats, and recreational anglers in the city in 1996, and released the film in 2003. It portrays a tiny and diverse subculture of the New York populous... those who fish the waters that ebb and flow around the most metropolitan of American metropili. This is a slice of fishing culture in the pre-social media age, and I think it's an especially important piece of media for any angler in the northeast to see and hopefully appreciate. The cast of characters it portrays is just classic, and Maass let's them carry the story. Only occasionally do you hear him at all, only asking a question from time to time. From recreational anglers casting snapper bluefish and schoolies in the notoriously Gowanas Canal to eel fisherman cleaving horseshoe crabs to bait pots, Gotham Fish Tales does a good job of highlighting fisheries that were both just picking up, as well as those that were dying. More than two decades later some of the places that Maass filmed fisherman aren't accessible anymore. Some may even have better fishing now than they did then. You can find Gotham Fish Tales on YouTube here: www.youtube.com. Also worthwhile, Joe Cermele interviewed Robert Maass on Cut & Retie: open.spotify.com

Though I'm generalkly more interested in ecology than in people and fishing culture, there is something to be said for preserving that history. People fish for all sorts of things in all sorts of places, in many different ways and for many different reasons. Whether or not I think those means and ends are ecologically sustainable or should even continue has no bearing on the cultural value of remembering and preserving all things fishing. We shouldn't fill buckets of flatfish anymore, but we also shouldn't forget that once upon a time, within plenty still living angler's memory, fisherman were doing that. I have a deep interest and respect for the history of angling and what it has to tell us about both fish and people. I worry that much of that history is going to fade away, and many fisherman don't know and don't care what it was like, even just twenty something years ago. 

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, oddity on Display, Sammy, and Cris & Jennifer, Hunter, Gordon, Thomas, Trevor, Eric, Evan, Javier, Ryan, Dar, Eric, and Truman 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. 

August-September Guiding Updates

 

I love the latter half of summer, I just do. I know some people fret over the days getting shorter and things getting a bit dry and low, I don't really. I love August and September. They provide a kick butt variety. particularly, though, I'm growing more and more fond of late summer smallmouth floats on big water. It's visual, the fish can be fickle enough to provide a challenge but also so absurdly aggressive at times they make it impossible to screw up. I just love them, they have such attitude and aggression but not so much so as to make it too easy. And there's always a chance to put one in the air that's over 22 inches. 

Stephen from Kismet Outfitters with a good one that hammered a Sid at the surface.

Right now, the water is still a little on the warm side for pike, but nights are gradually getting cooler and longer again. That'll change things, the pike will eat better and I'll feel better about hooking and fighting the as temperatures drop well below 80 again. The smaller ones are moving now, most days one or two will show themselves, often leaving us with a fly-less leader and couple of muttered cusses. A few even make it to hand. 

Ed with a 20 incher

Some days, I've taken to beaching the boat, getting out and wading, With the river very low now, this makes for a nice break to cool off a bit on the hot days. It has also provided some shots at some carp and schools of roving, shad fry feeding bass.

And of course there's the salt. Stripers, though? forget it it. Terrible, miserable, no good, bad. If you ask for them, I'm sorry, unless something changes dramatically I just can't. They aren't here like they were just a few years ago. BUT... some things are that weren't, and it's a great time to just go rack up species. Weakfish, scup, fluke, spot, maybe even a cownose ray? It's a good time out there in the marshes and coves, and my canoe is the perfect craft to cover the shallows. Sure, you could go book a guide on a trout stream and slug it out in tough, low water conditions for a few trout... or you could use some of the same tackle and tactics and catch a plethora of weird and wonderful salty characters. 

So that's the short of the long of it. This has been a good summer so far, with a lot of great clients. So far this August, and it'll take something pretty special to give it a run so attempt to de-throne him at your own peril, fish of the month goes to Collin Steadman with this ripper 27.3lb common carp. What a monster! Thanks as always to everyone who has made it out with me so far this year, it keeps the good times rolling. 

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, oddity on Display, Sammy, and Cris & Jennifer, Hunter, Gordon, Thomas, Trevor, Eric, Evan, Javier, Ryan and Dar 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.