Convergence 2023: The Nights I Live For

 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. 

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...

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, and Sammy 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

Convergence '22: Life

Another herring run has come and gone here in Connecticut. In April the alewives came in moderate numbers, danced their dance, drew in all the creatures that eat them, left their fertilized eggs and left. In May we had the worst blueback runs I've ever seen, there were hardly any herring. With June just a day away and temperatures hitting the 90's, it's just about over.

My fishing flows with the tides of my mental state. I'm almost always fishing, unless I'm even more depressed than is normal. The intent and discipline that I exercise on the water is what really changes, at least that's what I'm coming to learn. What apparently happens is I fish at my absolute best and hardest when I'm trying to hide from some festering thought. I'm both chasing a high and forcing myself to think about one thing. I don't stop and let introspection happen, I just role with the conditions and force myself to stay zoned into the task at hand. In the spring, my personal task is to get the largest striper I can, on the fly, one foot. My successes and failures are recorded in logs along with volumes of data, some perhaps irrelevant. The story those logs tell is that of a man possessed. The story ignores a whole myriad of existing problems, important issues, but it's the story I want to play out. For the first two thirds of the spring herring run season that story played out the way I wanted it too. Then it crumbled when the external plot could no longer be kept out. This is that story and its bitter end.

I started early this year. Having screwed up in the past starting much too late, I wanted to get a jump on it this year. There really weren't many herring around yet, but the bass were there. I started out tallying low numbers each night, one or two fish but no more. Those fish were all good though, I wasn't finding small bass. They were all 30 to 38 inch class. Then, a week in, I broke 40 inches. It was a solid confirmation that I was on the right track, as I typically hope to break that mark just once in a spring. Getting one so early on I was sure I'd have another shot, and I did. 

It was the night my partner and I broke up, something that had seemed imminent. I was also lost deeply in the weeds of cow madness, and wouldn't let myself out of that. Just a couple hours after we broke up, I was standing on the bank making that first short cast that I do while getting line out. I fished it out even though it was just a 25 foot shot because that's what you do if you actually mean to catch fish. Just seven feet off the rod tip, I came tight. The fish exploded to the surface ferociously, proving instantaneously that she was huge and a force to be reckoned with. That fish ended up being the first striper to get into my backing on my 12wt and the first large striped bass I've lost in three years. I'm not sure exactly how big she was, just that she was huge. I'm not exactly sure how I lost her, but it was a bruise to my ego for sure. My resolve hardened, though. If one big fish was around, surely I could find another. 

Many nights blended together, with work, guiding,  and scouting for guide trips occupying my days and fishing harder than is reasonable eating up the time I should have been spending asleep. I won't soon forget the night that I found the next big bass of the spring convergence. Oddly it was so memorable because it wasn't remarkable compared to many of the other nights that have yielded cows. Conditionally, it sat squarely mid playing field. It was good enough but not remarkable in any capacity. There were big fish around though, I could hear them occasionally. I've fished with enough people for stripers to know that most are horrible at interpreting the size of bass making surface feeding sounds at night. These, though, were completely obvious to my ears. Massive swirls created by large bodies. They weren't holding though, I don't think at any point a fish topped in the same spot twice. That meant I'd need to stand in one spot and just hope a cow moved in front of me at the right moment. I made cast after cast for two hours, being patient. A few fish came up fairly close to me, yet no touches. I decided I may as well try something different. Moving would make no sense and I had confidence in my fly, so I changed my retrieve. I went fast. Fast is rarely how I turn a cow bass on the fly at night. Big bass are lazy, they like easily caught pray. Usually. My first retrieve I got hit hard, jammed the hook, and for a little while thought I might have stuck a mid sized bass somewhere other than the mouth. It was an odd fight, completely lacking the trademark sweeping head shakes, instead consisting of short-ish extremely fast runs. When I got the fish close I could see that it was, in fact, a really large bass hooked exactly where she should be. Soon I was wrestling my largest shore-caught striper in the margin of the river, letting her make me bleed a little. She was 43 inches and very heavy. In that moment, I was completely elated. I'd tapped the right vein, put in the right stuff. Damn did it feel good, right there and then. 

Unwilling to back down, I pushed on, continuing to fish that night and each one that followed. Though I managed a few more high 30 inch range fish in my typical spot, two things rapidly deteriorated the quality of the fishing. The first was simply the amount of water. We've had a fairly dry spring and fishing totally slack water isn't a good bet for big bass on the fly. Also, the morons started showing up. That started to deteriorate my mental stability.

 One night, Garth and I were out in a pretty solid tide window when a jeep load of evidently drunk college age guys rolled up, being obnoxiously loud, parked illegally, and basically fell down the banks of the river with their headlamps on, scanning the water. Unable to conceal my displeasure, I yelled across the river. "TURN THE F***** LIGHTS OFF". They ignored me. I went and found the largest rock I could carry and dropped it off the center of the bridge before we left. I'm not proud of that, but if you're going to be an asshole on my river, I'm going to retaliate. 

Another night, a car pulled up in the center of the bridge and two guys got out and lit up the whole river with spotlights. I again voiced my discontent and was ignored. I go out of my way to be respectful of the place, the fish, and the other regulars that fish there. I call in poachers when I see them, I avoid being in close proximity to other anglers if they arrived at the spot before I did, I respect the neighbors and their property, don't shine my headlights into their yards and windows when I park, so on and so fourth. The lack of respect I see from other anglers pisses me off to no end. I didn't feel like being around that, so I decided to move along and explore new water in the latter half of the convergence season. I'd hit the old faithful river when the conditions seemed ideal and venture elsewhere otherwise. 

Though I do most of my herring run fishing alone, I sometimes have Garth tag along as he tends to share values and has the right mindset. He was with me on one of these exploratory mission, one that got me particularly excited about the new water I'd found. We didn't catch anything extraordinary but I did move a fish that was about 40 inches and we each got some beautiful little bass. I felt invigorated... just in time for the universe to kick me in the ass.

I was back on the same river, this time fishing with Alex Peru. Alex is quickly becoming one of my favorite people to fish with. He's obsessive, detail oriented, and deeply intuitive. He's also really good at making things that solve problems. Alex is the brains behind Albie Snax and Super Snax, two of the most effective soft plastic lures on the market. Alex and I had both been grinding hard throughout the herring run in an effort to catch the largest bass possible. I was eager to have him deciphering this new water with me as there were some aspects of it that reminded me more of the herring runs he fishes than the ones I'm used to. Seeing another angler, especially one as intuitive as Alex, pick apart the water with a slightly different eye and different tackle is often hugely helpful. There's a reason I don't just fish with guys that are unilaterally fly focused. That would put me in too much of an echo chamber, there'd only be so much I could learn. Most fly anglers, I find, are too rigid and stuck to old concepts. There's been a shift away from that in streamer design, thankfully. Much of that has been driven forward by anglers that gear fish too, or at least have a background and knowledge in that realm. 

Alex and I hit a few spots and got a few fish to hand, nothing big but it was progress. It felt like we might be hitting a stride, and I was saving what I felt were the best couple spots for later in the night. We were actually fishing a run I hadn't tried at night yet when Alex picked up one smaller fish. I had waded out to the edge of a strong current tongue to try to cover the opposite seem, but had no success. I waded back in and got up on a flat, dry rock. Alex and I were discussing the dynamics of the water in front of us, where the fish seemed to be holding, and what the next course of action should be when I suddenly went down. I don't recall even adjusting my weight, my feet just went out from beneath me and I went down hard, slamming the right side of my head on the very rock I'd been standing on. 

That probably could have been it. Had I hit a slightly different part of the rock or a different part of my head, even just an inch or two of deviation, and that fall could have killed me. If not, it might have severely disabled me. But instead I wasn't even knocked unconscious. I immediately got back up. I can't remember exactly what Alex said or what I said, though I know that for a short time my ears were ringing and I couldn't really hear myself speak anyway. What I do distinctly remember is feeling the side of my head and my fingers dropping into an obvious and shockingly deep indentation that shouldn't have been there. In a state of complete shock, I grabbed a small tree growing out of the rocks next to me. My head was spinning. The ringing started to fade, but I wasn't sure I was going to remain conscious at that point. Alex suggested I sit down, and that did seem like a good idea. We both took stock of the situation, and it was pretty clear what needed to happen. We were able to walk back to the car fine. Alex drove me to a clinic that was a bit close to my house. I called my mother on the way, trying to remain as calm as I could. The car ride was an odd and blurry experience, as were the next few hours. I was realizing that whatever I'd broken had severely altered the range of motion of my jaw. Moving it put me in excruciating pain. 

The clinic checked my vitals then did a CT scan. I'd fractured my zygomatic arch in three places. They decided to transfer me to Hartford Hospital to see a specialist. Alex was still waiting in his car when I got out of the clinic. I gave him the lowdown of what was happening, thanked him profusely, and he headed out to fish the morning tide, as any real angler would. I cannot emphasize enough how thankful I was to be with Alex when I fell. He handled it about as well as anyone could, really. I don't know what I'd have done were I alone. That would have been utterly terrifying. It was scary enough as is. Thank you Alex. You're a good friend. 

I was in the hospital for a while. The specialist came and took a look at the situation. She explained the surgery I'd need and how it would be done. I wasn't really all there at the time so I digested what information I could and forgot the rest. I had never broken a bone or even sprained an ankle or wrist before and I'd just skipped right ahead and broken part of my skull. I was just trying to remain calm. Exhaustion was also catching up. It was time to sleep. 

Having been given sort of an all clear from the doctors to go about life with only minor alterations, I pushed my limits. I knew if I stopped and thought for too long it would all come to a breaking point. There was a notable severe weather setup forecast the day after I was let out of the hospital, one Garth and I had planned to chase. You can bet your I wasn't going to sit it out. There was a different convergence about to happen, the meteorological sort, and when mother nature puts on a show I want to be there to see it, whether my skull is fractured or not.

Our target area was the Hudson Valley, my specific initial pinpoint was Poughkeepsie. We left early to get in a good position to watch things develop, stopping for bagels near Brewster. I must have looked like a complete moron, struggling to eat my bagel in exceptional pain yet still enjoying it. Behind the bagel joint there happened to be a trout stream. We had some time, so we walked over to take a look at it from a bridge. On the downstream side there were quite a few rising and nymphing fish. All browns, it looked like. We fiddled around there for a short time. All the while I was glancing at the radar. I small renegade cell had fired to our west, and it was tracking nearly straight north. These renegades were going to be the best bet for photogenic structure and tornadoes. It was time for us to make a move. 

We headed north, stopping near Milan, and let the storm progress. It underwent a split, weakening as it did so. The left split rapidly fizzled, but the right split seemed to be growing a bit. From our vantage, we could see a defined anvil and some inflow streaming in. "I think its turning right" I said, and a distant rumble of thunder punctuated my sentence. Turning right is a sign that a storm's updraft is beginning to rotate. This one had started to veer from a nearly straight north course to a Northeasterly one. It might be happening. My heartbeat quickened. 

We blasted west then a bit south to get into a good position to observe the developing storm, and when we reached a cleared hilltop it already had a compact little updraft base, complete with rear flank downdraft cutting through the cloud base (this is called the "clear slot) and a  low wall cloud. The rapid rising motion on the right side of the wall cloud was incredible. This little cell wasn't even severe warned yet, but it was trying to do something.

We watched the storm evolve, breathing in from warm moist environment it was moving into and exhaling cold air and rain. The updraft was indeed rotating, and it was pulling rain around itself and lightly cloaking its inner workings in translucent curtains. As it did so, a laminar funnel appeared from the wall cloud and a couple of vorticies danced up from the ground. This was what we'd driven out here to see. This brief tornado lasted no more than two minutes and did no reported damage in the vicinity of Ulster Park, New York. Indeed the storm that spawned it still wasn't even severe warned, though nickel sized hail was reported. It quickly lost tornadic potential for a little while, perhaps interacting with the Hudson River Valley. Garth and I bailed from our position on the hill top with positive cloud to ground lightning raining down around us. I ran down that hill laughing like a mad man, the earth shaking around us from the thunder claps and fat rain drops starting to beat the grass. I was truly alive in that moment, happier than I know how to describe. Sitting in the car catching my breath, I think I may have said something to the effect of "That was the shit right there. That's what it's about".

We briefly left the storm, which may have been a mistake as it went severe warned just a short time thereafter. In a desperate bid to catch back up, we ventured into the hills near the New York/Massachusetts Border. We struggled to get a good position on those winding roads and in heavily wooded terrain. Near West Stockbridge, we gave up. 

While we were diving back south into Connecticut the linear mode was taking shape. That resulted in one tornado-warned northern tip echo and some straight line wind damage along the leading edge of the line. We were on the tornado warned area, it did not produce but exhibited a classic rain wrapped QLCS circulation.

When it became clear we could no longer keep up with the line it was time to head home. I was exhausted by that point anyway. 

The next few days, I was forced to stop. I couldn't keep chasing the highs in my injured state. I tried to get out after the big stripers here and there, and I did have some opportunities. Alex got a 44 incher the one night I didn't go at all. I had a few decent little fish to 30 inches but no monsters. Mostly, I couldn't find the energy to get excited. Staying at home and trying to focus on work suddenly devolved into a deep depression. Unable to get enthused by the little things and physically prevented from doing anything grander, all the thoughts and problems I'd been trying to keep out for the previous months came rushing in. Struggling to grasp at something, I began trying to make progress on my business plans. I found I couldn't. The energy wasn't there. Every bump in the road began to feel like an impasse. Just filling out or printing paperwork felt like it would be as difficult as lifting a boulder with one hand, so I didn't even bother. The fact that my truck was still, three months later, in the shop from the Florida debacle was grating on me. I worried if I'd be able to afford the bill. The loss of a good friend suddenly felt real when I got what should have been a brief moment of respite and caught an incredible brook trout in a new spot. I thought to myself "Alan will love this", then remembered that he's gone. The date of my surgery came and the procedure seemed to go well, though I was and still am in a constant odd state of discomfort or pain afterward. It all came to head when I found myself lying in bed one morning, shaking, tears soaking my pillow, cold, and feeling completely alone. An intrusive, awful thought that has made its way into my mind in the past was back again. I've struggled on and off for years with mental health. There have been times when I just didn't want to continue. I wished, that morning, that my fall had killed me. I had had enough.

Why am I telling you this, you are probably wondering? It's an incredibly vulnerable story to tell in a blog post. I honestly don't want to put a spotlight on myself. I've hemmed and hawed over how I should tell this story or if I should tell it all, but I keep coming to the same thought. I alone am far from important, but I'm also far from the only person that has wanted to end their lives. Many of us have lost loved ones to suicide. It's horribly common. I just want those who may feel similar to the way I do to know that you aren't alone. I'm sure plenty of people are putting off a public facade of happiness and deeply wishing you didn't exist as I have done many times. Someone may look to be leading a privileged and joy-filled life but be dying inside. I'll tell you, it fucking sucks. I don't wish this on anyone. Nobody deserves to feel this way. Like me, you may be chasing highs, hoping to forget the things that are hurting. It may be working for now, but if one thing is becoming clear to me its that chasing the highs is a temporary solution. Fishing is as much a symptom of  my problems as it is a cure. The chemical releases in my brain give me a buzz when it's good and the hard-headed focus required to be the best angler I can be keep my mind off other problems, but it can't be sustained. Please, if you're suffering similar feelings, don't let them go unchecked. I'm not remotely qualified to therapize anyone and I'm not going to try, but there are options out there. Don't put it off. It's easy to, I know. I have done and actively am doing so. But if you are hurting, please know that people do love you. You've got someone, even if you don't feel like it. I promise you do. I'm here still, and I care about you. 

I often struggle to find a direction in life. Other people try to sway you, to direct your course. That's not something that's really up to them, even if your course isn't ideal from their vantage point. I don't know if what I'm doing now is the right course of action. Sometimes it feels like I will never get ahead. With the economy spiraling, a service job like guiding may well become difficult or impossible to hold. It is, after all, a luxury. Some have pushed me towards this line of work while others try to drive me away, and in each case the reasoning isn't unsound. I can only base my decision on one thing, though, and that's the way I feel when I'm standing on the poling platform or in the river next to a client when they hook a good fish. In that moment, I'm often happier than I'd be had I hooked that fish myself. The joy I get from showing other people, wonderful people, a slice of my world is one of the few things that has kept me here. It's hard to describe, really. I had a client out for carp not long ago, and he had numerous shots at feeding and sunning fish and landed a few. There was a moment of deep clarity for me when he was casting at one particular fish, a tailer in just 7 inches of water. I realized that my legs were shaking more than they would were I casting at that fish myself. My client's excitement and my own were so palpable I could almost hear it, like the low buzz of high tension power lines. Flip Pallot said something on the Millhouse podcast how "life is focused like a laser beam into (a) skiff". That applies to more than just flats skiffs. When I'm with a client, I'm doing what I feel I was meant to do with my life. I have meaning, then. I'm on the water, I'm teaching, and I'm giving people unforgettable experiences. It is one of a small handful of things that continue to give me meaning. That meaning is there when I'm on the ground in rattlesnake country, taking down data or even just observing for the sake of seeing something incredible. 

I wish I could hold onto that feeling when everything comes crashing down around me. Some moments its there, others it blinks out.  

I'm trying. I don't really want this to be over, at least not at this moment. I may be running headlong down an impossible path, but it's all I seem to be able to do so I may as well. You may very well feel the same. Well, friend, we'll let's enjoy it while we can. It is, after all, as fleeting as the sound of a cow striper eating a herring. I'll see you at the end of the path, beaten down and broken I'm sure. We'll look like we just ran down a big hill trying to escape the lightning, splattered with rain and sweating profusely. Or perhaps like we just lost that cow striper, sore, exhausted, cold, and smelling a bit ripe from not showering and sleeping in vehicles for multiple nights. But I think, maybe, there'll be a smile on our faces. I'll look at you and say "That was the shit right there. That's what its about." We'll feel alive for a moment. Then it'll be over. Our stories will come to an end when they're supposed to, as does everything else in the universe. Let's not force that along. What would be the sense in that? Life will kick our asses, that much is true. Maybe we can still have fun in the process. 

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

Convergence '21: Pulses

 The herring run isn't a singular event, but rather a series of waves or pulses of fish entering the system. Moon phase, temperature, and rain events all impact the timing of each pulse. I've spent enough years to have a pretty good idea of when the big nights will be. That doesn't stop me from going when it isn't so likely to be hot and heavy as well, though. As evidenced by the 41" bass in the previous installment, "bad" nights aren't always bad. Good nights aren't always good either, and 2021 had its share of disappointing ones. Unlike the average fly fisher, I've little interest in catching numbers of small stripers at night, even ones up to 26". I'll save those for flats fishing, where they are infinitely more challenging. I decided to completely forego that this season, unlike years past when I'd downsize and fish small buoyant flies to get the small fish that were around when the herring weren't. That meant I got fewer fish, but most were north of 26". 

On one night, all I got was this blueback. I get at least one each year that chases the fly, whacks at it thinking it's a gravid female, and gets itself hooked. 

A string of slow and mediocre nights ended in early May, when the conditions set up for a proper big fish night. Everything seemed lined up, and when the first fish was a fat 36" I wasn't at all surprised. She hit hard and actually fought harder than the 41" full moon bass. Fish in that size range are perfect for 12 weight fly rods, it's a shame they aren't more numerous. 

My pulse had been quickened the moment that fish hit, and it never slowed for the rest of the evening. I run on the same clock the fish do. We were out late. Several more fish between 28 and 32" came to hand, and some smaller. Unfortunately no legitimate cows were had, but it today's fishery I can't take nights like this one for granted. 

These fish are so beautiful, and the whole of the event is something I wait for the rest of the year to experience again. Those big, silvery baitfish entering small sometimes freestone rivers in huge numbers, the predators they draw (both avian and piscine), and the cacophonous roar of life, birth and death, eating and breeding... the river has a pulse. It is completely alive. I want to be there for every moment. 

Until next time, 

Fish for the love of fish.

Fish for the love of places fish live.

Fish for you.

And stay safe and healthy.

Thank you to my Patrons; Erin, David, John, Elizabeth, Brandon, Christopher, Shawn, Mike, Sara, Leo, C, Franky, Geof, Luke, and Noah 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. 

Convergence '21: Big Striped Bass on the Fly

 There is no short cut to catching large striped bass on foot on the fly. I've found it to be one of the most difficult pursuits in fishing. It demands time, persistence, keen observation, longer casts than the average angler is capable of, and an almost boneheaded conviction to do whatever necessary to accomplish the goal. My intention each season is to get at least one bass over 40 inches on the fly from shore. At best I might get five chances a year. I need to be really on my game to actually follow through and get one of those fish to hand. So far in 2021 I've had two chances. This story is about the first chance.

It was, by my standards, the wrong night to expect a big bass in a herring run. The moon was full, the air temperature was plummeting and there was a serious north wind blowing. The flow was good though, and the water temperature would at least be fine for part of the night, so I went anyway. I didn't even put on waders. I was wearing jeans and a jacket... certainly not looking like a serious striper fisherman. 

Upon arriving at the water, I could see a few herring swirls here and there. No signs suggested bass were present but I knew at least a few had to be. Half an hour of casting didn't change my confidence in fishing the full moon, but very abruptly I got a 30 inch bass. Okay, not bad. Certainly better than nothing. 

A while later without another take I decided to simply hop on over to the other side of the river. Sometimes a simple adjustment like that is all it takes, as we examined in the last installment of this series. First cast, 32 incher. Second, 27 incher. Then there was a lull, then a bump and a miss. Then I got slammed. I reefed on that fish hard to bury the hook and she began violently thrashing at the surface in the middle of the creek. It was immediately obvious that it was a big fish. I promptly put the cork to her and didn't give her one inch that I didn't absolutely have to. The fight was really short, though it certainly could have been much longer. She was still full of fight when I got my had on her lower jaw, and we had a bit of a wrestling match before both of use were ready to fully cooperate. I measured her against the rod at right around 41 inches, took a couple quick photos, and let her swim. I'd gotten a full moon 40". It was a good night. 

Unlike 2019, where I got a 40 inch bass right out of the gate and decided to focus on other interesting aspects of the herring run, this year I wanted to get more than one large fish. It was still April at this point, I had some time ahead of me. I'd have more shots. And I'm sure I'll have more shots after the herring leave. 

Until next time, 

Fish for the love of fish.

Fish for the love of places fish live.

Fish for you.

And stay safe and healthy.

Thank you to my Patrons; Erin, David, John, Elizabeth, Brandon, Christopher, Shawn, Mike, Sara, Leo, C, Franky, Geof, Luke, and Noah 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. 

Edited by Cheyenne Terrien

Convergence '21: Back to Back 30" Stripers

 Some nights spent pursuing the herring run are very slow, even if those herring are in fact present. There are swirls and splashed of alewives in the ink black water, but no boils or explosions from big stripers eating them. Repetitive casts with a big herring fly don't draw any grabs. The hours wear on and the feeling that any cast could be the one dissolves away. Such nights are actually the norm. Either there are no fish or just some small fish, and neither is really what I'm looking for. Other nights, it starts to feel that way until I make one small adjustment. That certainly isn't the norm, usually there is some sign that doing something different will draw different results, but sometimes there's just a feeling, nothing more. 

One night early in the herring run, I was getting bored. There were fish in, but they were silent. The sense that something was possible was just stuck in my mind despite every bit of external sign. I couldn't shake it. Eventually, I made a pretty simple move. I didn't change my fly, my leader, or anything like that. I just moved, and not very far. The first cast produced a jarring take. I rammed the hook home and the fish tore off. It clearly wasn't huge, but nice anyway and made a good account of itself. I landed it, removed my slammer from its mouth, and then watched it swim off. It was 30 inches on the dot. 

The next cast was stopped by yet another bass. This one fought dramatically less well, and yet it was basically a clone of the first. The same size, the same build, everything... just way less juice. 

And then it was over. I made a few more position adjustments but that was all the river had to offer. Frankly that wasn't bad at all. I'll take a 30 inch class striped bass any time. In this extremely deprived fishery, they've become a pretty reasonable bar for success for land-based fly anglers. This spring would produce quite a few more of them for me. 

Until next time, 

Fish for the love of fish.

Fish for the love of places fish live.

Fish for you.

And stay safe and healthy.

Thank you to my Patrons; Erin, David, John, Elizabeth, Brandon, Christopher, Shawn, Mike, Sara, Leo, C, Franky, Geof, Luke, and Noah 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. 

Convergence '21: Starting Off Strong

 I didn't really target stripers this winter. I didn't feel I could justify my want to catch some in the face of clear evidence that mortality is drastically higher under winter conditions, and the obvious decline of the stock. As usual I also started consistently hitting herring runs a bit late. There had already been alewives in the creeks for more than two weeks when I made my first trip. I didn't bother checking the tides or anything, I just went. Upon arrival, I could see the swirls of spawning alewives in the shallows illuminated by the lights from nearby houses. The ospreys and bald eagles had already settled in for the night, but a few great blue herons stood vigil along the banks. I was using my kayak to get around, and the cold dark water dripped off my paddles as I paused to tie on a large Sedotti Slammer variation. It was time.

Upon reaching my destination, I dismounted from the kayak to fish from the sod. Making repetitive casts, I waited for a grab. My patience has been my strongest attribute in the pursuit of big spring striped bass. I will stand for hours in the cold, the rain, and the wind, waiting through hundreds if not thousands of casts for that one sensation: the thump of a striped bass swallowing my fly. This isn't a pursuit for those who like sleep, or those who desire steady and consistent action. Catching big striped bass on the fly is very very hard to do in today's fishery. This is my pursuit though. I've come to adore it. There's little I'd rather do than listen to spawning herring for hours while waiting for that thump.

This time the thump came early. I don't think I've ever gotten a striper on the first trip of the year, but an hour into my 2021 bass season I was strip setting as hard as I could and a good bass was angrily trying to shake the herring that it must no longer have thought was the real thing. I was fishing a my new 12 weight and this was the first time the rod would be put to a real test. The fish put on a good show with a few short but screaming runs and some violent thrashing at the surface. I was very pleased when she rolled in the shallows and I was able to get my hand in her mouth. The first striper of the season was an excessively heavy 35 incher, maybe 18 or 19 pounds. Her gut was packed full of alewives. As I slapped her tail and watched her tear off, leaving me dripping wet from tail splash, I hoped that she'd leave the river soon and continue on her travels. Perhaps she'll spawn somewhere along the way. Maybe she already has.

So my first bass of the year was a good one... I spent 3 more hours out there that night without another take, but that's alright. I didn't need one. The overall theme of the season had already been set. Persistence and a well thought-out approach would prove fruitful this spring. The convergence of herring and predators had just begun. There are many more stories to tell, and I will tell them all in time. 

Until next time, 

Fish for the love of fish.

Fish for the love of places fish live.

Fish for you.

And stay safe and healthy.

Thank you to my Patrons; Erin, David, John, Elizabeth, Brandon, Christopher, Shawn, Mike, Sara, Leo, C, Franky, Geof, Luke, and Noah 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. 

Convergence '20: Death Throws

The gently undulating body of a dying sea lamprey brushed against my leg, as blind to the fact that I was a living organism as it was to the rest of its surroundings. Sea lamprey, like Pacific salmon, die after they spawn. They don't eat for months at a time during their trip into the freshwater streams of the northeast in which they build their nests and deposit and fertilize their eggs. By the time they're finished spawning, they are just about spent. Many rot alive, going completely blind and loosing more and more strength until they succumb, settle to the bottom, and return their nutrients to the river.

People hate lampreys. They don't look pleasant, their rings of teeth and suction cup like mouth strike fear in many. That their bodies are serpentine does not help; the prejudice against snakes and snake-like animals persists to this day. Fisherman accuse them of killing their favorite game species, swimmers fear that they'll bite them and suck their blood like giant leeches, but in reality, in the case of sea lamprey in their native range, these fears are based entirely in falsehoods. The reality is that sea lamprey are on of the most valuable and important species in our waters. Cut off the run of sea lamprey into freshwater rivers, and you cut off the nutrient delivery train. The lipid rich bodies of lampreys, alive or dead, feed, well, just about everything in the ecosystem. Pacific salmon follow an extremely similar life history and are also a huge sea-to-river nutrient carrying species. Salmon, though, are blessed with objectively beautiful physical characteristic. Salmon are highly regarded around the world, almost everyone that knows anything about them wants there to be more salmon and realizes how important they are. Lamprey, on the other hand....
I let this mottled, serpentine, rotting, animal brush by my bear leg and thought to myself how beautiful it was. This individual, in its final death throws, wasn't long from falling limp into the rocks to be ravaged by caddis and stonefly larvae, crayfish, minnow, and juvenile eels. It had likely successfully passed on it's genetic material to a new generation, which would live as tiny larvae in the bed of the river, grow large enough to head out to sea, grow large by feeding on the blood of large deep water fish species that they'd be too small to kill, before eventually carrying the nutrients they attained at sea back into this very stream, to start the cycle again.
I don't think I've ever heard or seen anyone else call a sea lamprey beautiful. Not once. But they are and they deserve to be recognized as such. I will shout it from the hilltops until the day I'm dead. These fish matter. We need them.

This is a beautiful animal. 

As I watched this amazing fish init's final death throws, I recognized that it symbolized the death throws of the herring and striper season in these waters as well. As the lamprey are about done spawning and the last few stragglers are in the river, the herring have all but disappeared and what bass are left have turned focus to other foods. The fishing might still be good, and can definitely be quite interesting. But the run is about to end. Any evening the fish could disappear. I wasn't even here for striped bass this night, but there they were, up shallow, feeding on who knows what. Darters, juvenile eels., golden stonefly nymphs, helgramites... the answer isn't clear as I couldn't and wouldn't stomach pump these fish to see. But they liked something buggy over something fishy.

This has been the story year after year. The herring disappear as the water warms and gets low. There's one last blast, a bug bite, small stripers, five weight fish in five weight water feeding on small food items. Then suddenly there's a full stop, the bass thin out and become unforgettable, and other species become the new focus in these waters. But those death throw days can be something special. This one was. The fish weren't big at all but on the five and 6 pound tippet, it hardly mattered. The larger ones ran hard and fast, like flats fish in equally clean cold water do. I caught many.

 Perhaps more exciting though was the number of white perch in the mix. Silly though this may seem, tidal water white perch are a nemesis of mine. Noah and I have put hours into the winter fishery unsuccessfully. But here they were, very suddenly, and it seemed like I might get a nice one any moment in the mix with the bass and the more typical sized perch. It happened at dusk. I had switched to a small gurgler by then which was drawing strikes but not getting many hookups. I was mostly okay with that, I'd given enough small stripers mouth piercings. But then it got blasted, I strip set, and the fish fought very much unlike the others had. It was a white perch of the caliber I'd been seeking for years. This was the fish of the night.

Though the herring run had ended and the very next night there wasn't a bass to be found in the same spots, this ended up being one of the most memorable nights of the whole run. It was a fitting end as it was a strong reminder of why it's worth going right up until the end and then some. I hate to miss something amazing. Even in the dying gasps of the herring run some remarkable events transpire.

Until next time,

Fish for the love of fish.

Fish for the love of places fish live.

Fish for you.

And stay safe and healthy.

Thank you to my Patrons; Erin, David, John, Elizabeth, Brandon, Christopher, Shawn, Mike, Sara, Leo, and Franky for supporting this blog on Patreon. 

Convergence '20: The Night

Every season has its night. Unfortunately, "the night" of herring season 2020 was equivalent to many nights in 2017, a few in 2018, and a few in 2019, and far overshadowed by the best night each year since I started. But it wasn't bad at all. It was really a huge relief, because there were clearly a few cows around, plenty of herring, and enough slot size fish to keep things more interesting. I was also alone on the river. I fished from 8:30pm to 3:00am on the night of May 16th, only to catch an hour long nap before leaving to be on a shad run at dawn on the 17th. Was it worth it?
It always is. I would live out of a car following the striped bass for a whole season if I could, and someday I probably will.

The bite was slow and steady all night. I was even tempted to stay longer because I knew there were a couple huge bass around. I could hear them. When a cow bass eats a herring off the surface and nobody is there to hear it, does it make a sound? Yes it does. An incredible sound. And I'm pretty sure I've heard big striped bass eating herring all the way from my bed on nights I didn't make it to the river. If there was a night I'd have caught a truly big striped bass this year, it was this one. But frankly I need five or six good nights with the right tide and herring numbers and some big bass around to have a really good shot. Getting to the point where big striper meets fly, hook find solid purchase, and big striper comes to hand is not easy at all and is a very tall order in the fishery of today. I'm pleased to say this year I've not had a striper over 36 inches come unpinned, and only one eat from one that didn't result in a hookup. That's partly because those fish just aren't around and when they have been, I've not been able to get after them. I'm not sure which is more frustrating, not getting shots or regularly blowing shots. One speaks to a worse fishery, one speaks to a worse angler.

On the 16th and 17th, angler error was not to blame. I was on point. I fished with purpose. I set like I mean it. I checked my hook sharpness regularly. I didn't lose focus despite the incredibly slow, repetitive nature of this time of fishing, and when the larger schooling fish that were around took my mixed-feather/Devlin blend Sedotti Slammer without fail they came to hand.

When I was a new striper angler, I'd have high 20's to mid 30 inch range fish get into my backing with fair regularity. Now it really never happens. Most recently I had a 24 inch striper unexpectedly hooked on a nymph with my 5wt and 6lb tippet absolutely burn line off the real and get a few feet into the backing with an 80 foot double taper line. But on my 10, my regular striper rod? It doesn't happen anymore, even big fish. But the largest I caught this herring run tried. It wasn't a bad fish and it was so hot I really thought I might have to one. With drag buttoned down this bass still took a good 65 feet of line. And she didn't come in whooped either, she gave me a good soaking the second after my camera flashed and tore off with vigor when I let go of her lip.

Exhausted, cold, wet, and happy, I headed home with fifteen bass to hand and three slot sized fish and barely enough time to nap, eat breakfast, and switch gear over to prepare for the shad trip. I slept in my waders. I've done it before. And never more often than during the herring run. This year was brutal, but not because I slept little, had to nap in waders, and put in lots of fishless hours. It was awful when my depression didn't allow me to do that. This was one of the few nights when I forgot all of that completely. And though my body was taking some serious abuse because of my need to fish, I couldn't have felt better.
Until next time,

Fish for the love of fish.

Fish for the love of places fish live.

Fish for you.

And stay safe and healthy.

Thank you to my Patrons; Erin, David, John, Elizabeth, Brandon, Christopher, Shawn, Mike, Sara, Leo, and Franky for supporting this blog on Patreon. 

Convergence '20: The Usual Players

Though the spotted salamander migration has been well over by mid May each year there is still amphibian mass migration in progress most rainy nights. Because the same rainy nights are regularly the best herring nights, I end up taking a long time to get to the river because I'm risking life and limb to save frogs crossing the road. On some nights the carnage is unbearable, with a sickly smell emanating from stretches of road were hundreds of frogs have been smashed. One night I had thrown up and was in tears from the mass killings I'd had to bear witness to on the way to the river. Dead bullfrogs, green frogs, pickerel frogs, American and Fowler's toads, grey tree frogs, and ribbon snakes were everywhere and it was just too much. I badly needed a reprieve but this was not the night.

I fished four hours without a take. There were fish around, but I was inexplicably drawing a blank. Then, shortly before dawn, I made a very simple switch and caught two bass. The second jumped repeatedly upon being hooked and ran with an abnormal amount of pep, and I wasn't even sure it was a striper. But the rising sun killed the bite and I left irritated that I had been missing something very simple for hours and could have had more and bigger fish.

Taking into consideration what had changed my success the previous night, I returned the next night expecting better results. What I got instead were more of the usual players, schoolie size fish just big enough to fish a herring in their mouths. 

The reality is, though the 2015 year class of fish, 24-26 inchers, is currently the most abundant class of fish in the herring runs, there was a time when 30-36 inch bass were the herring run mainstays. We just don't have many of those size fish in our fishery anymore and, unfortunately, because of the current regulations, that isn't likely to change soon. So unfortunately my herring run fishing lives or dies with these small bass, which is a difficult pill to swallow.
Until next time,

Fish for the love of fish.

Fish for the love of places fish live.

Fish for you.

And stay safe and healthy.

Thank you to my Patrons; Erin, David, John, Elizabeth, Brandon, Christopher, Shawn, Mike, Sara, Leo, and Franky for supporting this blog on Patreon. 

Convergence '20: Catalyst

Herring are the catalyst. My schedule from April through to mid June revolves around them. Without them, there's little to draw me and many other predators to the tidal rivers that are my office in the spring. Herring are the largest baitfish that runs a lot of these rivers in numbers. In some places shad take that designation, but herring are king where I fish. Their caloric content is the biggest draw. Imagine a river full of swimming cheeseburgers, a virtual buffet. It doesn't hurt that it's full of french fries too: spotfin shiners, glass or yellow eels, perch... the list goes on.

Unfortunately in the current fishery having a lot of herring in the river doesn't mean there's good fishing. I said in the last Convergence post that this was my worst herring run year yet, and that wasn't because there weren't herring. Despite my horrible mental state and erratic motivation causing my hours to plummet, I still managed to be on the water for some of the most remarkable pushes of blueback herring I've ever seen.

May 4th brought with it possibly the biggest push of herring I'd ever seen, and, oddly enough, I didn't fish in the dark at all. The run was extremely heavy right in the middle of the day, and though the fishing was unexceptional the sheer volume of bluebacks filled a need to see something spectacular and I left before the good fishing would even start. 

Under the water were the shimmering apparitions of thousands of 6-11 inch fish, almost invisible in the the deeper water but boisterously obtrusive in the shallows, where the males all jockeyed for position behind the fat, egg laden females. They occupied most of the river, a school of fish so impressive even someone with little interest in ichthyology or fishing would be impressed. As is so often the case I struggled to capture what I was really seeing in the water with my camera.

Were the bass there? Yes. Yes they were. Not a ton, not huge, and because it was in the middle of the day they were finicky. But a flatwing given slight manipulations every now and then got slammed a few times. I only photographed the smallest fish of four... because size doesn't always matter. 

So... the catalyst, the herring, were out in force this year. That just leaves two ingredients needed for a good successful spring mission: hard hours and numbers of larger striped bass. Unfortunately neither I nor the bass would hold up our ends of the deal.

Until next time,

Fish for the love of fish.

Fish for the love of places fish live.

Fish for you.

And stay safe and healthy.

Thank you to my Patrons; Erin, David, John, Elizabeth, Brandon, Christopher, Shawn, Mike, Sara, Leo, and Franky for supporting this blog on Patreon. 

Convergence '20: It Begins Thusly

Later than I'd have liked, the first herring run bass of the year hit my hollow fly and peeled drag after I gave him a couple quick punches. It wasn't a big fish at all but very welcomed, these stripers are tied so tightly to my soul that to feel that grab and set the hook is no longer something I want but something I need. I'd already been out a half dozen times this year and though there'd been herring, at times lots, It'd felt lie there just weren't many bass around. This night, May 2nd, there still weren't many, but a modest amount of herring and bass were present. When I lipped the fish and and got another little blast of endorphins, all was right. He was a pretty little bass in the mid 20 inch range, the most abundant size of fish in the current fishery. In all likelihood this bass had wintered over in CT somewhere, and the first pushes of herring had drawn him from his winter holding place into this small tidal river. I gave him a kiss and whispered sweet nothings to him, aware that, to the fish, I was an annoyance at least and a threat of death at most, but I can't help but talk sweetly to a beautiful thing I love.

Not long later, I was greeted by another tug and gave it the tough love again. Another similarly sized bass made its way to hand, despite its best efforts to avoid me.

Another endorphin boost, another kiss on the head, another fish released... the herring run was beginning to feel official. I can't remember if I caught another fish that night. I could go back and look at my logs if I really felt like it, but I don't and I'm not going to. Though the season of mass convergence had started more than a month prior, I was just now finally joining the party. This year would be a strange one in every capacity. My drive was not what it had been other years and I would be so depressed at times it kept me from taking full advantage. I was in perhaps the worst mental health of my life, and though I at times tried not to let them, these fish, herring and stripers, that have become so important to me, managed to keep me from teetering over the edge. It would be, not to spoil it, the worst herring run year yet for me. But perhaps the most important. This year the convergence of baitfish, predator fish, and birds of prey would remind me what I need most out of life, and that if I don't let these fish and the places they live consume me wholly I'm more lost then ever.
Until next time,

Fish for the love of fish.

Fish for the love of places fish live.

Fish for you.

And stay safe and healthy.

Thank you to my Patrons; Erin, David, John, Elizabeth, Brandon, Christopher, Shawn, Mike, Sara, Leo, and Franky for supporting this blog on Patreon. 

Convergence '19: Grand Finale

It was a sight to behold. The river, under moderate flows and good clarity, packed back to bank and top to bottom with blueback herring. I'd seen nothing like it. It was a proper herring run, thousands of fish packing into a freestone stream to do what herring do in the spring. At first I didn't see much. But then, where a tongue of current swept around a rocky island, I saw a continuous stream of herring headed upriver.

In the runs, where photography from above the water's surface wasn't going to do anything to reveal the fish below, the herring were packed tightly against each other from the bottom of the river to just below the surface. In the eddies behind rocks, huge numbers of scales collected. Smallmouth were swimming around with herring in their mouths that they couldn't swallow. There were so many herring that they pushed right by the deep striper hole where they usually stop, unable to proceed without being swallowed. This school was so big they just pushed right on through that hole with ease and didn't stop until they reached rapids they couldn't pass. I just watched them for hours. They never really spawned, and I wouldn't see them do much spawning the next night either. I'm not quite sure why, I'd have expected a hellacious amount of spawning noise after dark. But they were there in massive quantities and it was an incredible show. It took me a while to peel myself away and start fishing.

 The fishing was slow those two nights.

A half dozen bass between 25 and 28 inches kept me optimistic but I never got the hookup I was hoping for. In fact, the most impressive fish I caught during that time was a walleye that smoked a large black deceiver. 

To be fair, I didn't really need much more than what I got. What fish I did catch were enough to keep me alert, and the shear significance of what was going on around me was all I needed to take away in memory. I can't possibly impress upon you the volume of herring that was swimming in this river these two nights. It was an awesome spectacle. The air smelled of them, a sweet, melon sort of small, and loose scales made the water sparkle in the light. Other wildlife abounded too. This period featured one of the strongest pushes of yellow eels I'd seen. I found five wood turtles in three nights. The grey tree frogs all worked up. Giant helgramites were wandering in the streets. This was it. Big striped bass or not, this is why I put up with the sleepless nights, pouring rain, cold wind, and risky wading. As the calendar turned over to June and the run petered out, I was satisfied with all that I'd seen and done, and already thinking about the next season. I'll be waiting. Convergence '20 starts in just 10 months.

If you enjoy what I'm doing here, please share and comment. It is increasingly difficult to maintain this blog under dwindling readership. What best keeps me going so is knowing that I am engaging people and getting them interested in different aspects of fly fishing, the natural world, and art. Follow, like on Facebook, share wherever, comment wherever. Also, consider supporting me on Patreon (link at the top of the bar to the right of your screen, on web version). Every little bit is appreciated! Thank you to my Patrons; Erin, David, john, and Christopher, for supporting this blog.