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 '21: Shad

 Once each spring, I make a run north to get on the American shad run. The American shad draw big striped bass, just as the river herring do, but I'm not after them for that reason. Unlike the herring, the shad are big and aggressive enough to be an excellent game species. Large American shad are hard fighting, often acrobatic chrome beauties that still have traces of that saltwater pull left in them even once they're 100 miles or more inland. And that's where I chase them, because if I'm honest the shad fishery in Massachusetts- at least for a fly rodder -is leaps and bounds better than what we have in Connecticut. 

Catching shad on a fly is simultaneously very simple and very complex. The flies and general fishing style are not complicated. I carry a bunch of very simple, colorful, flashy, weighted flies. Most of them use either a bead or dumbbell eyes, chenille, and flash... nothing more. The method is swinging. When it gets right down to it though, there's quite a bit of minutia involved. The fish can move a lot. They may change what color they want at the drop of a hat. Depth control and swing speed are incredibly key. Casting angle can make a huge difference. Well, it really isn't that simple is it? Some days it is, the shad go nuts and hit anything almost anywhere in the water column. But it's best to be prepared for it not to be that way. 

On my one trip this year, I was showing my friend Mark Alpert the ropes. Mark is a more than adept fly angler but had never caught a shad and this was his first time looking for them in Massachusetts. I knew what we'd likely be met with and was prepared for a decent day. The fishing played out very differently for each of us. 

Upon arrival, I was making constant little adjustments until I finally got a take. Depth, color, retrieve or lack thereof, position, etc. Eventually I finally started getting fish. They were in a seam right next to some pretty hard water and it was a pretty tight swing. By the time I'd called Mark and he'd gotten over to me, they were done there. 

After a spell we changed location entirely. Once there, it took me a while to dial things in. I was picking up fish, but not the way I wanted to (every cast), until I got my casting angler and swing honed just right. Then I had a steady pick that lasted a little while. Mark, fishing with a single hander, was compromised. I was able to lob a very long cast even with a steep slope right at my back. 

When that dried up, I wanted to return to the pool we'd started on. I felt that even if things picked up again where we were, Mark would have a better shot at the original pool. It was pretty immediately active upon our return, and I soon honed in on a color and swing speed that were working very well. That got me a good number of fish including a few beautiful big fresh roe shad, one of which was my personal best.

Eventually Mark was starting to get his presentation more tuned in as well and he was starting to get hits. Unfortunately, the bite slowed and then stopped completely, right before we had to leave anyway. I felt bad, but I knew it had nothing to do with his skill and encouraged him to make another trip. Mark got his first shad a few days later, as I expected he would. 

Shad are a perplexing and mysterious fish. They're a filter feeder at sea, so it is bizarre that they are so inclined to bite a fly so man miles inland. They've managed to survive through American industrialization, no minor miracle. Though they're far from my favorite fish, I think I'll always make that one trip a year. Maybe, if I get skunked, two. Catching a good shad bite is a pivotal part of experiencing the convergence of anadromous fish on inland rivers. It remains one of the greatest shows of life each spring.

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: 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: American Shad

Each year I make one trip up to Massachusetts to fish for American shad. It's a something of a rebellion trip, because a lot of people get cray for shad in CT and start fishing early in the run. Spots are often pretty near shoulder to shoulder and there are a fair number of boats on the river. I've fished for shad in CT once and my urge to do so again is fairly limited. I go to a tributary in Massachusetts once the season is well underway, catch a bunch, and quench my thirst. My friend Ben started me on this tradition a number of years ago. I caught my first shad with him towards the end of the run. Since then, I just keep going to the same spots on the same river and fishing the same flies. This year I thought it might not happen, but after a full night of striper fishing I found myself holding my short spey rod in the turbulent dark waters of my favorite shad river, swinging my simple red fly, one of five that I'd hurriedly whipped up in the time between getting home from the river and, well, leaving for the river again. Before the sun, which wouldn't have been visible anyway as it was completely cloudy, made its way over the horizon, my rod bent double and the first shad of the day was hooked.

These silvery clupeid fish are intrinsically linked with New England spring. They have run the rivers to spawn in large numbers for many year, becoming vitally important to indigenous peoples, then Europeans when they crossed the Atlantic. John McPhee's book The Founding Fish covers the historical importance of this species and should be required reading for pretty much anyone reading this right right now. 

Despite their integral part in American history, and actually partly because of it, American shad were in decline by the early 1900's. Dams, pollution, and overfishing have been responsible for declines in returning shad throughout the Eastern U.S. Strong efforts by many state and federal programs, however, have resulted in a strong resurgence and the CT River and others routinely beats previous records for shad numbers. In an age when good conservation news is uncommon, the story of shad is a shining star and a sign of what can be achieved when we actually try. As I slid another shimmering fish into the shallows, I imagined looking upstream and seeing Native Americans removing shad from a net and tossing them in a pile on the bank. The illusion dissolved rapidly, consumed by the urban jungle as horns blared across the street. It was morning rush hour now. The large brick building behind me suggested nothing of the wild lands that once sprawled in every direction. But the shad at my feet was still here, a relic of the old America, headed upstream to spawn. 

I plucked my fly out of that trademark paper thin mouth, then watched America's founding fish rooster-tail back into the flow of this gritty, urban river. A vision of perfection in a world of confused destruction, this fish was completely unaware of the part it was playing. These fish are the heroes of this story... along with the many people that have toiled day in and day out over the years to keep them running. May they run all my days, and may they continue running well after I'm gone from this world.

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 '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.