A Supercell of my Own

 The distribution maps for the Northern Illinois Cicada brood threw me for a loop. There were counties highlighted all over the Northeast corner of Iowa- a little slice of the driftless region, an area I hoped I could not only find the magic cicadas but also locate some trout as well. But the brood proved elusive in that area as Emily and I zig zagged our way ever northward through Iowa, stopping near rivers, creeks, and ponds, and driving wooded roads with the windows down hoping to hear the low drone of a million horny bugs. We weren't hearing it though, nor did the ground reveal signs that there'd ever been any cicadas anywhere we went- the emergence holes, nymph casings, dead individual, the wings from those that had fallen prey to birds -and it was beginning to drive me crazy.

I'm a cicada addict. Periodical cicadas, making up a handful of species and 13 different broods that emerge on the same schedules. 12 broods are on a 17 year cycle, three are on a 13 cycle. This year, the Great Southern Brood (a 13 year brood) and Northern Illinois Brood  (a 17 year brood) emerged in coincidence. I wanted to be there for at least some of it. My fascination with periodical cicadas arose young, and I was always bug obsessed. When I was 5 years old Brood VIII emerged in Western Pennsylvania. The memory of the sound, and finding dozens of casings at the base of each large tree in my grandparent's yard was easily ingrained in a young naturalist's mind. When the Brood II emergence in CT didn't result in an abundance of cicadas within immediate proximity to home, I was very disappointed. I'd later learn that development had severely impacted this brood and that it is no longer very broad in distribution. In 2021, I made the short trip south to fish and observe Brood X in Maryland, my first time seeing the bugs since 2002. It was thrilling. Being that I have both a cicada addiction and wanderlust, the Midwest called. 

But Northeast Iowa was disappointing me in terms of bugs. It became clear the distribution was just patchy here, and a third addiction was calling me west, one that had nothing to do with cicadas or fish. The sky had a lot to say that day, but not where we were. If we wanted to hear what it was going to profess, Emily and I had to go further west. 

So across the flat plain of Iowa we went on a highway so straight and uniform it was numbing. Thin, grey clouds and a light shower gave way to sun, humidity, an a wind so strong it periodically threatened to blow us away. We stopped for gas station at the exit for Parkersburg. I only know that Parkersburg was a town in Iowa because in 2008 a massive tornado tried to wipe it off the map. Along a 43 mile path and over 70 minutes, the Parkersburg-New Hartford EF5 killed 9 people and changed the lives of those who it didn't kill forever. I only know about a lot of otherwise small, insignificant towns because they were hit by tornadoes. In fact, though I didn't know it yet for sure, we were going to pass through quite a few more on this drive. Stepping out of the gas station off the Parkersburg exit I was blasted in the face by hot southerly wind. This wind could fuel more tornadoes. That's why we were going west. 

The terrain changed notably as we approached the Missouri River, which serves as the border between Iowa and Nebraska. I'd never been to either of these states, and though the middle of Iowa had been most dull from the highway Nebraska would get much less so. Once we crossed the river and got off the highway we were greeted by rolling hills, lush green farmland, and some of the most beautiful old barns I've ever seen. Overhead, the signs of storms were becoming clear. Anvils are the spreading tops of thunderstorms as they hit stratospheric stability. Basically, they rise to a layer of air they can't punch through easily. On big supercell storms like these ones were, especially in a place so open and expansive in terms of views, the anvil is an imposingly big thing that denotes the massiveness and power of the storm making it. I was behind the wheel at this point and trying to navigate us quickly to one of these storms before it made a tornado. The roads were doing everything I needed, and I thought I'd picked a pretty good storm. It was looming larger and darker by the moment now. It was coming Northeast and we were going Southwest, so both parties gained ground. Soon we passed by Pilger, a small town where in June of 2014 (just a few days to the date as we were driving through, in fact) a freak of nature occurred as two concurrent EF4 tornadoes traveled along a nearly parallel course of destruction. The town would suffer incredible damage. As I glanced at the water tower my brain flashed images from other storm chasers that had been there then, of two dirt and debris filled funnels, of airborne roofs, of nature doing something completely astonishing. I couldn't even drive in 2014, but I was completely obsessed with storm chasing. I would set out on my bike some days, leaving the safety of the house behind in favor of a better view and better places to take pictures of the sky anytime a thunderstorm came. Now I could really chase and found it hard to believe that I was not only driving through these towns where notable tornadoes had occurred but headed toward a supercell of my own in Tornado Alley. 

I was getting us in a good spot and doing so quite quickly. We stopped to take a brief look on route 31 east of Madison. Our storm was tornado warned. It had a huge base and dark, evil core and wasn't being interfered with by other storms yet. It looked very good. Emily and I switched. I now had to do to many things to drive safely, what with the radar, map, and sky all calling my attention. There's nobody I'd rather have driving me towards an impending tornado though. 

We continued west, then turned north to get close to the storm's path. Not far north of Madison we left the main road, climbing a gravel hill of 831st Rd. At the top of that rise was one of the most spectacular views I could ever have hoped for. A perfect funnel lowered from the storm's rain free base, back lit by a yellow and orange sky with the dark base overhead and the rain core just to its north. In the foreground was a grove of trees and a beautiful red barn. 

Though it lasted only a few minutes, this little tornado south of Battle Creek, Nebraska was my first outside of the northeast and far and away the prettiest I'd ever seen. It also didn't do anything in the way of damage, other than kicking up a bit of dust and blowing some crops around. As it roped out and withered into the ether in the distance, Emily and I cheered, jumped for joy, and kissed. But it wasn't over yet. The storm was still tornado warned, and pummeling the town of Norfolk with heavy rain, hail, and strong winds to our north. 

We jockeyed with the rear flank, staying just ahead and south of its track. For a brief time it carved out a stunning mesocyclone. 

Around the same time, a storm just to the southeast of us, which I'd been watching carefully on radar, was making a tornado of it's own near Clarkson. Simon Brewer and Justin Drake, who had been on the same storm as we were still watching initially, had bailed before the Battle Creek tornado but caught the much more powerful and longer lived Clarkson tornado from close range. You can watch their video of that amazing tornado here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1_igTrkv5_Q

I soon decided that we should try to hook-slice that storm as it crossed the main road, as it was looking much more tornadic than ours. Emily handled the heavy rain of the rear flank with stern focus and intensity, and the storm's area of rotation crossed the road a few miles ahead of us. We got ahead of it and positioned south the the storm's now thoroughly saturated rotation. This was what is called a high precipitation supercell, the whole rear flank was loaded with heavy rain that would likely conceal any tornado. It was still strikingly colorful and beautiful. 

Though it made another attempt with a fat, short lived funnel cloud, our storm was running out of juice for rotation. A big line formed, and we stuck with it into the late evening hours. We crossed the Missouri River back into Iowa with it, and it spiderwebbed the sky over the motel we found with lightning well into the night. The storms of the Great Plains are a whole different animal. Not to throw shade on our storms here in the northeast. But their size, intensity, and longevity is just not comparable. Getting to experience them was a longtime dream achieved.

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

Intercepting Tropical Storm Henri

 Tropical Storm Henri did almost exactly what I forecast it to do, with some noteworthy deviation. The hype surrounding the storm and the possibility that it could make landfall on Long Island as a hurricane was undercut, literally by the storm being undercut by high pressure on the south side. This resulted in a very windy northeast quadrant and an earl landfall in RI as a tropical storm. We got luck in some respects because the tide was low, and the wind profile of Henri was capable of producing notable storm surge in Narragansett Bay IF he had made landfall around high tide. Rain was substantial and resulted in localized severe flooding in a number of areas, as was forecast. It was a bit frustrating from my perspective to watch people poo-poo the storm after it had passed. It's an incredibly selfish way too look at severe weather. There are some folks who lost property from this storm. Maybe your house wasn't affected, maybe your neighborhood wasn't, maybe even your entire town wasn't at all notably affected. But somebody definitely was. Scale it up and it would be like living within an area that was just within a tornado warning polygon and complaining about how it was all hype when your home didn't even get rained on... meanwhile there's a family five miles away wondering where they're going to live now that their home and vehicles are destroyed, and how they can move on without all of the irreplaceable things they just lost. 

Suffice to say I don't like how weather or weather forecasting is perceived by the general public. That is in part the fault of meteorologist for being unable to communicate something complex to laymen, but people could stand to be less awful to each other as well. Now that I'm done with all that, here's the fun stuff.

I chased Henri in Southern Rhode Island with my partner Cheyenne. I projected a landfall near the RI/CT border a day ahead of time and new that a combination of a safe road network and being in the storm's windy quadrant would make the Point Judith area a good target. Early in the morning of the day Henri made landfall we drove right into the fray. Big swell was rocking the jetties and throwing cobble up into the parking lot at Fisherman's Memorial, and at the lighthouse and Scarborough beach some of the strongest wind gust were battering the shoreline. Just inland, trees blocked roads and knocked out power.

I maintained situational awareness and kept us safe while navigating the treacherous conditions, and got us in the best locations I could to experience the storm. It was a fun storm for us, with minimal risk aside from the possibility of being blocked in an area for a short time because of downed trees. I was strategically planning routes based on how many road options there were out but we still almost got boxed in at one point. Only one of 4 roads out didn't have a tree across it. 

Wind gust exceeding 70mph were recorded along with some minor storm surge, making it the most significant tropical storm I've actually chased. I photo-documented Irene and Sandy but I was just a kid (still am but one with a car now)at the time, so I didn't get to chase those storms. 

As some folks cleaned up the mess Henri left, a a new storm was taking aim at the US coastline. Ida ended up being a storm of historic proportions, and as I sit here in Maryland getting ready to drive through what's left of her I can't help but wonder if I'll ever experience a storm like that. I'd like to, on one hand. On the other is this gut feeling that I shouldn't, because I know what I'll see. It would be worth documenting, and in the truest sense of the word it would be awesome. It would also change my life. I'd see things I never want to see. 

On a fishing related note, Henri pushed in Some really early albies. It's not lights out but they're here. More to come on that.

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, Streamer Swinger, 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.

Electric Summer Walleye

 We've obviously had a lot of rain this summer, more than we've had here in a long time. Some of it has come along with some beautiful night-time light shows. I've been interested in chasing severe weather for far longer than I've fished, and this season I've had some good chases and some busts. Notably last week I made a very poor forecast and missed an incredible supercell. A few nights, though, I've been able to stay at home- the storms came to me. One night- just after the tropical remnants -I had a pretty good show just to the north. I did kinda poorly behind the lens but didn't go completely empty handed. 

Another advantage of big rain is a slight improvement in summer land-based walleye fishing. Overall, summer is a poor time for getting walleye on the fly locally. Heavy rain can lead to a quick reprieve though, drawing walleye into shallow water for a short time. As the lightning activity declined that night I made my way to a reliable walleye spot.

The fishing was slow,. Dreadfully slow. Even in March I get pretty good bycatch, usually. I was surprised to go a half hour without a take from any fish of any sort. Then along came a long snake of a walleye to make my night. 

Walleye are sneaky little bastards, often making their way in and out of the water, I can reasonably expect to catch them on fly in mere hours. It has taken a pretty long time to dial places in well enough to be able to catch them almost on command. They are very habitual though, so once I was able to determine patterns it got much easier. That goes for most fish, though. Take that into consideration when you have a successful outing. It is probably repeatable. 

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

Slamming Housatonic Smallmouth

 The Housatonic is the most well known place in CT to fly fish for smallmouth, and mostly because its an exceptional numbers river. 18 inch and larger bass are fairly rare, but it is very possible to catch 40 fish averaging 9 inches in a day there. I'm a bigger fan of less well known rivers and lakes where there are are some 16-20 inch bass but fewer fish overall. The Housatonic is still fun though, and I try to make it out there at least a few times each year. Last week I drove to Northwest CT to storm chase and found myself with quite a bit of time before storms fired. I had enough time to climb up to a rattlesnake population in particularly rough terrain, then rig up the 5 weight and seek some Housatonic smallmouth bass. I walked in to my favorite spot and promptly started catching bass averaging far bigger than I'm used to catching on this river, and lots of them. 

A white Woolly Bugger was all I needed, and it seemed everywhere I cast it it was intercepted by a 10-15 inch smallmouth. The combination of aggressive mid/post spawn behavior, hot and muggy weather, and incoming cold front really had the fish going wild. Eventually I found a really nice one too,  a rare Housatonic 18 incher, and it put up one of the best smallmouth fights I've ever had featuring a blistering downstream run and half dozen jumps. 

As the day progressed the bass just kept coming. By 4:00 I had a ridiculous tally of  47 smallmouth, with an average size of 13 inches. It was an absurdly fun day, and I was one fish right up until the end, when I took a moment to check the developing weather situation and immediately had to move into chase mode. 

Just minutes after I released the last fish, I was barreling towards a line of severe thunderstorms in my 4Runner. For the rest of the evening, I had ample opportunity to intercept gnarly and sometimes quite photogenic storms. I chased them from the NY line all the way to the CT River. It was a phenomenal day, to say the least. 

Smallmouth bass are one of the species I'm most interested in guiding clients to during the summer months, on the Housatonic and other systems throughout the state. My knowledge base for targeting trophy bass dates back to well before I'd ever caught a trout, so I've got quite a lot of smallmouth experience under my belt. It you're interested, email me at brwntroutangler@gmail.com.

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.