Morning Blitz

 Fall 2023 was a struggle in most of my normal striped bass haunts, and I stubbornly stuck to my guns in those places working under the incorrect assessment that if I kept going, eventually the fish had to show up. Meanwhile, friends were having much better fishing just a short bit further away from home. Not only were the encountering good stripers but big bluefish as well. I stuck to my guns on my home turf for a while before finally seeing reason and venturing out further. It was desperately necessary at that point, as I the season looked to be about to wind down.

Fall is when I basically live out of my car. Really, that could happen any time of year. But it's definitely more likely from September through November. The same clothes may not come off for days on end, the interior of the vehicle starts to smell dank and musty, and I consistently look both manic and tired. Loved ones say "you should get some rest", I say "when I'm dead". Pushing even just a little further from home and learning a relatively new to me area demands even more than the usual effort, and when a bite is in progress that means methodically fishing different structure in the new area, drawing knowledge of how similar spots in areas I already know fish at different tides, winds, and times of day. Some may require a significant number of visits at different times and tides to really dial in. I look or bait and make educated guesses as to where it may go next if it is liable to leave- always a factor in the fall -and watch for concentrations of fish eating birds or even seals. This often mean spending the majority of a week in the same general area, catching naps here and there and eating when I can and what I can between tides. But I always feel the pressure of the approaching cold season and the inevitable departure of the fish. 

On the first day of my exploratory I found a spot in daylight with very promising structure and bait activity. I made careful note of the tide level and current speed at the time of that visit and came back later that night on a different tide. There were fish feeding heavily and some very large ones in the mix. The next night, same thing but on the opposite tide. This was an ideal setup, and a spot I'd throw into the rotation for a while. Unfortunately it ended up serving up absurdly fickle fish. Though there was near constant and hellacious surface action I struggled to get bit. I tricked just a couple into taking very large Hollow Fleyes, but nothing else seemed to draw any attention and that just barely worked as it was. I fell asleep in my waders in a park and ride that night a bit dejected and frustrated but with intrigue as to the following morning. I hoped that bait might dump out into the adjacent bay and start a blitz.

The next morning, a huge blitz was in progress in a spot I couldn't get to as I drove to where the fish had been the night before. I pulled off for a bit to watch the birds dipping down to catch juvenile menhaden as stripers and blues churned the water underneath them. It was a fun show for a bit, but I wanted to feel a tight line. Things were quiet over by the mouth of the creek that had been loaded with bass the previous few nights. There were a bunch of cormorants hanging out up the beach though, and they seemed expectant. I decided to take their lead. I made some blind casts while I waited and picked up a few errant schoolies. 

It was more than an hour without much change before some of the cormorants began to take off confidently, fly across the bay, then land and swim around a point that was obscuring another small cove. Soon the whole flock- perhaps more than a hundred birds -were following their lead. I did the same. Rounding the corner, diving gulls and a few swirls marked the school. Eagerly I hopped out, dropping a camera in my waders pocket and grabbing the rod. I doubted tis would last very long and didn't expect I'd need to perform any fly changes. Twenty minutes, a dozen fish up to about 20 pounds, and a bit of sitting and basking in the chaos later the action departed and so did I. 

Short though that may have been, and utterly underwhelming compared to the blitzes the previous fall, that was the peak of my fall daytime fishing for bass. Had I adapted earlier and looked for greener grass further afield, it may have looked quite a bit different. That's how the game works sometimes though. You can get rewarded handsomely for sticking to your guns or you could miss out on the bite happening where you aren't.  

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 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. 

Dawn on The Beach

 I pulled into a mostly empty parking lot under the cover of darkness and extremely oppressive heat. Out over the Atlantic, a cumulonimbus cloud hurled electricity into the night. It's a very foreign feeling for a New Englander to have lightning illuminate the scene while his glasses fog up upon opening the car door... it just doesn't do this sort of thing up north. Sure, there are some sticky, muggy nights in Connecticut. But not like this. I'd already adjusted and was comfortable with the heat but that didn't stop it from impressing me every time I felt it. Unfamiliarity is a good thing, and not much of this was familiar. 

Connecticut doesn't have giant turtles that lay their eggs on the beach either, and after walking down the beach a ways I was sitting 20 feet away from an enormous reptile as she did her best to ensure a future generation despite the much altered setting she was in. This was no longer just a barrier beach teaming with native life. Eastern diamondbacks had been replaced with iguanas and anoles and palmettos with resorts and multi million dollar homes.  But the loggerhead was still returning to lay her eggs, though in the morning there was a good chance a biologist riding a quad would either tape off her nest or even dig it up. Now they couldn't make it without human assistance, the cruel irony being that it was human interference that made it necessary. So, though I was a quiet observer to a natural ritual I'd always wanted to see, it was hard to be present for without becoming deeply sad. That sadness turned to aggravation as a jogger came down the beach with a bright headlamp on. Human lights at night frustrate me. I fish without one most of the time because I feel it is a gross unnecessary and a crutch when the target fish species isn't tiny minnows, madtoms and darters. And spotlighting micros is something I do less and less. A headlamp makes tunnel vision. It ruins your ability both to see when it isn't on and learn to navigate what you can't see anyway. And this jogger was on a smooth, sandy beach with no obstacles at all. I was cognizant of his presence from a half a mile away and he was not even aware enough to notice me siting just yards from his path. Nor did he notice the giant turtle that stopped chucking sand due to his light's disruption. The jogger continued down the beach to disrupt who knows how many more turtles. I stayed back as my friend made her way back down the beach. I don't think she'd finished before the jogger interrupted her process, but I wasn't interested in worsening her stress either. I stayed back and took long exposures, covering the little red light on the front of my camera with my finger as I was worried even that might be noticeable to her. She paused a few times on her way down the sand. I'm not sure she was aware I was there, but I'd like to believe she did know and just didn't mind, that she understood that I meant no harm. 

By that time the morning light was starting to come up and when the turtle had reentered the surf, I sat again to tie a slim beauty knot in the dark. The slim beauty is a good knot for connecting tippet to shocker, and I was targeting fish for which shocker was definitely warranted. My 12 weight was already tarpon ready, but I wanted to make sure my 8wt was snook appropriate as there'd been no sign of tarpon yet and I was keen to at least get something blind casting. It had been a few years since I'd caught a snook at that point, and though I'd made some attempts in the dark already by that point in the trip it was without much awareness of where and when I'd be likely to find any in that area. Almost everywhere I'd fished on this trip was new to me, as was targeting these species from the beach. I finished the knot and carefully synched it down then tied on a Clouser before leaning back again and watching the surf for the first signs of life. Before the sun crested the horizon, bait began skipping and dimpling in front of me and further out a big tarpon rolled. I adjusted my stripping basket around my waist and walked down to the water's edge to begin to cast. It wasn't long before the routine of casting, retrieving right to my feet, then casting again was interrupted by a snook eating the fly in the curl of a wave. I'd learned through my friend John Kelly that it's a good idea in some circumstances to stand back a bit to convert fish running the trough, and this payed off here. If I'd even just been getting my ankles wet I'd not have gotten a shot at this fish, but with a few feet of line sliding on sand I had enough room to fish the fly right onto the beach lip, and that's where this fish ate.  It wasn't a big snook but put up an admirable battle, jumping a few times before I subdued it. I enjoy the way snook fight- the short, zippy runs and the head and gill shaking jumps are just the sort of fight I really enjoy. 

As the sun rose further, the tarpon that were rolling off the beach a ways drew a little closer. I looked back at my 12 weight and hoped it would get an opportunity to be flexed a little. But as the daytime heat (only a little more oppressive than the nighttime heat) settled in all I had to show for my efforts were a few big ladyfish. In time, the bait activity dwindled and so did the signs of predators. The fish left and the people arrived, and my interest in casting on a crowded beach is non-existent. It was time for me to go take a nap anyway. 

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 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. 

Albie Season

 I'm not hardtail obsessed. I have been from time to time over the last six years, but I've found that I actually fish them better if they're more of an aside to my late summer and fall season rather than the main course. I'm a striped bass guy. They appeal to me more. I like large flies, large baitfish, and huge brutish stage fish that will hold a spot and work it. I also like night fishing. I feel as comfortable wading into a boulder field at night as I do sitting at my desk typing this chronicle out. That's my fish. Morone saxatilis and I were made for each other. Little tunny can honestly get a little boring to me. For many seasons, they've meant standing on the same five or six rocks across southern Connecticut and Rhode Island for hours at a time casting my arm off for fish that all ate more or less the same way, all on quite small flies, looked the same, and were only a few pounds larger or smaller than each other. There's no way to get an edge over other hardtail chasers to catch bigger ones, just more of them... and I'm just not a numbers guy. But there's undeniable thrills there too. I find immense satisfaction in the take and hookup. I fish near and on-surface flies and floating lines a lot unless conditions force my hand in using an intermediate or full sink. That means nine times out of ten an albie is breaking the surface to eat my fly. Gurglers are by far my favorite method, and damned deadly too. I'm far from the first to throw these flies at hardtails. In fact Jack Gartside had a gurgler variation tailored specifically to them, and Alan Caolo has talked up their effectiveness as well. It may be one of the best albie flies there is. When a little tunny pile drives a Gurgler and the line tightens in my hands, it feels like everything is right in the world. 

Early in the 2023 season I found myself on the bow of my good friend Mark Alpert's Amesbury Dory watching acres of crazed albies mowing down anchovies under the shadow of an iconic Southern New England lighthouse. It was the perfect day. The weather was gorgeous, and though a fair number of other anglers and boaters were out there were ample fish for everyone and in rare form, I didn't see anyone acting like a complete buffoon, plowing into fish, or cutting off other boats. It bordered on miraculous, with visual spectacle to match. Bright green and chrome reflections cut through the light chop, with rust colored anchovies spraying in their desperate attempts to evade the lightning fast predators. Frantic gulls added another auditory element beyond the impact like sounds of feeding fish and the excited voices of other anglers. Mark and I were privy to quite a show that day. And though the fish weren't the easiest, I was able to get them to eat the gurgler with exceptional regularity, even blind casting along travel routes when they weren't actually showing. 

It was my first day putting my Orvis Helios 3D 8wt that Shawn Combs extremely generously passed along to me to a really solid test on hardtails. One summertime bonito and a few chub mackerel didn't really give it the complete range of necessary tasks. It was a wonderfully precise bit of weaponry for little tunny sniping and very enjoyable to battle these late summer speed demons with. 

After the gurgler party east of the point began to fizzle, we ranged out looking to find more concentrated action. The reward was a mix of bass and albies feeding in a more delicate manner, less interested on the smaller bay anchovies. I took the opportunity to fiddle with a fly I'd been developing over the past two seasons, a sort of hybrid derivation of Dave Skok's White bait Mushy but with a stiff spine rather than Softex, and a body form and tying method inspired by Jonny King's Kinky Muddler. The fly rarely ever fouls (never at all if tied right), has an extremely natural profile from all sides, and has a great action in the water. I'd put it to the test on small bait blitzes of striper earlier in the year and found myself tight to fish any time I landed the fly close to breaking fish while other boats struggled, but given the fly's intent being tunoids it needed to work this time too. And it did. A memory that will forever be burned in my brain from that day was watching an albie race a group of striped bass to the fly and inhale it boat-side. I was forced to trout set at close range but got a great corner hookup and was treated to yet another quick ride into the backing. 

Outside of enjoying days on friends' boats, I only had a couple other goals for the 2023 albie season, those being to catch little tunny with my feet on sand, avoid fishing popular and ever more crowded spots, and catch more fish in new places or old places I'd been snubbed at in previous seasons. My motivation was driven by the growing popularity and changing culture around this fishery along with my own conviction to learn new things in new places. I've only been shore-based albie fishing for a short 5 years, but somehow that half a decade is enough to see changes in the game. My first season, I was being dropped off and could only get to locations I could walk to from a centralized relatively well known spot. On multiple occasions I had that place to myself for prime windows, and even when I didn't the etiquette was a bit different from what it has shifted toward. One day, I was struggling on a less than ideally positioned rock when one of the OG's, after getting three fish in fairly short order, reeled up and said "You're up, kid". That set a bit of a precedent and was a good lesson. Admittedly I've had my moments of greed, but I try my best to not be a camper and yield a hot rock if the next guy down the line isn't catching just because he isn't standing in the right spot that day. I also recognize that as a younger and more physically able angler, I could easily take up easy standing space from less able bodied folks in popular accesses, and don't feel that doing so is respectful or fair. A twenty or thirty something with good balance doesn't need to have the flattest, driest rock with the easiest cast into the travel lane. So this year I set out to fish other places and probably caught fewer fish than I otherwise would have as a result. That's okay. I fished with the people I wanted to fish with and had a better overall experience. I don't say any of this to denigrate those that fish the well known places, but I do want some anglers to rethink the way they go about this fishery and frankly fishing in general. More respect needs to be shown toward the locations, the fish, and the people that were out on those same rocks before us young guys even knew what a false albacore was. 

It all come together one morning when John Kelly and I met before sunup on a lonely beach that some schools of little tunny had been visiting with some consistency. The day before John had a couple fish to hand, and even with a late day arrival I had a couple shots. We knew there'd be fish, it was just a matter of being patient and making the shots. Sure enough, as the sun crested the horizon some splashed began to disrupt the otherwise only gently wind rippled surface. And then they were in front of us. John hooked up first. 

I've become more and more of a beach fishing addict over the years. Walking the open sand with a fly rod in hand is inherently contradictory; taking on the ocean and its predatory species with what is generally considered very light tackle (whether that actually portrays the real power a fly rod can have as a fish fighting tool is another story) feels at times like a David and Goliath situation. Though little tunny are far from goliath both in name and stature, they are quite a fish to tackle with light fly gear. The gentler slope of a beach adds even more to the fight. Unlike fish hooked from boats, jetties, or rock ledges, there's less opportunity for the fish to dive, making their runs a bit longer and faster than they otherwise would be. Add to that the mystique of catching a truly pelagic species- a tuna -just yards from the beach in a few feet of water and the pursuit of beach tunny becomes very appealing. John's fish came to hand after the predictable battle, and we took a quick moment to photograph it in the grey morning light. 

Not long thereafter, a group of fish came in toward me at an angle. I waited as they breached closer and closer, then fired a shot that I felt should lead them perfectly and began slowly two hand retrieving. The lead fish ate my pink minnow and tore off. A big gob of tangled line came out of the stripping basket and caught up in the first guide which resulted in a breakoff. I re-rigged, frustrated but not dejected, and looked in my fly wallet for the next soldier. A Gummy Minnow, incidentally given to me by John months prior, jumped out. The next time a pod of albies broke in range I got that Gummy in the right spot and one ate. 

Photo Courtesy John Kelly

That was a special fish for me for a number of reasons, very high on the list being that it was the first I'd managed to get to hand on the very first strip of sand I'd ever fished little tunny from. Back in 2017, after being dropped off to go about my own devices one September day, I opened my phone to look for new options after an unproductive few hours on ledges. I saw an appealing looking spot and I walked there. It was quite a long walk on a very hot day, though over that season I'd end up learning miles of shoreline on foot. I knew getting albies from sand beaches with a fly rod was a tall order, but within my first 15 minutes I had one boil on and refuse my fly. To redeem myself six years late was a huge sigh of relief. 

As the season rolled on, it continued to be productive. I went at my leisure, focusing on other fisheries most days. A few more good boat trips were had: most notably, one with my good friend Mark Phillipe. We were surrounded by feeding little tunny most of the day. The bait was absolutely miniscule, like metal shavings in the water, and the formation feeding fish demanded exceptional patience, numerous presentations, and the understanding that imitating the bait was not possible nor beneficial in order to catch. The task was much easier with a camera. The slow, deliberate feeding method these fish we performing in the slicks made for incredible visuals all day. 

   I did manage one fish that day, early of out of a large formation feed. I'd made a quick reaction cast at the right angle to their path of travel and once again my pink minnow fly drew a strike. Later it got taken a second time, putting me and 1 for 2 and Mark at 0 for 1 that day. It was tough, but certainly worthwhile. 

Not more than a couple days later I found myself on the beach again, this time with Garth. The feeding patterns were very similar to what Mark and I had experiences, but right in tight to shore. The bait the albies were feeding on was so small that adult silversides were actually eating it as well. I managed to lead a small pod of fish that came down the beach from my left, a perfect cast, and sure enough one ate the fly but I turned my body as I strip set and pulled the fly out of its mouth. A bit frustrated with that missed opportunity and the progressively smaller number of fish showing themselves, I made my way to a jetty. One the slack side, one decent pod was periodically coming in a feeding ravenously on snapper blues. It would have been a perfect opportunity at a very easy bite and they were clearly larger fish as well, but they stayed out of range save for one brief moment. On the opposite side, fish occasionally rolled as they swam past on their travel lane. These would be much harder to feed. Eventually I saw one rolling at 50 foot intervals and on course to get within range. I carefully times my cast, timing the rolls and realizing it would stay down went it got perpendicular to me. I waited for the closest roll I expected it to make then fired a 90 foot cast just beyond its track and began slowly twitching the fly. Sure enough, right when I expected their paths to cross the fish came to my fly. Though it was a very small fish, that one ranks amongst some of my most satisfying presentations and catches. 

As the day continued we'd find more fish and other locations, but a combination of exhaustion from a full night of cow hunting prior and a plethora of tautog fisherman in inconvenient location prevented us from fully taking advantage. Still, after quite a few years of poor albie fish close to home, fits and starts, fish arriving in mass then leaving just a couple weeks later, and getting frustrated with ever increasing crowds, it was just nice to have fish in front of me at a favorite location that doesn't fish well all the time but well enough to make it worth staying away from the hungry masses for. 

As the season continued to progress toward its end, I'd make it out a few more times here and there. Each trip presented interesting challenges and spectacular small bait ram-feeds. One particular day with Mark Alpert features some of the most spectacular and long lived feeds I've ever had the privilege to watch. Not only were the fish hard to feed though, but boat motion almost always made it tougher. We'd position upwind of the fish, and given  their uni-directional feeding you needed to lead them head on and pull the fly in the same direction they were going. I ended up going 0 for 3, because by the very nature of that presentation managing slack was absurdly difficult. Both boat and fish were traveling quickly towards each other each time I got bit and coming tight in that situation, with added heavy chop rocking the boat, isn't easy. Given how much everyone was struggling to catch during that time frame though I was just happy to convince those fish to eat. Can you guess which fly? Oh man, and was the photography ever special. 

 

Ya know, I really do love those stupid little fish. 2023 was a good season for them, from my perspective. I fished for them about as much as I wanted to, which wasn't much compared to some years (42 days in 2021, 12 days this year). I avoided crowds entirely and only fished with the small handful of people I really wanted to, sharing great memories with some of the best friends this obsessive passtime has allowed me to make over the years. I didn't have to see the scourge of insta heroes horribly mishandling albies just for a photo op. I only kept one fish that John had bleed out on him and it was one of the best tasting little tunny I've ever had.  I finished development on a new fly that seems to work really darned well. I captured both beautiful fish and compelling imagery. When all is said and done I feel very content with the 2023 albie season. 

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.

In The First Minutes of November

 Garth and I dumped the canoe in last few hours of October. There'd been some large striped bass around and I'd been using personal watercraft to explore new territories. A couple days prior I'd caught my largest surf striper, a roughly 44 inch 30-plus pound fish. Minutes before that fish another 40 incher had come to hand. This was in daylight... I was a bit taken with that and felt the need to ply the same waters under the cover of darkness. Access was tricky but Garth and I found our way in.The canoe would be our ferry, the fishing itself would be land based. We just couldn't get where we planned to fish by wading outside of extreme low tides, and we'd inevitably not be able to do the fishing we wanted to in such a scenario. The canoe that Drew Price fished on the waters of Lake Champlain was now getting two young anglers onto the dark waters of Long Island Sound, where we thought we might just have a chance to run into a sea monster. 

There's often a deeply ominous feeling when I climb out onto the furthest rock I can reach to cast into a powerful rip. The water is rarely calm, certainly not on the most productive nights, nor is it clear. A headlamp provides some security but it mustn't be on long and I've learned to do nearly everything I possibly can without one. That darkness envelopes you, as does the sound of the incoming tide flushing around the boulders. All this rock was left as the glaciers receded and is now home to a plethora of baitfish, crabs both native and invasive, the odd lobster, oysters, muscles, and of course striped bass. My hope was that within this particular pile of current ravaged, life encrusted granite, there could be a truly huge striped bass. My mind created all sorts of other creatures though, and as I scrambled onto my rock of choice I looked back at the dry land behind me nervously. The point I was on formed a ridge extending out toward deep water. It's descent was quite gradual, meaning I'd needed to wade a long way through unfamiliar territory to get where I was. I knew the holes between some of these boulders could be surprisingly deep. I also knew that seals and brown sharks like to hunt this same water. Though I knew that rationally these large creatures posed no threat to me, the ingrained fear of that which I couldn't see crept up. The intent, really the necessity of pulling on a large striper prevailed though, and any unwarranted fear faded in the pursuit of a striped bass of a lifetime. Expectation overshadowed reality out on that point that night. One take from a bass of unknown stature was all that resulted.

I had other tricks up my sleeve though. Nearby a shallow muscle bar marked the passage between island and mainland. Despite being very shallow it was enticing structure with good current and multiple ambush points. We picked our way out into the rushing current. I was keenly aware that much of bottom I trod on there was a living mosaic of mollusks. I tried not to drag my feet or step too hard. When I could I walked on what sand I could find. The current here was perfect for swinging, and I worked the water by casting down and across with my large white Hollow Fleye and simply letting the tide carry it. Large stripers are lazy and bait often doesn't suspect pursuit under the cover of darkness. A slow and deliberate presentation will often beat out a fast retrieve.

It was just a few minutes into November when I felt a pull. I pulled back hard and buried the hook. The fish's actions were deliberate and slow. It didn't really define its size, though I knew it wasn't small. My size guess changed again and again as I waded into the shallows, walking the fish back to where I could land here. When I finally did get her on her side in about five inches of water where her silhouette was just visible, I could see that she was a good one. At 39.5 inches and 20 some pounds she was easily my largest November bass. It can be all too easy to ignore the bass in front of you when you feel confident that there are much, much larger ones within a mile of where you, and I'd had a such a good October that I'd started to tire of the smaller fish. I wanted a 40 pound striper on the fly, on foot. And this wasn't it. But I realized her significance... she was a reminder to stay on my toes, to expect the unexpected. I thought there was a chance big fish could occasionally slide onto that muscle bar, but if I'd had to pick one spot in that area to fish that night it would have been where we started and we would have gotten skunked. 

And we almost did. That was the only fish we laid hands on that night. It proved the importance of exploring all the possibilities of a spot, analyzing it critically, and fishing thoroughly and with intent at all times. Though I'd try again, that muscle bar never produced another striper this fall. The point nearby did give me some opportunities. It will take a few seasons at least to really grasp the dynamic of this new-to-me water. After fishing it an hour more that night we paddled the canoe back to our starting point. The whole way I was formulating approaches, considering conditions, and picturing the fish I knew was out there somewhere not far away. Scales as big as quarters. Mouth wide enough to swallow a fluke. I need to catch her. 

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

Thunderstorms & Cows: Big Striped Bass on the Fly

 Early October featured some of the most consistent striped bass fishing I've ever experienced, offering regular opportunities at 20 pound class fish on the fly from shore. One of the major factors at play for me was a storm named Ian. Hurricane Ian hammered Florida's west coast, severely impacting thousands of people, destroying homes and businesses, and inundating an area I fell in love with on my very first trip to Florida in 2017. Ian would go on to continue up the coast as it dissipated. By the time it's effects were being felt in southern New England, it was a wide but weak storm. Ian's dying remnants brought some moderate rain and wind to the Connecticut shoreline, and during the inaugural Eastern LIS Tightlined Slam Alex, Noah and I battled rough conditions to find some spectacular bites. Despite, or rather in some ways because of the horrible weather, some truly incredible things transpired during that tournament. We found exceptional adult bunker feeds, including some all out raging blitzes of 20 pound class striped bass. It was difficult, tiring, and very, very wet, but also two of the most exciting days of fishing I've ever had. 

Though we caught a lot of fish, including some large ones, I don't think any of us were satisfied. I certainly wasn't. Ian's death was a slow, labored one, and it continued to throw wind and rain at the Connecticut shoreline for days on end. I took full advantage of the poor weather and low pressure, fishing every night and most days I could. It wasn't exactly easy, especially for a fly rodder. I needed to pick my spots, often walking and wading huge distances to where I could reach fish with fairly short casts. Large flies that imitate menhaden don't exactly cut the wind, not do floating fly lines. I was often casting into or perpendicular to a 20-30 mile per hour wind. The water was churned up and murky. If I didn't have completely that there'd be fish in front of me, and likely big fish, I might not have stuck it out the way I did some of those nights. It felt ridiculous at times. One night, Garth and I slogged it out for a few hours of tide in a ridiculous headwind at a spot I'd never wade fished before, but felt positive would be holding fish. It was, and we caught some good ones, though not as big as I was really hoping for. 

The next night, I revisited the same tide and location with Alex. We started catching a few fish, again good sized but not quite what we were really hoping for. The wind was a little harsher still this night and it had the water seriously churned up at that location. Alex convinced me that we should try to fish another spot to see if the bass had pushed deeper into sheltered water, and I agreed. We'd still have enough tide to come back if we decided we wanted to. It turned out that we'd not be returning. The secondary spot was absolutely stacked with good sized bass. Alex and I slugged it out with 20 pound fish after 20 pound fish while the wind howled and distant lightning gradually came closer and got brighter. The fish ranged mostly from 36 to 44 inches, though we're sure some larger ones were present.  They were stupidly easy. Big flies, big plastics both worked incredibly well. I fished white and black, it didn't seem to make any difference. These fish were just chewing in a way that I'd not encountered before. It was a rare window in which getting sizable striped bass on the fly was just easy.

Well, there's a caveat to the "it was easy" thing. I'm a very stubborn fly caster, and I refuse to let wind dictate when or where I can cast. That has resulted in a lot of practice pounding hard casts into a strong wind, which is what I was doing that night. It also took a lot of time and effort to pattern bites enough to know that these fish might be where they were under those conditions. It was also the wee hours of the night and the weather was about to get a little dangerous. All of that to say, easy is relative. Catching big striped bass on the fly in the surf is never truly easy. It takes time, effort, and resolve. Through the entirety of this early October bite I fished until I no longer could, then slept in the car. I wasn't home much at all through most of the month actually. I took breaks to get work done and check other bites so I'd be prepared for clients. But any time I could be I had my boots in the salt, heavy fly rod in hand, and a large white or black fly tied onto the end of a short 40 pound leader. 

Unfortunately, some of the largest fish from this night were quite skinny, so a few fish that had the potential to exceed 30 pounds were pretty close to 20 pounds. It was, however, the first night I'd ever caught more than one 40 inch class fish on the fly. I could hem and haw over how much bigger these fish could have been had they been more bulked up, or about the one that did get away that sounded and felt huge. But the reality was that when that storm really closed and Alex and I decided to make our way back to the vehicles, we'd had spectacular fishing. I bid Alex a good night, of which there was very little left anyway, and sat in the car eating a snack while some of the loudest thunder I'd ever experienced rocked the ground. 

That night was not to be the last of the spectacular fishing this season. I'd put my hand in the mouth of the third 43" striper of the season, a truly epic year, but my sights were set on a larger target. They still are, though the biomass has now thinned dramatically as we creep into mid November. I'm hoping for one last shot at fly cow glory before the winter fishery sets in... of course, I won't be putting the striper flies away for the winter either. 

Of course, all this fantastic fishing has me very worried that some people will feel that the stock is going to recover with ease. It might, we currently have a fairly strong spawning stock. There have been good spawns coming from the Hudson as well, it seems. But the Chesapeake is going to continue to be a problem. A combination of climate change and human habitat degradation may eventually render the Chesapeake spawning stock incapable of maintaining its share of the fishery. I don't think anglers are remotely prepared for the level of advocacy it would require to slow that train, and it may not be stoppable at this point anyway. It has been hard enough to sway species management and we barely get anything done there. ASMFC is still not adequately dealing with conservation equivalency. Any measure that has been made in regards to striped bass management is little more than a half measure, and a poorly enforced one at that. A lot of anglers don't care. Snag-and-drop is still being done, guys are completely ignoring the circle hook law (which might be a problem as well, I may elaborate on that soon). When anglers that do care see poaching behavior, it seems they're either too lazy to call it in or just don't think anyone will come. Well... nobody comes if you don't call. 

We've got a long way to go. I've been over the moon with the quality of the fishing this fall. it was spectacular. I worry that this will be my good old days. This may not continue well into the future. There are too many problems that aren't being addressed. 

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

Stellar False Albacore Fly Fishing

 This year the tunny came in with a bang. Eastern CT saw a fantastic early showing, with fish available from shore in good numbers for a couple weeks steady. They were also showing in various locations, which I like a lot. Tunny draw a crowd of eccentrics, many of which are people I do enjoy standing next to on the rocks. It's an almost integral part of the fishery; all the familiar faces. I do enjoy that aspect, but I also enjoy solitude, or sometimes just one on one time with a friend. The widespread nature of that initial push of little tunny made it easier to pick and choose which experience I wanted to have and that was nice. It also meant I could try to catch some from places I'd not had the opportunity to in lower abundance years, and I'd often rather catch one somewhere new than five somewhere I've caught them before. 

I found myself standing on a familiar rock one day during that early season action, one I'd had shot at tunny from, hooked one once even, but I'd never caught one there before. Last year I'd made a beautiful cast into a breaking school and one ate my fly, peeled off on a run, then threw the hook. It was a disappointment in a season of disappointments. I stood on that same rock feeling a lot more at ease than I ever was during the previous season. Confidence plays a huge roll in this game, and knowing you can catch if you are patient, persistent, and most importantly relaxed can make or break a day- or, as it turns out, a whole season -of fishing for albies. This season I'd committed to fishing for them less, staying closer to home more, and just being satisfied with whatever was going to happen. It was a recipe for better success. This it just felt like it was going to happen. I had on a floating line. Most anglers fly casting for little tunny elect to fish lines that sink to some degree or another. Intermediates, sink tips, and full sinks are common fair. I've always liked floating lines. Though one argument, that thinner full sinking liens cut through the wind, is perfectly valid, I have not problem punching casts into wind if I have to regardless of the line I choose. I also like explosive surface strikes, and having my fly at or near the surface not only allows me to see that happen but also shows me whether fish are refusing my fly, building my confidence or allowing me to make changes in my presentation. last year I didn't fish the floater much. Ironically, when I did I caught fish. 

Adding to my ability to enjoy the day, I had paired a floating fly with my floating line. The Gartside Gurgler has been one of my favorite flies for the species. The skittering action of the gurgler draws explosive takes, even when more typical subsurface presentations are spurned. On this sunny early season day the floating line and gurgler combination would prove deadly. 

The tide window at this spot often presented a short window of opportunity, so I knew I wouldn't be there all day. It was beautiful though, and when the tunny came around I'd have a spectacular view. Initially the fish weren't playing within range, though that's not unusual. Gradually they drew nearer. I stayed patient, waiting through short lulls, and soon they were at my feet. The first good shot drew a strike, thought the fly came out of the fish's mouth a moment later. Back in hand I felt that the hook point wasn't quite as sharp as it should be. A few strokes on the file and it was back to fishing. The next break of fish came in over shallow sand and I landed the gurgler right in them. The great cast was rewarded with a spectacular eat and the first tunny of the year was on. 

I confess, though the initial run of a tunny is a spectacular thing, fighting these fish is a little dull to me. It lacks some of the challenges presented by other fish. If you can clear your line quickly and steer the fish well, which is particularly easy with a long rod, you are likely to land the fish. If you lose the fish in structure, it's not because that fish tried to get the line through said structure, it's merely because you put yourself in a situation where the structure is likely to end up between you and the fish anyway. I'd rather fight a fish that is headed for structure knowing that it can use it to free itself, or that is can find safe refuge. That's much more interesting. Subsequently, it's the fights where something goes wrong that actually get me excited when I'm hooked into a little tunny. That's exactly what happened this time. A tangle caught up at the end of the rod and the tip pulled off. I had to navigate that issue with a very strong fish still on the end of my line... now that was a challenge. I managed to deal with the issue and land the fish. What a good feeling that was. My first tunny in a new spot landed the hard way.

That was the beginning of an excellent streak. After the tide slacked out there, I made a moved to a reliable location. There, the wind was throwing a good chop. It was the ideal setup for fired up tunny. Indeed they were chewing, and I intercepted the procession of fish repeatedly that afternoon. The gurgler remained the ideal fly, and the takes were visually spectacular. 

That will likely end up being my favorite day of the season, even if I have another great numbers day. Everything felt like it went the way I wanted it to that way. If there was a hicup, like the tangle on the first fish, I navigated it successfully. The fish were numerous and willing. The conditions were comfortable and conducive to good bites. I caught in more than one location and even in a new location. It was ideal. The frustrations I'd had with this fish over the prior year melted away and I was able to enjoy the albie high. They are quite magnificent fish. That the opportunity to catch these small tunas comes within the sights of those who would as soon stand on rocks or sand than the deck of a boat is a minor miracle. Though I don't obsess over them like I do large striped bass, carp, or pursuing new species, chasing tunny is an integral part of the fall season. 

I'm still hopeful for one last blast in November. I've caught November tunny before, but it has been quite a few years. It would be nice to bookend this season with a large one. 

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

Squid Hounds

 One nickname given to striped bass is "squid hound". Perhaps you've heard it used, perhaps not, but if you've seen how striped bass act when squid are around you can probably make the connection. Squid are an interesting bait, being generally fairly sizable, soft, and swallow-able. They're a dense and easy caloric package. They don't always get themselves into places where a shore-bound fly caster can reach though. I'm used to squid bites on the reefs, casting poppers at dawn or large white or orange flies on sink tips. The bass coral the squid at the head of the rip, and they can often be seen jumping out of the water. This is a boat game in deep water. I'd not encountered a surf-based squid bite until more recently. It was a night bite, in a spot I'd been visiting for the difficult to fish but epic peanut bunker feeds. This night though something new was going on. The peanuts were there but the bass weren't on them, merely apparently passing through them. a few times I felt odd plucks on my fly... the sensation of something just touching it. Not a fish. Cephalopods, things with arms, tactile little creatures. 

It didn't take too long to put two and two together. This was a squid bite. The squid were here feasting on peanuts, and the bass were living up to their nickname. It wasn't hot and heavy, but there was good fish to be had in shallow water. 

The first hooked was a respectable fish of maybe 29 inches. A beautiful fish indeed. It hit close in, no more than 25 feet away. Soon another fish boiled nearby, and a quick reaction cast got the fly into it's vicinity. There was barely time to make a couple strips before the bass was on it. A sharp couple of strips buried the hook and the fish exploded at the surface. This one was very plainly a much bigger animal. It made a good account of itself, fighting me at ever step of the way in the bulldog sort of way that a good striped bass fights. When I got hands on it I could help but grin ear to ear. 

Any 20lb class striped bass on the fly is a victory; more, much more so when your feet aren't on the deck of a boat. Pursuing these fish is endlessly captivating to me, and one of the reasons is their versatility. This was such a perfect example of it, a spot that had been producing one type of bite, fish steadily on pattern eating peanuts. Then sudden;y the wild card- squid -they showed up and everything changes. Suddenly the fish's demeanor and behavior was completely renewed. They'd eat big flies right at my feet. 

My goal this fall striper season has been to narrow my focus. I often cover areas too haphazardly, though much of that has been in the name of finding new places. I know now though that there are a limit to the number of places that are likely to give me shits at larger bass from shore on fly, and instead of trying to fish everywhere, I'm focusing my effort on really just two spots, and the majority of that effort on one. I'm still keeping tabs on my Rhode Island shoreline for guiding purposes, but from a distance. Narrowing focus should in the end pay dividends in terms of larger stripers, I feel. My end goal? Well, I don't really have one. I'm just trying to see what is really possible with a fly rod and waders (or wading shoes) in today's over crowded, over-hyped boat fishery. The how large a squid hound can I pull on with my feet in the water? How many large ones can I tie into in a season? I'm not really sure, but whatever the answer I intend to find out through slow, well thought out pursuit. 

Thank you to my Patrons; Erin, David, John, Elizabeth, Brandon, Christopher, Shawn, Mike, Sara, Leo, 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.

Stripering the Beach Front

 I spent a number of days wandering the ocean front in Southern Rhode Island in late October and early November. This is a time when there's often a lot of small bait moving along the beach, with bass, blues and sometimes bonito on its heals. This year, there were also some little tunny making very late appearances in Rhode Island. I didn't have any clients book trips this fall for surf fishing, which was disappointing on one hand but meant a lot of no-pressure days for me. I did a lot of sitting, quite a bit of walking, and a lot of fishing with my camera instead of my fly rod. 

One day, I was walking around a rocky bit of shoreline little tunny and bonito are known to haunt. Little tunny were around in decent numbers, but the water was slicked out and they were being very fickle. I spent most of my time trying to predict their travel lines and get good shots. I though I did a couple times but my fly drew no interest. At least not from the tunny. 

As I was watching a big school of tunny going wild way out of casting range, something moving tight to the rocks caught my attention. It was a bass, and a decent one at that. I brought my EP Minnow in front of its face and the fish obliged. It was a wonderfully visual eat and a beautiful 29 inch fish.

That filled my cup for that day, but a week or two later I was out again, this time on the sand beaches late in the day. There were blitzing schoolies and fish cruising the wash, but the headliner wasn't the fish at all.

In fact, on quite a few nights I fished this year it was the sunset that as the headliner. Not a skunk-set, I caught more fish than I'd need to to be satisfied.  The sunsets were just so striking, so awe inspiring, and so overt that all else paled in comparison. I love it when the sky catches on fire. 

I did capture one particularly memorable blitz though It wasn't a huge or prolonged one, but I was standing in the right place on the beach at the exact right time with good lighting to capture striped bass churning the water to a froth and bay anchovies frantically darting in the wash. While the surf junkies frantically cast into the melee I stood, rod tucked in my armpit, camera in hand, with a big shit eating grin on my face. This is what keeps me alive and happy.

I caught a fair few bass that day, though I never bothered to take a picture of one nor did I keep track. I chuckled, listening to a few of the casters behind me talking numbers (completely oblivious to the pod of little tunny that had just come into their casting range, no less). I sometimes think I should carry a fish counter, exclusively for data collection purposes. I don't know that I'd share the numbers I was catching though. That isn't the measure of a good day. When I go walking the beach in the fall, I don't care how many stripers I catch as long as I get to pull on a few. I'm really just there to watch the show. 

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.