Here Be Carp

From the hotel room I could hear two young anglers chatting with one of the hotel guests on the back deck. These kids were local, not guests at the hotel, but somehow in suburban Michigan I'd stepped into a prior time and these kids were biking in and fishing without getting kicked out. That doesn't happen much in Connecticut anymore, and not just because I'm not a kid anymore (debatably, I'm still plenty immature), but I'd doubt my best friend Dalton and I could have biked to such a place when we were 14 or 15 years old and not gotten the boot if such a thing existed in Connecticut. He and I did trespass a lot, often cautiously, and we still got kicked out sometimes. There was something refreshing about these kids being at least tacitly permitted on the premises of a lakeside hotel. It felt like a whisper of a former time. There was also something refreshing about these kids targeting carp. That's what they were talking about, as I listened through the all-too-sound-permeable wall. And the adult guest was poo-pooing it. "Carp? why not fish for something that actually pulls? Those are just big soggy lumps". I snorted, probably loudly enough for them to hear me. Tell me you've never carp fished without telling me you've never carp fished. They can be accused of more than a few negative characteristics, but not pulling isn't one. Of course I've had a few dullards on the end of my line, but on the whole... they pull and they pull well. And since I hadn't seen these carp yet nor anticipated their presence in the crystal clear, 90 foot deep private lake, I glanced at my prototype Atlas 4wt in the corner and smirked. It was going to get hurt, now that I had this piece of information. 

The carp's introduction to North America is one spans back a couple centuries. Though they are still broadly looked down upon today, as evidenced by that other hotel guest, they weren't always. In fact they're so ubiquitous today because they held thousands of years of history as food, sport, and ornament in Europe in Asia. Another hotel guest, Dan, told me about the large koi found in some high mountain lakes in his native California and how they'd been brought there by Chinese railroad workers during the gold rush. That's just a piece of the puzzle though, as both amur carp (koi), and more often common carp, were being brought into the US and cultivated by enterprising individuals in hopes of providing food for the masses. Inevitably, they got around. Nary a state in this union lacks common carp, withstanding Florida which, contrary to the belief of many that carp like it hot, is too warm for too much of the year to have robust and sustaining populations. And evidently these wild carp lacked the flavor and appeal that cultivated ones had, and coupled with the rapidly deteriorating quality of many water bodies across the country due to industrialization, carp fell out of favor. Not only did they fall out of favor, but their ability to survive what we wrought on native species resulted in a general disdain and even blame, and that eventually grew into a distaste and disdain to even native species that resemble the carp. The American reaction to the invasive nature of common carp was so severe it caused many to look down on fish like buffalo and redhorse that share commonalities. Though the cult of carp that I've profited from has begun to turn the tide a little on the dislike of the species, the general displeasure is still there. I've meet plenty that cringe or wince when I say I guide for carp, though many of those are casual anglers or not anglers at all. I discourage moving carp around and in some cases even encourage their removal, they don't belong here and aren't ecologically beneficial... but that certainly doesn't dismiss their value as angling sport, and I feel increasingly less bad about stabbing non-natives in the face for fun and more bad about bothering the more incumbered natives. 

In many of the places I fish in Connecticut, the water is shallow and turbid, indeed in part because of the carp. That contrasted in many ways from this lake, which was clear as can be. The bottom was sand and gravel though, which doesn't lend to turbidity. The lake was a  kettle lake that had been enlarged by a small dam. Apparently it exceeded 90 feet in depth. That  would be astounding for a lake of similar size in Connecticut, especially given the flat landscape. This was a classic kettle lake, which we do have in Connecticut though none that I know of are quite like this. These a relic of the glaciers, where large chunks of ice remained as the glacier retreated. Imbedded in deep sediment, these pieces took a long time to melt and left large depressions when they finally did. They're one of the more obvious evidences of the glacial history on this landscape, though perhaps less dramatic than remnants I'd see after leaving Michigan. On Kelley's Island in Lake Erie, the glaciers left incredible gouges in Devonian limestone. 

The water around Kelley's Island was just as clear as that little kettle lake, but there were carp out there too, I'm told. And that is no surprise. Before gawking at the glacial grooves I was watching small carp thrash the shallows of marshes in Erie County, with terns wheeling overhead making it sound like home on long Island sound, limestone causeways and canals making it look like Florida, and the carp.... I don't know what the carp made it feel like, other than that I was being followed by them. I couldn't stay away if I tried. The frothed the shallows of the marshland to a soupy brown mess. That's the turbidity I'm used to. But back in Michigan, with a little bit of waiting, I was watching fish feed in seven feet of water thirty feet away. 

The clarity wasn't all that differed from home. These carp, I'd learn, weren't fans of seeing the fly on the fall. I almost need to see it drop through the murk, but these ones would spook from it. After a few blown opportunities that resulted in fish taking of at speed as thy spotted a sinking yellow sucker spawn fly, I opted to fish an almost bait-like tactic. A cast was made a cast when fish were still 15 or more feet away. Then I waited. And waited. And waited some more. 

Though I generally chose to fish a fly, I think this spot-and stalk strategy with bait or artificial is equally exhilarating. When you can see the carp and watch her movements, drawing nearer or retreating from your hook, suspense builds. Especially when she is a really big one. I watch, my heart beating more and more loudly as she works ever closer to my little yellow fly. The water is so clear that I can see her eyes and barbels working as she forages, seeking out anything that might be calorically beneficial- something my fly certainly isn't, but I could hope it would catch her eye. I dare not move a muscle as she got within six inches of the fly. She dipped and tucked into a little patch of detritus next to a rock, mouth working hard and pectoral fins waving to push her into the good stuff. That waving action swirled the water near my fly and it's lightness allowed it to tumble a couple of inches in a little whirlpool. Her left eye turned down and I could have sworn she looked right at the fly. And she probably did, because she left what she'd been digging at and with flared lips pressed right down on the fly. I waited for her mouth to close and lifted the four weight only lightly. The heavy creature responded with violence and speed, running no less tan 140 yards down the lake (Soggy lump my butt). It was then my task for the next ten minutes to subdue a creature well over 20 pounds on a rod made to catch small trout, a job it was evidentially up for despite that intent. 

Though that trip was in part a fishing break for me- believe it or not I do want to do other things more than angling -it is impossible to say no when a freshwater fish that size wanders in front of me. Yet many people do still scoff and say no, and that I'll just never understand.

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

Climb Out & Scream (Pt. 2)

 An unnatural waterway meets the Rock River in Colona, Illinois, just a short distance above it's confluence with the mighty Mississippi. That waterway winds eastward to the Illinois River near the just east of of Bureau Junction, population 282, and just north of Hennepin populations 741. The latter is the town that now gives the canal it's name. Formerly known as the Illinois and Mississippi canal, the Hennepin Canal and its pools and locks sit a relic of an era when boats were a vital part of commerce in inland America. It's history is a little different than some of it's nearby contemporaries, because it was in essence already obsolete by the time the first boat made transit through it in 1907. Despite some architectural significance, including being the first canal built with concrete and no stone facings, it never got the opportunity to fulfill its roll as fully intended. After more than half a century of desire for the canal, construction began in 1892, and while it was being built work was underway to make locks on the Illinois River suitable for larger vessels. With it's narrower lock chambers the Hennepin settled into life as passage for recreational vessels rather than as an artery of commerce. 

Tiskilwa, Illinois is the embodiment of small town middle America and sits near the eastern end of the canal, near Lock #10. The canal does a sort of zig-zag North of town. In 2023, the population was 728. At it's peak there weren't many more than a thousand residents, living centered around an iconic main drag in the village center. Prior to European settlement a Potawatomi village was on this site. White man filtered in and settled along the Galena Trail, a stagecoach route that takes it's name from a lead ore mineral that occurs in deposits scattered around the Driftless Region. Galena looks the part, lead grey in color and heavy, sometimes forming beautiful crystals often cubic in habit. In fact, I have specimens with galena and fluorite from Illinois in my personal collection. Lead ore in hydrothermal replacement deposits in the limestone and agriculture on the fertile flood plains drew people to Illinois and through the spot where Tiskilwa stands now. In History of Bureau County, Illinois, published in 1885, Henry C. Bradsby notes the town's official inception out of two settlements, Indiantown and Windsor, which were consolidated and took the current name in 1840: "Tiskihca. — Names of Indiantown and Windsor changed to Tiskilwa, law, February 3, 1840, 107; town incorporated". Today, there is no sense of sprawl, suburbia, or anything else of that sort in Tiskilwa, as is consuming the soul of small towns in other parts of the country. Old homes line the street grid, along with some small businesses and a museum along the town's Main Street. The railroad completed in the middle of the 19th century arcs through town, still active. Up away from the river courses the land is flat and dominated by farms. Miles upon miles of farms. Endless farms. Save for some narrow strips between fields, there are few trees breaking up the view. This was likely part of the more than half of Illinois that wasn't forested anyway, but it must look very different now. Close to town, Rocky Run and its tributaries have carved their way down into the plain. There, trees are still very much present, and evidently have long been, as Bradsby also notes: "About Tiskilwa and on the Illinois River there is considerable rich bottom lands, covered with fine heavy timber". Where trees have persisted, so have periodical cicadas. That's what brought me to Tiskilwa, a town that is not in any way on the map for fly anglers.

Lightning strikes the flat farmlands, east of Tiskilwa a ways.

To be fair, Tiskilwa just happened to be the spot that caught my attention first as Emily and I worked eastward through Illinois. I'd pinned sites all the way into the Chicago suburb of Joliet, but when once again I cracked the window a ways outside of Tiskilwa and heard that familiar buzz, that evil grin crept across my face. The bugs had brought me somewhere new yet again, somewhere I'd never have had reason to go otherwise, somewhere with history, ecology, and culture I'd not have learned otherwise. sometimes a bug isn't just a bug. 

As I walked along the Hennepin Canal under the blazing sun, it's water flowed very sluggishly but clear, with vegetation and aquatic life all over. It's remarkable how life takes hold. In one lock I observed some gar and channel catfish milling around, as well as a few bigmouth buffalo scraping algae from the canal walls. All of these fish seemed rather averse to my presence and completely disinterested in cicadas, so I didn't linger with them long. I was a bit more interested in seeing a natural water body anyway. 

My first look at the creek I'd spent time viewing through the magic of the internet and satellite imagery came after skirting around a deep slough in grass that wasn't much shorter than I. Unlike the area I'd fished in Missouri, this was a classic freestone river with runs, riffles and pools. It had gradient and chunky limestone. It looked delightfully inviting and delicious. But did it have cicada eating fish? I stayed low and slow, eyeing the greyish green stained water for signs of life- a shadow, a waving fin, a rise form. It didn't take long. From deeper, darker water emerged the hulking form of a grass carp. It sidled up into the shallows over light colored bottom, then rose to a cicada drifting by. Slowly and carefully, I made my approach. The fish held it's ground, unaware of my presence. I'd love to say it was difficult, and maybe if I'd not done this quite a few times in the prior days it would have been, but I splatted that bug down and the grasser came to it without hesitation. The fight was on. In a log filled bend pool, I battled a freshwater giant about three feet long with a graphite stick and a glorified hand line. Much like Missouri, Illinois took me by surprise with just astoundingly good and enjoyable fishing. 

I enjoy fishing just about anywhere, especially where other people aren't. I've plied the famous trout rivers in Montana, squeaked snook out of the mangroves in the Everglades, and swung up landlocked salmon in the north Maine Woods. I've battled surf on famous spots of the striper coast and waded up legendary limestone spring creeks. None of that was any better than the fishing I had in Illinois. I don't give a damn what anyone says, this was my jam. 

 

I wonder what it was like in the area where Tiskilwa stands today when what are now known as Northern Illinois brood and Great Southern Brood last emerged in tandem, in 1803. There were probably still a fair few bison working the land in Illinois then. The indigenous peoples were still the dominant cultural presence. Illinois wasn't even Illinois yet. There was no railroad, no canal. The flora would have been distinctly different from what I saw. Even the river's very course may have been displaced. There were certainly no grass carp there. How many cicadas were there? Many millions more? What fish were eating them? How did the indigenous people respond to the insects abrupt emergence?

Fly fishing is largely a silly, useless hobby until we take note of everything else going on around us while doing it. The longer I stay with it, the more clear that is to me. It would be almost wholly un-stimulating to me now were I not using it as an avenue through which to explore the sciences and history. I'd give up fishing for fishing's sake before I gave up the places it takes me both mentally and physically. Fishing doesn't matter to me as an individual anymore, not the way it did. Pursuing a bug and an invasive fish eating it took me to a tiny town in the middle of Illinois. It made me want to learn about that place and it's history. So much so that months later I was combing through a book published in 1885. I grazed information about malacologist named Charles Torrey Simpson who was supposedly born in Tiskilwa and published dozens of pieces of scientific literature, including "The pearly fresh-water mussels of the United States; their habits, enemies, and diseases, with suggestions for their protection" in the Bulletin of the US Fish Commission. I learned that to pay for the operations of the Hennepin Canal, ice blocks cut from it during the winter were sold. This reminded me of ice ponds here at home in New England, and how different our lives and the land are now from just a handful of generations ago. This is all far more interesting and important than catching a fish, in my humble opinion. That's just trivial. Not the fish- the fish is just as interesting and important -but catching it? Sometimes I do think about quitting that part. 

It sure is fun though. 

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, Hunter, Gordon, Thomas, Trevor and Eric 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.

Climb Out & Scream (Pt. 1)

In a small dirt lot somewhere in Northeastern Missouri, I cracked the window of the rental car and let in a sound. It was a wavering buzz, a chorus of many singers emanating from the trees on this stiflingly hot early summer day. This was a sound I'd driven well over a thousand miles to hear. I looked over at my partner in the passenger seat and cracked a maniacal grin. We weren't too late after all!

Periodical cicadas or "magic cicadas" represent seven different species of cicada that emerge on 13 and 17 year cycles. 17 different broods emerge of separate cycles all across the Eastern United states. In 2024, two broods emerged simultaneously in the Midwest and South- the Northern Illinois Brood and the Great Southern Brood. Collectively, millions of cicadas emerged from the earth, where they spent more than 99 percent of their life, shed their nymphal shucks, and went about doing what sexually mature cicadas do best: screaming and having sex. That's probably what I'd want to do if I'd just spent the last 13-17 years living in the soil too, quite frankly.  Some people aren't particularly big fans of the sound or the bugs themselves. Personally, I think those people suffer from a severe negative attitude problem. How lucky are we that such an incredible ecological phenomena occurs in our backyard? It's such an incredible display of life, a vitally important occurrence in the habitats in which these bugs persist. Throughout parts of their range, some periodical cicadas are not doing well at all. Charles Lester Marlatt, who first assigned Roman numeric designations to the existing broods (as well as 13 others that don't actually exist) noted dramatic declines in the very brood that should emerge in the Connecticut River Valley, attributing it to deforestation and the introduction of house sparrows (Marlatt, C.L (1907). "Summary of the Habits and Characteristics of the Cicada.") Unfortunately, Brood XI was last seen in 1954 and is now extinct, an outright ecological catastrophe most southern New England residents are wholly unaware of.

As I've written about in this blog before, I'm a cicada addict. I adore periodical cicadas and everything about them, from their ornate, jewel like wings to their mechanical sounding call, to their seemingly bumbling flights as they try to evade predators. Of course, it doesn't hurt that fish like to eat them. Fish really like to eat them. Here in Missouri, I was hoping that the fish that would be really liking the cicadas would be grass carp. In North America fisherman often have a pretty poor understanding of what carp are In this area in the midwest it's made no better by a plethora of large native suckers that look vaguely like common carp, and a number of introduced Asian carp species, including grass carp. Grass carp are a bit different than the species that are often in the headlines as Asian carp, which are silver and bighead carp. Grass carp, Ctenopharyngodon idella, are the only species in their genus and look, at least to the trained eye, absolutely nothing like common carp. Nor do they act like common carp, come from the same part of the world (grass carp are from far Eastern Asia, common carp from Europe and far Western Asia. Though both species feed on or near the surface semi frequently, grass carp are built for it a little better with a terminal mouth while common carp have a more inferior mouth (this means that their mouth is on the bottom of their face, not that their mouth is worse). Both are detrimental ecologically in a variety of different ways. Both are also a heck of a lot of fun to catch on a fly rod, but to this point in my fly fishing carrier I'd caught exactly one, this monster from a park pond in the northeast: 

I really wanted more, and I really wanted to catch one without having to throw a bunch of bits of bread in the water. These calling cicadas were singing a promise to me. They were singing a promise that I was surely about to find my fix. I trotted through the brush towards the river, cicadas blundering into branches in their haste to get away from me. Upon reaching the edge of a high clay bank and peaking over, it was immediately apparent that they bugs weren't lying. A half a dozen or so grass carp cruised up and down a bubble line, picking off bugs as they went. They weren't alone though. They were joined by roughly the same number of shortnose gar, a fish species I'd gotten to see for the first time with my friend Hamilton Bell earlier in the week down in Arkansas. They'd snubbed me then (read: I blew a lot of shots), but this opportunity seemed almost too good. And they were eating bugs? What a wonderful surprise! This seemed uncharacteristic for a gar species, but I'm not one to turn down an opportunity at an odd species on a dry fly. Firs though, I had to rush back to the car to rig up. My grin was now twice as maniacal.

There's some minor complexity to catching cicada eating fish, but it isn't so technical as to be prohibitively difficult. Certain fish seem to have certain preferences at different times. I've never gotten carp to eat sinking cicadas well, though I'm sure it happens. On the tailwaters of Maryland during the 2021 emergence, I caught fat brown trout on some sinking cicadas, to exclusion of the dry fly during the midday surface activity lull. I had yet to get the opportunity to put a cicada in front of a grass carp, or a shortnose gar for that matter, but given the methodical behavior of these fish I anticipated a long drift being favorable to a splat-down, and probably minimal action on the fly. And that's exactly what I got. In fact, I was about to have two days of the best dry fly fishing I'd ever experienced. These grassers behaved much like big brown trout do. They chose the same sorts of lies a trout would, holding position in faster water and cycling in the froggy spots. They were selective but not overly so, and they fought incredibly well. They fought astoundingly well too. It was everything I could have asked for. (Short video available to Patreon supporters: www.patreon.com)

I knocked a couple grassers out really promptly, but was immediately keen on sticking a gar. It didn't take too long to find willing participants to grab the fly, they were in fact extremely keen on that, but it did take a little while to get one willing to stick (read: I whiffed a whole bunch of them). When I finally did, it was an elevating moment. My first of a gar species, my third gar species, on a periodical cicada dry fly. That just seemed absurd. But these fish were clearly keen on the bugs. They were setting up much like the grassers were, though they favored cruising the slower water over stationing up. Some were holding lies though, finning in the current and picking off cicadas as they floated by. They showed notable preference for the bugs that were still alive and moving, and in turn for a fly that was twitched like the living naturals. It was just the coolest thing, so cool I had to know if this was a well know phenomena. I reached out to Dr. Solomon David, biologist and gar specialist at the University of Minnesota about what I was seeing. Not only did he respond promptly confirming that shortnose gar are indeed known to feed intently on periodical cicadas, he told me that one of the only pieces of formal scientific literature on the species delved into their behavior while feeding on magicicadas: American Midland Naturalist Journal: Shortnose Gar - Territorial Defense of Profitable Pool Positions. 

How friggen cool is that? Solomon David then asked if I'd be able to contribute any data. I'm always looking for an excuse to provide something that could be of use to fisheries science. If I'm going to go around pricking all sorts of fish in face for fun, some sort of good should at least come of my efforts. Subsequently, for the rest of my time in Missouri, every shortnose gar I caught was accurately measured and photographed. Their behavior prior to capture and exact location were recorded, and I took photos of gar in feeding lanes, cicadas on the water, and overall shots of the river. It added some work on my part, but that isn't unfamiliar. I spent many formative years observing river herring runs to get visual estimates on returns in streams without fish ladders. The amount that can be learned by approaching fish with a scientist's eye, looking for a quantitative analysis, is significant. Fisherman aren't always good scientists, arguably rarely. The goal of catching fish doesn't always necessitate understanding exactly why fish do what they do. It doesn't take a thorough understanding of fish, across all sorts of species and waterbodies, to catch enough to be satisfied. Anglers are often not even that good at telling what species of fish they're holding in their had when they do catch one. So taking a very scientific approach, engaging with the ichthyologists and fisheries biologists, and participating in the collection of data that might further the scientific understanding of fish and their habitat presents a lot of opportunities. I'll jump at the opportunity to take part any chance I get. 

They way gar take a fly has always amused me. It's almost adorable, bordering on comical at times. With these cicadas it was no different. The fly would plop down, perhaps two or three feet ahead of the fish. Either it would respond to the fly landing or I'd twitch the bug. The gar would turn, angling toward the fly, and nose right up to it. By nose up, I don't mean put their snout under the fly. They get it next to their eye almost, next to their jaws on one side of their head or the other. If they could they'd probably be squinting at the fly at this point. If a moment passes and the gar doesn't  commit, I'm inclined to give the fly little twitches. This is usually all it takes, the gar's fins kick a little and it closes whatever gap it has between it and the fly. Then is snaps at it, opening its mouth and jerking its head to the side. Can you picture it? I've seen it countless times from four different species of gar, everywhere from Vermont to Florida to Arkansas. It's very specific, and frankly very funny. 

My satisfaction with life is heavily contingent, probably too contingent, on laborious exploration of places I've never been with either a fly rod or a camera in hand. There isn't necessarily anything relaxing about it at all, sometimes I wear myself down to zero. I beat myself to a pulp wading twelve miles of river one day and had to pull over on the side of the highway because the cramping was too severe to drive through. I forget that my body even exists in favor of paying attention to everything else instead. And when an event is ephemeral and temporary, or my time in a place is short, I can be almost frantic about it. Not so frantic that I don't take time to be completely stationary though. 

Standing on a high, sloping bank above one long, slow pool, I could see a few grassers larger than the one's I'd been catching working the surface. The rock below my feet was sheet thin layers of sedimentary strata, layer down millennia ago when this whole place was underwater. Not much had altered it since it had hardened as it was near perfectly level and didn't who much at all in the way of signs of metamorphosis from heat or pressure. The river had carved at it though, revealing the time it had been laid as step-like layers sloping down to the riverbed. On top of it was a less old form of the same process- layers of sand and clay that had been dropped by the river when it was younger. The rock made a good seat, I decided to watch the fish feed for a bit and take in as much information as I could while I had the opportunity. The larger fish were definitively wearier than the smaller ones, and didn't spend as much time hovering right under the surface. Since the water was extremely turbid they were only really visible as dark, long smudges with wavering tails. Some of the little ones stayed up and cruised around. But the larger ones, some of which were probably in the high 30 inch class, rose up from the gloom and held position for a moment or two, picked off a couple cicadas when they came by, and then sank back down. They were clearly favoring proximity to shad, though they didn't seem to need to be in it all the time. Fish treat shadows as cover,, because it is. I couldn't see them well at all when they were in the shade, but could see them fairly clearly around the periphery of it. They seemed to want to remain close to that shadow as a quick escape if it became necessary. Eventually sensing a pattern of movement with the larger fish there I eased down to the water's edge. From that level seeing the fish before they surfaced to eat was nearly impossible, so I waited with fly line in hand to make a quick but long cast. When one topped, I let it fly. The bug landed, a few seconds passed, and white lips opened around it. I held ground until the lips closed and the head turned to go back down and lifted the rod. The pool then erupted as an angry grasser mad it's feeling about being deceived known. 

I repeated the process over an over that second day, scrambilng up and down steep banks, watching fish, and walking river in deck boots and shorts, hunting and hunting some more until I was fairly satisfied with the results. I'd come, I'd seen, and I'd caught. I watched birds hunt the cicadas and seen a few snakes slide away into holes. I'd done some minor gar science and bent an eight weight on more grass carp than I'd caught up until that point prior. Understanding that the time had come to push northward, we said goodbye to Missouri- as place I'd not had anywhere near the respect for that it deserved until driving it's entire extent from south to north. But there were more bugs, more fish, and more places to be. The clock is always ticking, and I needed to find more to keep that maniacal grin on my face. Though there was a tornado to be chased in Nebraska first, the next stop on the cicada pilgrimage was Illinois. 

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, Hunter, Gordon, Thomas, Trevor and Eric 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.

Appalachia

 Winding roads swung through the hilly back woods of the American South, taking me closer and closer to a land I'd dreamed about for years. North Georgia sits at the southern end of the Appalachian Mountains, a range often sneered at by westerners for being hills rather than mountains... and maybe that's true, but these old hills sure are special. And you can still get lost here, whether you want to or not. At this moment I was trying to get lost, temporarily, in a drainage that held fish species that I'd never caught before, black bass and shiners isolated from even relatively nearby drainages long enough to evolve into something distinguishably different. Because the Appalachian Mountains effectively divide many watersheds, draining in almost all directions, the region has incredible diversity of freshwater fishes. From various redhorse, to a broad variety of darters, to minnows, to the redeye bass complex, it seems the deeper you dive into Appalachia the more interesting it gets. The diversity goes beyond fish of course. From Georgia to New York, the variety of salamanders, dragonflies, mushrooms, and trees is striking. From the small and slim Southern zigzag salamander of the south to the robust and vibrant Northern red salamander, it's remarkable what critters have evolved here. And the diversity of peoples reflects here too. Isolation has meant that odd little cultural pockets exist in Appalachia. The dialect of Southern Appalachia is distinct enough to be the source of mythology, some claiming it to be a relic of Elizabethan English. You can certainly hear odd twangs of Scottish here and there, though plenty of other dialectic influences have played into what you'd hear today. The seemingly quirky way Appalachians speak is, unfortunately, often pegged as uneducated or crude, ignoring the history of language in favor of looking at the often subsistence living and poor population of the region as backwards hillbillies. But when an Aussie uses "reckon", do we think them a backwards moron? Of course, some place names don't help... who the hell named the Left Fork Right Fork Little Kanawha River? The people that live in these hills aren't stupid though, you can't carve out an existence here and be dumb. They may be left behind though, of no fault of their own. 

Dropping into the valley carved by the Chattooga River, the natural border between Georgia and South Carolina, I said goodbye to cellular service and pulled into an empty parking lot to rig up and get ready to catch fish I'd never seen before. The water was both familiar and not. Once you've seen enough freestone rivers you get how they work- hydrology changes very little. The bedrock here was from a formation I'd never tread on, and it wasn't recognizable stone to me. But it broke and tumbled and formed the shape of the land much in the same way as plenty of rock I had seen, so reading it was no struggle. I fished my way though boulder strewn pools picking off small Bartram's bass and warpaint shiners. The bass were a little bit like creek smallmouth bass, but not quite. They held in similar water, and were aggressive, but very much one hit wonders. I think they fought harder than smallmouth of the same size. The warpaint shiners were a little bit like spottail shiners, but not quite.  They held in small schools, though in somewhat different water, and they ate small flies with impunity just like spottail do. 

Though those were new species to me, both one's I'd wanted to catch for years, what struck me most was a species I'd caught plenty of in other states. In fact I've caught redbreast sunfish everywhere from Maine to Virginia. But the redbreast in the Chatooga River? In my unprofessional opinion, that's a different fish. And it's a prettier fish too, I think. The coloration on each redbreast I caught, with vibrant deep red bellies crackling harshly into a turquois blue, was just astonishing. 

I didn't expect to find that, those redbreast sunfish were a very pleasant surprise. After having my fill of gorgeous redbreast sunfish, fiery Bartram's bass, and elegant warpaint shiners, I packed it in to meander through parts unknown to me. My time in southern Appalachia has been limited, and I'd never yet been to Tennessee. I decided to meander through North Carolina toward Johnson City. 

A funny thing happened as I went. The winding, steep roads and their hairpin curves were drawing me out of the country I'd idealized and wanted to see. Small plot farmsteads, tight communities perched on the edges of hollers, and robust mature forest began to give way to huge homes scattered across hillsides, wider roads, golf courses, and progressively more and more traffic. The infrastructure was new and shiny and unfitting. No Trespassing signs pocked with bullet holes began to be replaced by large "For Sale" signs. A clear, tumbling spring paralleling the road gave way to a muddy ditch running silt out of a cul-de-sac still under construction. 

For a short time a couple years ago, the internet seemed insistent on advertising real estate in North Carolina to me. I don't know what algorithmically made any sense about that, but it got worse, because at least for a little while I engaged with it out of curiosity and a not insignificant degree of disgust. It was all about horridly ugly McMansions on large land plots, many a significant commute out away from the larger population hubs. The selling points were a mild climate, mountain views, and a quiet setting. My disgust came from a place of knowing what that land was, or in some cases still was, as the advertising was for whole tracts to be subdivided, and just how insanely and unnecessarily impactful this development was. Instead of leaving these lower hills intact and biodiverse and building convenient, architecturally sound multi-family homes closer to where both work and necessities exist, these developments were sprawling out into what was some quite wild land not that long ago. Disdain is the appropriate description for how I looked at all that real estate advertising, the people profiting from that land development, those who were moving into it, and the powers that be that fail to prevent land waste from occurring.  All of that advertising had made me aware that this sort of rural gentrification was happening, but seeing it in person was brutal. I clenched the steering wheel and gritted my teeth more and more as I continued Northeastward toward Asheville. 

Asheville itself is a small city, sitting at a population of 95,056 in 2023. The whole metropolitan area totals over 410,000 people  It's growth has been more or less steady and has been predicted to continue. Asheville has seen a few booms and busts through its history. Tucked up into the hills at the broadest part of the Appalachian chain, the town was a perfect outpost location. The first real boom that pushed Asheville toward being the city we see now occurred in the 1880's as rail travel made it accessible and it became a safe and beautiful escape and started to attract exceptional wealth. George W. Vanderbilt's famed Biltmore Estate occupies a 120,00 acre piece of land in Asheville. In the image of the huge estates in England, Biltmore is a striking piece of architecture. In  1916, Asheville thrived off of its textile production and other industry until the Great Depression, which hit it like a ton of bricks. The town stagnated into the 1980's, with the lovely side effect of much of the historic architecture remaining. That history, the tolerable climate, and a reputation for being quirky and weird in a wonderful way have lead to the cities revival and economic improvement in the time since. 

On Friday, September 27th, 2024 around 6:00pm EDT, the French Broad River in Asheville peaked at 24.67 feet according to USGS. The previous record from the same gauge was 23.1 feet. Around the time rivers throughout Georgia, South Carolina, North Carolina, and Tennessee were breaching their banks and sweeping away roads, bridges, homes and business. Rain from the dissipating Hurricane Helene, all moisture picked up by the monster storm in the Gulf of Mexico, was pounding the landscape mercilessly. It completely overwhelmed standing infrastructure, blowing out culverts and embankments that were never constructed to handle such volume. In the more developed area like Asheville, improved surfaces exacerbated runoff rates, and land that had once been mature forest turned into sheet-flow, worsening what would have been a dire situation anyway. Roads- everything from major highways to dirt tracks -electrical infrastructure, and water mains crumbled, cutting off some small communities. Hundreds would die. Those left in the wake of the floods stand in towns forever changed. Some of them had lost everything to the turbid waters. As we stand now, time estimates on vital infrastructure repairs, even including major highway bridges, extend out a decade. 

This devastation was in stark contrast to years of Asheville and some other similarly situated towns being dubbed "climate havens"- places immune to devastating severe weather and harsh seasonal temperatures. The media push to label such places certainly didn't discourage their growth, and many areas have seen population and development booms in turn. Nowhere is really immune though. I'm not here to suggest that Helene and a major Appalachian flood event couldn't happen without human-caused climate change- it certainly could, the gulf of Mexico has been spinning up violent hurricanes forever. Asheville experienced a similar but slightly less impactful flood in 1916 from the remnants of another dissipating tropical cyclone. But the idea that any place is a haven from dangerous weather? All it takes is one storm, and the more people and their dwellings, businesses and infrastructure are distributed about an area, the worse the toll will be. Failing to take into account possible extremes is human nature. We build in ways we shouldn't in places we shouldn't... like covering an entire slope of a mountainside with huge mansions, long paved driveways, and barren, open grass lawns. The land can't take this, and neither can we.

 As I curved back west out of the pre-Helene, busy and prosperous Asheville and the landscape slowly lost signs of recent development, I began to relax again. Crossing the border into Tennessee, the landscape was breathtaking. 

There's a haunting beauty about the wooded East, in more ways than one. The history stretches back plenty far to build up centuries of lore, much of it steeped in fear. From serial killers stashing bodies back in the hills, tales of UFOs and aliens, ghosts with malicious intent, perhaps the most wonderful regional name for sasquatch (wood boogers), and a number unsolved disappearances and solved but gruesome murders, there is a lot to capitalize on in the weird and disturbing realm when it comes to Appalachia. And ragging on how spooky and even dangerous the region is has become quite popular among the click bait riddled realms of modern social media. Throw some clips of foggy woodlands, run down shacks, and sepia tone AI generated images of moonshiners together with foreboding music and you're sure to please the masses. Just days ago I heard some creator's narration "we all know how dangerous Appalachia is" at the start of some TikTok video while my partner was scrolling. It makes me chuckle a little with its absurdity. Dangerous compared to what? We seem so keen to make everything scary. Crime is up in the cities! Move out to the country, where a hillbilly will dismember you and feed you to his pig while he's talking to the demon that lives in his well. Everywhere is dangerous, really. There are indeed be some back hollers in West Virginia where the locals are none too thrilled at the idea of outsiders showing up. But can you blame them? A lot of that demonization revolves around poorness, as it so often does, and nobody likes to feel looked down upon. People, no matter where they live, are neither a novelty nor something to be treated as inferior. It seems to me much of the media revolving around Appalachia doesn't take that to heart at all. 

In the wake of Helene, the residents of Appalachia are picking up the pieces. They're resilient people and community oriented, but it can't be easy. Places they've known and loved don't look the same and may never again. They've lost family and friends. The scope of the damage in both severity and area, as well as the rugged and remote nature of some of the mountainous southeast have made recovery and response an exceptional challenge. And on top of that, in a brutally contentious election cycle, they've been used as political pawns as conspiracies spiral over FEMA funding and weather control. None of it helps put back the pieces. If you'd like to actually be a good participant in the community and can spare a dollar, look to donate at local charities, the closer to the endpoint the better. Here are a couple region-wide relief funds to consider: East Tennessee Foundation, North Carolina Disaster Relief Fund. Another good move is just patronizing businesses throughout the region that were impacted. Recovery efforts are at a point now that many areas are re-opening, and visitors aren't so much in the way. Don't go to gawk at the damage and people's misfortune, go to appreciate one of the most beautiful parts of this country, it's history and culture, and some of the incredible fishing that exists there. Book a trip with a guide in Western NC, Eastern TN, or Southwestern Virginia. You can also search the hashtag "fliesforappalachia" to find some tiers auctioning off flies and donating the proceeds. Kudos to Ryan Waldrep for getting the community involved. 

We can do better. We need to do better.

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, Hunter, Gordon, Thomas, and Trevor 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.

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.

Down in Brown Town

 The road to the Norfork Tailwater from Mountain Home was a sad one in June. Early in the morning on May 26th, 2024, at around 4:30am, a large tornado carved a six mile path, almost paralleling the main road. It was rated EF-3 and killed one woman, injured others, and destroyed multiple homes. Emily and I passed through the wreckage of people lives before dropping down into the valley where the tailwater was. Though it hadn't caused as much damage down there, word is the tornado and associated severe thunderstorms had blow the last of the Great Southern Brood periodical cicadas in this area away. Given that was the main reason for the visit, it was hard to feel confident about the daytime fishing. The sight of people's lives scattered around in the woods and fields like so much tissue paper by winds over 120 miles per hour was, much, much harder to stomach. So perhaps I ought not see much at all? Brown trout, especially big brown trout, are very nocturnal critters anyway. 

Northern Arkansas may not seem the most likely place for one of the best big brown trout fisheries in the world, but combination of factors, most of them unnatural, have resulted in just that. In 1944, construction was completed on Norfork Dam, which was originally designed to be a flood control dam but modified to include generators, and in 1949 stocking of brown began. Bull Shoals Dam was opened on the White River in 195, and Greers Ferry Dam created the Little Red River tailwater in 1962, and soon all three tailwaters would become robust trout fisheries as the massive and deep reservoirs created by these dams would keep each at a steady, cool temperature even in the stifling Ozarks summers. As time passed, aquatic insects would populate, stocking regimes would change, and instances of gigantic trout would grow more and more frequent. On May 9th, 1992, Howard Collins caught a 40 pound 4 ounce wild brown trout out of the Little Red, solidifying  Arkansas in the annals of brown trout angling history. Each of these tailwaters could at any moment kick out a brown trout as large as anyone has ever seen to some lucky angler. 

I'd first learned about the White River in the context of streamer fishing. When the big-streamer-trout craze hit its peak, there were essentially two epicenters- Michigan and Arkansas. The White River, with its size, heavy generation cycles, baitfish population, and monstrous trout became a big fly mecca. For a long time I thought that if I ever got to fish the White it would be in the winter to chuck big streamers and sinking lines. About a decade later and I first wet my waders in the White when they turned most of the generators off, when the water was low and manageable in the black of night. Instead of a high-octane, fast stripping, covering a lot of ground, I was in for a different experience, but one that is very much my style now- the subtle approach, covering water with careful deliberation, alone, with somewhat subtler tactics. I'm still very much after the same sort of fish though- big, predatory Salmo trutta. 

The specific allure of night fishing for me is its tactility. I read water by feel, a keen awareness of the tension on my line and what it means guiding me through seems, eddies, pockets... time taught me that I don't need to see to read water, even somewhere I've never been. The take, the feeling of the take, is the prize. A fly line is a glorified handline. We manipulate our flies primarily with our hands to achieve a specific action, then the take often registers through that line rather than feeling the rod bend holding the grip. The feeling of a grab in the dark, with all visual aspects removed, is an electric feeling. It isn't always jarring, aggressive, or violent. Oftentimes the larger the fish is the more subtle it is, which makes good sense to me. Even with a fairly large, buoyant fly, the take of a large brown trout may just be an increase in tension. There's often no loud blowup or surface hysterics. Think of how a 20 inch trout eats a mayfly dun. There's no need for it to race up and attack it violently. It can just gulp it down. That seems to be exactly how giant trout eat frogs, injured baitfish, mice, and other such things in the dark. Sometimes though it is explosive, and that is of course quite jarring and exciting. But if I'm honest, I like the subtler takes better. I feel they result in fish to hand more often. The subtle bite and subsequent hookup is an affirming bit of confirmation that technique and approach are on point.

I crept my way out into the low flows of the river blind in one sense but with the added confidence of useful intel from a friend. On such a big river, its more than a little intimidating. But I have a lot of good friends that have fished all over, and Mark Sedotti had given me all I really needed to know to be safe- what wading would be like and a list of places I could park. I'd have tackled the river without the intel anyway but my approach would have had to be more cautious and slow. Careful daytime examination was performed, though the flows were much higher than they'd end up being. 

My process was very simple- slowly work the available water with a large, neutrally buoyant confidence fly, altering my presentation periodically and moving only when I was sure I'd thoroughly covered the water I could reach and didn't believe it was worth waiting for more fish to move in. This was unlike anywhere else I'd night fished though. The maximum possibilities were outrageous, the number of fish were as well. The forage variety isn't what I'm used to either. But trout are trout no matter where you are in the world, so I was sure I'd be able to catch. Sure enough the river delivered in fairly short order. 

My first Arkansas trout ate on an upriver cast in nearly still water, the current was just trickling along. I'd pushed a couple fish out that were practically belly crawling in the shallows, each a decent trout, and it became clear I couldn't rule out this water. I pie cast, starting straight out then closing in on the bank. Short casts, in the sweet spot for a delicate landing and minimizing the chance of lining fish. Really, I want led to land my fly withing a leader length of one and have it eat in just a few strips. That's exactly how it worked: cast, slow strip, tight. Quite a good start too, I'd say. It was my largest wild river trout of the year. 

That first night provided a slow pick, with nearly every fish coming when I either moved a little or altered my presentation. I only caught two fish doing the same thing, in fact. Each fish was a good one though. 

My tally was seven fish by the time false dawn approached. It was like leaving with a good taste but a hunger for more... just an appetizer before the restaurant closed. It was time to leave the river for the daytime shift crew to come in, for the generators to turn on, the flows to rise, and the jet boats to take over. 

A second might really wasn't in the plans. The idea was originally to head north trying to get back into the thick of it with the magic cicadas. Emily would still need to sleep though and I struggled to justify driving away from what would likely be my best shot at a monster trout for the rest of the year without one more attempt. We got another night at the hotel and I took a bit of a pre-game nap after a day of day of hunting new species with my friend Hamilton Bell. An alarm jarred me awake again and midnight for another shift hunting the big one. 

Brown trout look a bit different everywhere, though maintaining certain consistent traits. In the White River a lot of the brown trout seem to have these incredible big fins. Some seem unreasonably large and fan-like, disproportionate on the body of the fish they belong to. Any number of things could drive this trait and not every individual has them but enough do that those big, webby fins can be somewhat of a visual clue that the brown trout you're looking at came from the White River. There are many places where fluvial brown trout grow old and long and their fins get quite large as they age despite the fish not getting much heavier. These old, big-finned trout look a bit different than these trout. A lot of 20 inch White River trout aren't old fish but still have these disproportionate fins. It's an interesting trait. 

The night two highlight ended up being a short window in a big eddy when a fairly quick two hand retrieve seemed to be favored. This is counter to most of the deathly slow presentations I make at night, but it works now and then so I use it. A gnarly 22" rainbow and a 19" brown fell first, neither take being particularly noteworthy despite the aggressive retrieve. The next fish to move, though, absolutely blasted out of the water for the fly and completely missed. That one was clearly a much larger fish, which I could see partially in the glair of a house's lights. I'd guess it was in the high 20's, though I really don't know for sure. It never made contact with the fly that I could feel and I couldn't get it to come back. Though 25 fish came to hand on that second night and plenty were 18-22", the real monster still alluded me. 

Once again there was a little light in the sky as I peeled my leaky, smelly waders off after that finale stand. I reflected on how exceptional the fishing I'd just had was. On a lot of the rivers back home I typically go a whole season without catching as many quality wild trout in the dark. It's pretty cool to step into a place where the standard is a little different, and the possibilities are almost hard to fathom. 

 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.