An Extremely Meaningful Blitz

 I learned the ropes of striped bass fly fishing in a localized area on Long Island Sound. It was the perfect training ground, with tidal creeks, rocky points, beach front, and sand flats all in close proximity. Many parts of the Connecticut shoreline have all of these geographic features within close proximity, but I stuck with one area initially. I gained confidence in this area, as there happened to be a lot of fish there that year. There were even some pretty nice fish in the mix, and some encounters I had that year will stick with me for a while. I was ecstatic with what I'd found in this fishery. I made the faulty assumption that it would always be that way. 

The next year things were a little different. The tidal creek that had been the epicenter of my fall run the year prior had some fish but very few. There were some nice fish in the spring but the fall was underwhelming. These spots then wouldn't produce well for five years straight. I began to think that first year would never be repeated. Though some years saw good numbers of bass, especially small ones, there was never a lot in that specific spot. 

Then came the fall of 2022. October was one of the most spectacular- probably the most spectacular -striped bass fishing months I'd experienced. For a while I was following one body of fish almost daily, and it was epic. Then I sort of lost track of them. Deciding they must have moved on, I began driving around and stopping to watch for birds or blowups on my daytime missions. Two days after I'd lost track of the fish, I crossed one very familiar bridge and turned my head to see a massive cloud of birds over the creek. I whipped a u-turn as soon as I safely could and parked. Not even donning waders, I grabbed a fly rod and my sling pack and ventured into the marsh with a palpable sense of anticipation. I didn't even make it to where the birds were before spotting a blitz in a marsh cut where I'd not seen loads of breaking bass in years. The fish were on peanuts, averaged about 27 inches, and were ravenous and easily caught. 

I roped in bass after bass on a white Hollow Fleye, many of them being low end slot fish and a fair number being smaller. The size of the fish and ferocity of the blitz were very similar to those of that formative year of my striped bass fishing. It felt like a homecoming of sorts. After years if lackluster results this water- one of my favorite places -was suddenly giving up the goods again. Things slowly winded down right in front of me, and in time the decision was made to go to where all those birds had been. I couldn't have anticipated just how crazy that would be. 

I had just walked up to the most spectacular, expansive, and prolonged blitzes I had ever encountered. There were acres of bass and hundreds of birds laying siege to peanut bunker in a narrow tidal creek. This was a show to beat all others, a display of life and death that touched every sense. The visual spectacle was, of course, plainly evident. Thousands of iridescent juvenile menhaden sprayed out of thew choppy water, often followed by a linesider going airborne in hot pursuit. The birds provided their own sights to fixate on the laughing gulls dipping to grab the peanuts, hovering low over breaking fish, wings not beating effortlessly as they often can but, rather, completely frantic. Nothing I could see in that little part of the world at that moment was calm. It was chaos. If I closed my eyes, and I did a few times, I couldn't hide from it. The sound may have actually rivaled the sights as evidence of the mayhem. The gulls calling was audible from afar of course but so was the sound of the bass. It was a dull roar, like a waterfall, with higher pitched splashes and pops coming through. I could almost feel it. At times I really could when the bass would pin a school against the mud bank at my feet, the vibrations of their many bodies impacting the sod transmitting to my feet through the very ground I stood on. There was a smell and even taste to the air the signified the death of baitfish as well. It's an almost sweet smell with some vegetable like aspects. If you've been around a wild bunker blitz, you know what I'm talking about. It's an almost melon like smell with hints of fishiness to it. 

It's hard to really put into words what a blitz like that is like and what it feels like to be in the middle of all of that. It's even harder to describe what it was like for me being in such a special place with all of that going on around me. This was a meaningful day of fishing for me. Though I knew that this wasn't likely to produce any out-sized fish, that getting larger fish was no more predictable here than winning big at a slot machine, this blitz was more significant to me than so many of the big fish blitzes I'd already experienced this year. 

There were certainly big fish in the mix, so the chance was always there. At one point, having downsized to a kinky muddler just to diminish the damage to my larger flies, I hooked a smaller bass. It wasn't tiny, maybe 20 inches long, but much smaller than many of the fish I was catching. I was fixated on the activity around me and not really paying any mind to the fish I had on when there was a massive explosion, as if a large dog had just jumped into the creek. My rod buckled and I just barely caught sight of the flank and tail of the preposterously large striper that had just engulfed the schoolie I had on. My hook pulled free mere seconds after the attack and I'd never get to know quite how big that fish was. It'll certainly be a memory that will stick with me for the rest of my life though. 

Another sight that is ingrained in memory from that day was a school of bass so thick that they filled and darkened the water column, with the fish at the very top sunning their tails and dorsal fins in dry air. This wasn't a blitz, just a school of fish so thick it occupied the entirety of the water column. I'd never seen anything like this, and maybe never will again. 

After a spell, I actually had to go back home. I left the blitz in progress. Being gone long just wasn't an option though, returning that very same day had to happen. I also felt like I needed to share this spectacular thing with some friends. I asked Garth if he wanted to come and he did. My friend Boots and I had talked about fishing that day as well, so I gave him a call. He'd actually been with me one of the last good days of that formative first season in this spot as well. These two guys would get the gravity of this, that's what was important. 

Some people might think it was foolhardy to think this epic blitz would still be going on. In my mind, there was no way it wouldn't be. It was just too large, too vigorous, and had already been going on at a somewhat subpar tide... had to continue. Well...

Garth and I drove down together, Boots would get there a little later. We were in the fish right away, and if anything the spectacle had increased in intensity in some ways. This event had now seemingly been in progress for six hours. It would go on for many, many more, and that was something I couldn't have anticipated. 

We gawked. We caught fish. We struggled to process the extraordinary event that was right in front of us. There are bigger blitzes, I've seen plenty of them. But for a blitz of this size and duration to take place in a narrow system of tidal creeks is very special. It doesn't happen every day. Boots finally found his way to us and joined in the revelry. He was soon trying to catch bass on all of the plugs he'd not yet caught stripers on, plugs that had special meaning to him. And because the fish were so ravenous it wasn't all that hard to get one to eat almost anything. 

For the fish, this day represented and important and yearly part of a migration. Water temperatures were falling and the days were getting shorter. These fish were heading towards their winter homes, and their biology drove them to pack on the pounds while they could. Some of the fish we were catching were so heavy set they looked downright rotund. They had round, saggy bellies. The really small ones almost looked like tadpoles, carrying their freshly gained weight exclusively in their stomachs. As with so many aspects of the day, photos just didn't do it justice. 

As it got darker I anticipated that this blitz would end. Nighttime blitzes are rare. Nocturnal surface feeding isn't, but concentrated blitzing is. This was the blitz that refused to end though. The sun fell and it was still going on in the fading light. 

As the sky darkened, the fish merely moved rather than calming down. We followed them down to the mouth of the creek and continued to catch fish into the night, our hands becoming shredded and raw from the rasp of countless striper mouths. The number of fish to hand was likely well in the hundreds at that point, and the thought of tying into something much bigger convinced me to continue casting. That and the knowledge that this was a special event. I told Garth, "enjoy this while it lasts, because we may never experience this again. These are our good old days". I'd love to believe that I was wrong, but there's no way to guarantee that we'd experience a tidal creek blitz like this in our home waters again. So we stuck with it until it seemed absurd to stay a minute longer. My hands were bleeding, my sleeves were crusted with salt and dried bass slime, and I'd waded into the creek wearing leather boots and khakis in air temperatures that were dropping into the high 40's. When the fish put on a show that good, I don't let much stand in the way of being in the middle of it all. Sharing this show with a couple of good friends in a location that was incredibly important  to my development as an angler was priceless. 

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.

Trouting About in Vermont (Pt. 1)

 Back in mid September, with some rains bringing rivers back to life and temperatures on the fall, the trout itch started to need scratching. With the Farmington still too low to be of particular interest in daylight, Garth and I set our sights further afield. The Rangeley region seemed like one decent choice, it had been a while since I'd tangled with large brook trout. Night fishing in the Catskills also didn't seem like a bad plan. We settled on an area between the two, and one I'd not spent as much time exploring. Though I'd fished Vermont many times, rarely ever have trout been the target. With input from Drew Price of Masterclass Angling, a lot of research trough USGS data, satellite imagery, and the limited available fishery data, I created a hit-list of rivers and specific spots within rivers. I packed up the 4Runner and picked up Garth after he got home from work one evening and we headed north. 

The plan was simple: car camp, fish, and explore. We had a few days and nights to work with on some of the prettiest trout waters in the Northeast. The Green Mountains have a rich trout and fly fishing history; being home to Orvis's headquarters, the famed and fickle Battenkill, and some exceptionally beautiful and large wild salmonidae. It is a stronghold of native brook trout, though some of the Green's streams are now dominated by nonnative brown trout and in some cases, rainbows as well. We hoped to catch all three species in some beautiful and at times quite remote waters. 

We arrived in the dark and caught some rest near the stream I wanted to fish first. It was the most remote of them and a totally blank slate for us. It was going to be cold and there'd be trout in it, we just didn't know how many, what species, or how big. When I first got a look at the river I liked what I saw. Flows were strong, the water was a little tanic, and the surrounding woods were beautiful mixed forest dripping with moss. Spring seeps poured out of the hills and the river valley itself was spotted with beaver meadows. Varied habitat makes the best habitat, and this felt like a clean and healthy ecosystem. I was getting pretty excited. 

This environment may actually have had the highest density of Eastern newts I'd ever encountered. The wetland areas, be they active beaver ponds or the remnants of abandoned ones, were crawling with hundreds upon hundreds of the aquatic form. Walking through the woods we turned up the bright orange terrestrial form as well, know as red efts. 

Also occupying the beaver ponds were creek chubs and a variety of dragonfly species. The stream itself was cold and fast and seemed fairly sterile, harboring caddis and midges but very little in the way of mayflies as far as I could tell. It seemed a bit too "clean" and nutrient deficient to be brown trout habitat- remember that point - and out initial visit seemed to indicate that the stream was very rich with brook trout and hardly any other fish of any kind. These fish were beautiful, dark specimens averaging 6 inches. Some exceeded that mark, but it didn't feel like encountering one much in excess of 10 inches was likely. They were quite numerous though. I fished the ever reliable Ausable Ugly, and it produced handsome fontinalis one after another for a few hours. 

After months of fishing urban, industrial, and suburban habitats almost exclusively, it was a relief to get away from people and signs of people. Unfortunately some of this was an illusion. Neither the forest itself nor the stream were in a fully natural state. The land it was contained within was is fact, in essence, a protected tree farm open to recreation. It was timber in reserve. We passed patch cuts on the long dirt road in. But at the very least signs of human presence were limited down in the river valley. There weren't angler foot paths. The fish didn't have the injuries so common in pressured fisheries where trout are caught and released repetitively throughout their lives. Trash wasn't merely scarce, there was none. It was rejuvenating. 

I can only catch so many small brook trout in a day, though, before I feel bad for disrupting their natural rhythms. Garth and I then decided to go disrupt the rhythm of some non-natives. It was time to look for a big brown trout. Though not a widely known big trutta destination, Garth and I had a bit of intel to act on. Perhaps we'd stop somewhere along the way that we knew nothing about as well. This was an exploratory mission after all.

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.

Kokanee (& Trout) In The Dark

As an obsessive nighttime angler, I'm constantly looking to d to my repertoire. One thing I've done very little of is target trout in stillwaters at night. Here in CT, many of our stillwater fisheries are composed of stocked trout with very poor holdover rates, so that makes them generally uninteresting to me. There are some lakes with a half decent holdover rate but most take some travel. There's also some lakes with other species of interest. It was kokanee that got me fairly intrigued to try one particular stillwater.

Kokanee are landlocked sockeye salmon. They were brought top CT in the 1940's to build a recreational fishery. Why the state of CT is expending resources on this only lightly fished species that isn't native is beyond me, but at least kokanee aren't going to spread far and wide. In fact, landloacked alewives, also a non-native, have almost completely wiped out kokanee fisheries in Ct in the past. Kokanee have an affinity for nocturnal activity, though kokanee feeding is focused on zooplankton. They're essentially a salmonid that filter feeds... not quite like menhaden or American shad, but they focus on such tiny food items when foraging. Transferring their nocturnal feeding habits over to the spawning run- when the strike mainly out of aggression -doesn't necessarily follow. But at least in my mind, nocturnal is nocturnal and I should be able to get some to strike. If not, rainbows would be around the same areas. 

I set out on a brightly moonlit night with a plan in mind. I'd fish two methods, both with relatively small and bright colored flies as that's what has worked for kokanee in the past. I'd start out fishing them under indicators. With the aid of the moon, as well as nearby artificial light, I'd be able to see the indicator drop if I was getting takes. If that failed, I'd slow pull the same flies as well as some streamers with a figure eight retrieve

Upon arrival to the spot, I could actually see the schools of fish. There were huge numbers of kokanee out there, as well as loads of trout. It soon proved very easy to get the trout to take. Me indicator dropped time and time again.

The trout seemed to have very little preference in the way of flies. I caught them on Green Weenies, eggs, Walt's Worm with pink collar, Sawyer's Pheasant Tail, and small buggers. I kept switching mostly to try to pull out a kokanee, but it wasn't proving to be especially easy. Even on the best of days they test a good angler's resolve. Each Pacific salmon has a different attitude during their spawning run., and it differs place to place as well. Kings in New York are heavily pressured and often hard to convince to snap at something, which is why many anglers fish eggs, bits of foam, and smaller flies with immense amounts of weight. This differs from large and less pressured river chinooks in Alaska, which are caught on large flies and lures. It also differs from less pressured water elsewhere in the great lakes. Coho, wherever they are, seem to be on the aggressive side of the spectrum, as do pinks. Chum salmon are definitely quite inclined to take large streamers and lures. Kokanee seem to be one of the finickiest. This results in a lot of people intentionally snagging them, which is just ridiculous. Its also illegal, and I call the TIP hotline any time I see it happening. As should you. Anglers often complain about poachers in CT, and yes ENCON is understaffed and won't always respond, but you should still call. The more calls get made the more poachers will get caught. Please do your part. 

I, of course, was just patiently waiting for a kokanee to actually grab a fly. It took a couple hours before one finally did, but it was a wonderful proof of concept. I could, in fact, catch a kokanee at night. The first one sunk the indicator just like the trout had been doing. The fly of choice? The good old Green Weenie.

That wasn't really the start of a pattern though. Kokanee are moody and erratic, and I often get them seemingly at random. Indeed I ended up with three that night in five hours of fishing, and each was on a different fly. The first was the only one to take under the indicator. The second took on a slow retrieve and the third took and egg on the fall. 

I lost a couple couple kokanee that I clearly saw as well, and a few that may have been. largely though the night was a very trouty one. I must have caught between 35 and 40 of them, and I even specifically tried to avoid them at times in hopes of picking up more salmon. As it turns out, that nighttime indicator strategy in particular is wildly effective. I've considered fishing indicators at night in rivers as well and this really did some convincing. I've lightly fiddled with the idea in the past, putting glow in the dark tape on indicators, but it never really got me anywhere I think its time to in some glowing thingamabobbers. 

The night game is such a fascinating one. I've always felt that it builds on an anglers understanding of the water they're fishing. If the right casts and presentations can be made or even things as simple as getting to the productive locations can be accomplished without aid of the light of day, it builds your understanding of the water. But something I sometimes forget, and likely equally important: fish behave differently at night. Fishing in the dark builds your understanding of your query as well. I feel I have a better understanding of landloacked sockeye now having caught them at night. 

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.