What does the bear say?

You might notice that instead of my usual Simms sling pack I have a new fishing accessory in the photo above. That’s my son Oscar, in his favorite blue hat. It was a short, experimental kind of outing- but one I have been waiting for for a very long time. And we even caught a fish. He was just barely content to hang out on my back, but I swear he perked up a little when that strike indicator took a dive. And best part was the realization that it can be done… stay tuned for more outings with “dada”.

I’ve learned that having a kid, and now two, means you have to really prepare for any and every outing. So, in order to get in an actual, full day kind of fishing trip I had to put him in daycare, take the day off work and schedule a trip way in advance. I’ve been dying to get up to the Farmington this season, so that’s what I did last Tuesday. I was glued to the weather reports all week and it didn’t look great. After a morning downpour during the drive, it stopped raining when I got to the river. For whatever reason (fishing after heavy rain?) the fishing was extremely slow going. My confidence spot, first stop, was a bust and no amount of nymphing anywhere got a strike. Finally around two o’clock at Beaver Pool I saw some blue wing olives in the air and the trout noticed too. There were rising fish everywhere suddenly. I got four or five nice ones on an emerger pattern that worked better and better as it got chewed up and spit out. I had just released the best fish of the day, a fat rainbow, when I heard someone yell something through the woods near the road. It sounded like he was calling for his dog, which I could hear crashing through the woods towards me. It stopped in the trees behind me and as it thrashed around, breaking branches, I thought “wow, I wonder what breed this giant dog is”.  I was a little less enthusiastic when I heard it splash into the quiet pool I was fishing. Annoyed, I turned to get a look and my distracted mind simply couldn’t comprehend how fat this black dog was. And it had a red tag in its ear. Wait. This is not a dog at all, it’s a goddamn black bear. And then, without ever making eye contact- it jumped into the river, swam across, and bolted up into the woods. And that was that. As I recovered from my shock, it occurred to me that I should take a photo. There he goes...

Worth the trip

Despite a long lapse in posting, I have managed to get in some fishing this fall. Some, not a lot- and no single outing has really been worth writing about. That's typical of fall fishing in general for me and this year my parental duties have kept me even closer to home and off the water. Not a complaint- honestly, no fish I've ever caught can compare to the endless wonder that my son provides. I've still been reading about fishing a lot though, it's ever present in my mind. The new Nick Lyons book "Fishing Stories" has been especially resonant for me. The theme of balancing the demands of being both a parent and a fishing addict runs through almost every short story in the book. I can relate.  And his self deprecating take on the subject has made me laugh and nod to myself enough times to draw looks on the Metro North. One short story in particular is about a quick (and disastrous) stop at the East Branch of the Croton while on a rainy family road trip- one of the funniest things I've read in a long time. The fact that this anecdote took place in the 1960s is also fascinating to me. Lyons writes a lot in the book about fishing the East Branch in his youth, riding up from Brooklyn on the train for every opening day. It's made me even more enthralled by this place that is so dear to my heart. It's amazing to think about how many people have fished there, for so long, and how it's served as such a training ground for anglers over the years. I'm also thankful that the stream remains in such good shape, though I doubt the fishing is as good as it used to be. And I'm now particularly interested in the section of the stream he refers to as "Big Bend", a spot that pops up again and again in the book. I can't tell if he's referring to what's known now as Phoebe Hole or Brady's Bend downstream. If anyone knows, post a comment…

Yesterday I had a very Lyons kind of fishing session. After sweating through an afternoon social commitment, with the wife's promise of an early exit to fish, I got on the road to this same stream just after 3PM. That wasn't exactly the deal I had brokered so carefully, but I still took it. A desperate man has no leverage. Factoring in these short winter days and a bit of a drive to the East Branch,  I'd maybe get in an hour of fishing at the most. The fact that this was less than my total drive time seemed irrelevant. It was already getting dark when I got on the water, but thankfully I'd had the addict's mind foresight to rig up a streamer before I left the house. I had three precise spots in mind to fish. A quick strike mission. Fittingly, one spot was right below Big Bend. I think so, anyway. The first spot came up empty and the second was taken, so I ended up at the third destination pretty quickly. After a few casts upstream I landed a rainbow with a gorgeous magenta streak (see above) on the swing. My expectations had been even lower than usual, so this was a very welcome development. Still trying to cover some ground in the fleeting light, I moved on downstream and the streamer produced a chunky brown that hit surprisingly hard. By now it was almost completely dark and getting colder by the minute. I made my way back upstream, feeling very glad I had made the drive with such limited time. I couldn't help but think about the stream itself while I walked and how many other anglers have walked this path back to the road in the dark, also feeling the trip had been worthwhile.

Early Morning at the West Branch

This is usually the time of year that I start feeling a little panicky. Almost all of the streams are about to close and it won't be long until cold weather sets in and the fishing slows to a crawl. For me anyway. The fall season never seems to work out that well, but I'm hoping to turn that around this year. It may not be fall, officially, but I think it's off to a good start. I had an early morning session on the West Branch on Sunday that may have been the best day of fishing I've had all year. The weather was absolutely perfect- cloudy, low pressure and almost windless. Just plain fishy. I got on the water just as the sun was coming up, my absolute favorite time to fish. And even better, I was the only person there. Without any surface activity in sight, I kicked things off with a double nymph rig and strike indicator. When the indicator took a sudden dive on my third drift I knew it was going to be a good morning. After landing four or five browns, all around 12 inches or so, I moved upstream and set up shop at the coveted tailout of the riffles near the top of the stream. I figured it wouldn't be long before someone else showed up and planted their flag there. The water was surprisingly cold, 58 degrees on the stream bottom. It was also very cloudy, but that didn't seem to slow the fishing at all. They were hungry and not exactly selective. After two trout clamped onto my strike indicator, I switched to the elk hair caddis and a tiny emerger dropper rig that I ended up sticking with for the next several hours. Both flies caught fish, though the size 22 nymph got the most attention. I never did catch one of the monster browns that this stream can produce, but a steady pick of brown trout is not something I get to experience that often and I'm not about to complain about it. Though, at one point I did start to wonder if I was catching some of the same fish repeatedly. I also wondered if I'd stop myself if I actually confirmed that.


I probably could have stayed put and caught fish for a while in that run, but after an hour or so I felt the usual compulsion to move on and see what else was happening. By now, a few people had walked through and I felt like I was getting close to hogging the place. I caught a few more as I fished a few likely looking spots on my way downstream. I saw a brown jump about a foot out of the water a couple times. I didn't catch him, but I barely tried really. By now I was feeling like a spoiled child, lazy and full of cake. I walked down to "frustration pool", which was fully occupied by three anglers. I fished a little further downstream at a spot I hadn't tried before, a nice little stretch between two shallow runs. A familiar looking brown took my dry fly after a couple casts and I decided that was a good way to end the day. And maybe even my season at the West Branch. There's still a week before it closes and I'm already feeling the pull to go back there before it does. But I might not. A day like this doesn't come along too often and it's a pretty good way to close down a stream for the season. 

Another look at the East Branch

After years of fishing the East Branch year round, I have developed a routine. I have my favorite spots, I bring two rods, I adjust my rig and flies for each one and I pretty much know what to expect. And when it doesn't work out, I chalk it up to the fish not cooperating that day. Yesterday it dawned on me that this is not exactly an effective, or even fun, way to fish. After I had fished the usual first two spots without a bump, I considered the obvious: my favorite spots are everybody's favorite spots. This stream gets a ton of pressure. And I've only grown attached to fishing these parts of the stream because they're so familiar. I decided I'd change it up this time and look a little harder for the fish. I put aside any kind of plan and started walking.

I've often walked past a spectacular mess of fallen trees that criss-cross the stream and thought that there just had to be some big trout hiding in those logs and branches. And also how impossible it would be to get a fly in there, let alone a decent drift. This time, I decided to give it a shot. I had a short 3 wt that was made for close quarters. The worst that could happen would be some lost flies. I rigged up a large foam beetle with a tiny nymph dropper and made some casts around the logs and the bank. And in true form, I also made some casts into the overhanging trees, but nothing too messy. I was thinking of moving on while trying to see how close I could cast to a log when the water exploded and my line came tight. I put on as much side pressure as I could to keep the trout from getting back under that log, while avoiding the tree above me. Somehow I managed to get it to the net without much drama. A nice fourteen inch brown had the beetle firmly lodged in its jaw. Even though this was exactly what I had hoped would happen it still shocked the hell out of me.

I fished on downstream until I hit my usual last stop (old habits die hard) because it's a fairly reliable place to find rising fish. But not today. I tried a few prospecting casts with different flies, but nothing was happening and the memory of that brown, and that log, loomed large in my mind. So I went back. I tried swinging the nymph and beetle rig along the far bank and past the branches of the downed trees that formed a brushy little pen. I figured I'd lose some flies doing this and sure enough my third drift stopped right next to the branches. I was about to give the line a tug when it started to move. I was still recovering from the surprise when I got the trout in the net. It was a beautiful wild brown with red spots and brightly edged fins. 

Maybe I had an unusually lucky day, when everything seems to click, but I can't help but gather something from this outing. I don't really know this stream that well at all. And I'd settled on the path of least resistance by passing up tight spots that looked like more trouble than they were worth. I had just been reminded that pressured fish have to hide somewhere and it takes effort to find them- especially at the end of the summer months when they've seen thousands of flies. On the walk back upstream I passed a chute of water that's about two feet wide, right under a tight canopy of trees. I've considered this spot before too, but passed on the cramped quarters, in a hurry to get to one of my comfort zones. I figured I'd try a couple casts in there before calling it a day. I'd just leave if I got hung up or lost my rig. I had to crouch way down to even get close enough for a short cast- but as the second drift swung through the tail of the tiny run I felt that tug I was hoping for. And it wasn't a branch this time either. 

Summer on the Farmington

I really try not to get my hopes up when I go to the Farmington. I've had some epic days there. And some thorough skunkings. Not exactly the result you're looking for after driving almost 200 miles in a day to fish.  Not to mention, the last time I went to there happened to be one of those fishless trips. The memory is still raw. This time I arrived at the trout management area around 11:00 am, fully expecting an empty river on a hot summer Tuesday. I could not have been more mistaken. Every single pull off had a vehicle in it. Including the one that can easily accommodate three cars, but was occupied by a lone pickup parked smack in the middle, blocking anyone else from parking. Genius or dick move, depending on your perspective… I lean towards the latter. I found a place to park at the very end of the line, about as close to the dam as you can park. Turned out to be the best move I made all day.

I had ended up parked right next to a spot on the river that has served me well in the past, so it wasn't the worst scenario. Far from it, actually. This spot happened to be very well shaded at the moment, unlike most of the river downstream. And it's a perfect little run between some large rocks. I had decided on the drive that I would start out fishing with terrestrials- a hopper and ant dropper. My second cast was hammered by a nice brown that ran downstream and grudgingly came back up and into the net. Well, there goes the fear of getting skunked. The hopper fly was now thoroughly waterlogged so I put on an indicator, just to see if it would work. A couple casts later I had another fish on. A drowned hopper was just as appealing, apparently. I hooked and landed four more browns on the soggy hopper and one rainbow that took the ant, for whatever reason. They were all 14-16 inches and none of them broke off or spit the hook. It was one of those extremely rare times that I actually felt like I knew what I was doing. As things slowed down and I started to think about moving on, a bad side cast wrapped my rig firmly around a low branch. That's more like it. I felt like the decision had been made for me. Lunch time.

I left the car after lunch and hiked downstream a bit. By now the crowd had thinned and there were some newly vacant spots to check out. These local guys clearly knew what they were doing, it was mid day by now and the entire river was exposed to the blazing sun. I wasn't having any luck with the hopper/dropper rig I had retied, so I tried nymping in the riffles for a while. Nada. Seemed like the entire river had decided to take a nap. I'd already done better than expected in the first hour, so I just decided to slow down and enjoy the afternoon. I had a beer and watched the water for a while. There's really nothing quite like that cold, damp breeze that comes from a cool tailwater stream every so often on a hot day. I kept fishing, but it was really more like passing the time until dusk when I knew the river would awaken again. I figured those crowds would return, so I staked out a good spot at the tailout of a long pool. Sure enough, around 5:00 I heard car doors slamming through the woods. The pool ahead of me was fully occupied in minutes. Five separate guys fishing shoulder to shoulder. They fish close in Connecticut, I've noticed. I stayed put at my spot, somewhat territorially, but no fish were being taken by any of us. There were some sulphurs, caddis and some very tiny mayflies around, but not much in the way of rising trout. I did see a beautiful yellowy brown jump completely out of the water right in front of me, but no dry fly I threw seemed to bring him back up. The guys upstream were casting away, but nothing was happening. Seemed like a change of location was in order. I waded much further downstream, where it was rocky and fast. The current was much stronger and wading was getting tougher and tougher. Never wade the Farmington without a staff, I've learned. I was still rigged with a dry fly, the trusty elk hair caddis, and just started casting into the riffles. Bang. A trout snatched it from the boiling water and took off downstream. I knew if would be a tough fight in this current, but instead of breaking off it got tangled in a stick underwater and got unstuck. At least I had found fish willing to bite. I carefully made my way back up through the riffles, casting blindly. I had some more takes and misses, but nothing made it to the net. As it got dark,  I made my way back up to the tailout and the pool above it was still being methodically worked over. I saw one guy land something, but it still looked slow. I decided to pack up and hit the road, it had been a long, tiring and very satisfying day. And I still had 90 miles to go.

A visit to the Esopus

This weekend my wife and I shared a house rental with another couple and we ended up in Phoencia, NY for a couple days. Full disclosure: I had volunteered to find a rental house for this weekend getaway and just happened to find a great house conveniently located near the Esopus Creek, which I've wanted to fish for a long time. It also just happened to have a classic Catskills trout stream running right behind the house. So, I figured I should pack some rods. You know, just in case.

Thanks to some excellent insider info from Tom, I was prepped for a quick strike plan to visit two distinctly different parts of the Esopus: the lower portal-fed section in the morning and the upper smaller water in the evening. I was especially curious about the upper area, being the small stream fan that I am. Neither spot was a disappointment. Not only were the flows perfect this weekend, but both areas were just spectacularly beautiful. I haven't spent a ton of time fishing the Catskills, so I usually  feel a bit overwhelmed by all that big open water, but the pocket water I found in both areas was a welcome sight. The fishing was a little slow in the morning at the first location. I tried fishing an attractor dry at first, with no takers. I switched to tight line nymphing and picked up a nice brown at the head of a deep, fishy looking pool created by a gnarly log jam. I ventured upstream and bit and found some fast riffles and then a long slow pool that looked like excellent dry fly water. Naturally, there was already someone fishing there. After a quick hello, he generously encouraged me to jump in at the head of the pool. I took him up on it, with gratitude, but wasn't able to connect with anything on a dry dropper. I didn't see a single rising fish all day and nothing more than the occasional mayfly here and there. The fishing may have been slow, but the surroundings were really incredible. I'd love to return when the hatches are more active, it's just a beautiful place to fish.

That evening I took a quick drive to the spot on the upper section. Given that the Esopus is cooled by the somewhat controversial portal further downstream, which forms a cloudy and very cold tailwater, I had no idea what to expect of the section that is more of a freestone. I was happy to find water that was gin clear and cold- and much more so than our local Croton streams these days. And this area was even more beautiful. The narrow and rocky stream wound its way through a valley, with the lush green mountains in the distance. Though it's not far from the road, the sense of being in the wilderness was striking. The only footprints I saw were those of a bear and what I would guess to be coyotes. I was actually so enamored with it all I didn't even take any photos. And again, the variety of water was amazing. Years and years of flooding have created occasional log jams that form some excellent pools. Not to mention the many rocks that provide perfect lies for trout. I hooked and lost a couple small wild browns in the first pool and then made my way downstream. It didn't take long to find an absolutely perfect run. It took shape after a shallow pool flowed into a sharp bend- creating a narrow and deep run along a bank with overhanging trees. Textbook trout water, if I've ever seen it. Though there were almost certainly trout in there, and I worked hard, I just couldn't get one of them to take a fly over the next hour. I tried various nymphs at every depth possible and drifted some terrestrial dries under the branches, but I didn't see a sign of life. Even the occasional real insect that floated by got the cold shoulder. I rested the water for a while, after likely having put down any activity, but it didn't make a difference. It's tough when you just know they're there, but they won't bite. I finally admitted defeat and walked back to that first pool. I immediately hooked a small brown. A nice way to go out, sure, but it didn't exactly solve the mystery of that seemingly lifeless run I had just left. With a promise of grilling dinner to keep, I packed it up and hiked back to the truck. I can't wait to come back here.

The famed Stoney Clove Creek, right behind the house. This little creek was just full of brown trout parr.

Sneaky Pete

I've been meaning to bring this guy fishing for a while now, but I've been a little hesitant because I didn't know how well he'd do. Pete's a rescue from Mississippi, a Nova Scotia duck toller, and he's a nervous dude. He scares easily and when we first got him he was intent on escaping. And on a couple occasions he came pretty close. We don't know anything about his past, but he's clearly experienced some trauma. But he's come a long way over the years and I finally feel like we trust each other enough to go out in the woods without the leash and do some fishing together. I took him with me yesterday to a stream I knew we'd have to ourselves, and he just came alive. He loved the wading, the climbing through the downed trees and brush, and even seemed to understand the need to approach the water carefully. And he was psyched when I caught fish. What more can you ask for in a fishing buddy?

UPDATE: If you feel like supporting a good cause, vote for Pete in the Orvis Cover Dog Photo Contest.

On a Mission: Part 2

Had the bass been biting more on the previous day, I might have rallied the energy to get back out there for more at the crack of dawn. Instead, I decided to get some needed sleep and catch up on the yard work that was about a week overdue. I figured if I got on a stream by 2:00 I'd still get in a pretty full day if I fished until dark. So, after some work around the house and a quick lunch, I was on my way to the East Branch. I thought of revisiting Stream X, but I also wanted to cover more ground during this 48 hour binge. And this is the time of year when fishing options start to fade… only a few streams can really handle the summer heat. The EB is one of the most consistently cool ones around and I figured I'd have it all to myself on a Monday afternoon.

As I arrived, the only other guy there was just pulling out. Sweet. I rigged up two rods this time- a 5 weight for indicator nymphing and my 3 weight for dry flies. I'm still on the fence about a two rod attack. It's a bit of a limitation toting them both- you can't just wade as you please and absently worrying about leaving one stashed on the bank is a bit of a distraction. However, the ease of switching up tactics makes it well worth it. Many times I've spotted a rising fish and been able to cast to it with the other rod right away. I started this afternoon nymphing and worked down through the familiar runs to a spot that I realize I've only grown to love because it just looks nice. Sure, I've caught fish there. And one of them was huge. But mostly I get skunked there, just admiring the view and the scent of the pines that seem concentrated in that one area. I did connect with a trout there this time, but it got unbuttoned pretty quickly. I decided to move on to another favorite spot that actually holds fish. Or at least ones I'm capable of catching. This spot is a very non-descript section of water, but it consistently holds trout that will almost always take a dry fly year round. And no, that's not it in the above photo. I didn't see anything rising when I got there- but a couple blind casts with a trusty elk hair caddis and dropper rig provoked a take that I missed. I started making longer casts to the opposite bank and immediately connected with a fish that revealed its power right away. I gave it a second little tug to set the hook (a new habit that seems to be paying off) and gingerly fought a thick brown all the way to the net. I scooped him up with a sigh of relief. Admittedly, I haven't caught a ton of trout this year- but being over sixteen inches this was definitely the biggest of the season so far. So where's the photo? Well, there's a story. I wanted to keep it healthy and alive, so I left the fish inside my net in the shallows as I fumbled for my iPhone… turns out this fish could swim quite well in about  two inches of water. Of course. But then I got a second chance… somehow it got hooked on the dropper fly. I got it unhooked right away. And then it slipped from my hands into the water. I was cursing until I looked down and saw it calmly finning at my feet, the way large fish sometimes do after being released. A third chance. I tried to gently corral it into my net with my arm, but it swam away in a flash. Of course, again. All this bumbling just for a damn photo. I had just caught and landed a beautiful brown trout, on a dry fly even, yet it almost seemed like it didn't "count" because I had missed a chance to document it. Remind me again why I fish…

Pictures or not, it was another excellent afternoon and I had to decide whether to stay or go as it started getting dark. Unable to let go of somewhat of a fantasy, I left and returned to the West Branch. I still had high hopes for some evening dry fly fishing. Unfortunately, the conditions had degraded even further in twenty four hours. The water is officially warm. I did catch some fish- sunnies and a tiny smallmouth. Clearly, warm water residents have moved in now and the trout are in search of cooler water. I hope they find it. As it began to get dark, heavy clouds starting rolling in and thunder boomed over the hills. Time to move on.

On a Mission: Part 1

To quote a fellow fly fishing junkie, I needed a bender. I've been lucky to get in a decent amount of fishing this season, but like all debilitating addictions hobbies- it just never seems like enough. With the wife and baby out of town with family last weekend, I had forty eight hours to fish completely irresponsibly. So, for the past two days a bender is exactly what I got. Two posts worth. Here's day one.

First on the list was another boat trip on the reservoir for smallies… this is a habit that seems to be only getting more severe. It's tough to beat the action of hard fighting bass. And casting for distance without a branch in sight is worth the trip alone. Our little streams aren't exactly the place for a double haul. But this time the fishing was not nearly as action packed as it has been earlier in the year. My guess is that bass are seeking cooler deep water. They just weren't around the shorelines in any consistent numbers. Then again, maybe I wasn’t looking in the right place. I'm no bassmaster, that's for sure.Trolling some streamers over drop offs produced a couple decent smallies, but that's not exactly the thrill of casting to feisty bass I had in mind. It was a gorgeous hot sunny day, which made for a nice morning on the water though probably wasn't doing much good for the fishing. Time to move on.

After some lunch and break from the sun, it was time for trout. I won't name the stream I visited with the friend who wisely prefers to keep it quiet, and also for my own selfish motivation to do the same. What a beautiful spot. I had low expectations for early afternoon fishing in July… but right out of the gate I connected with a healthy and large rainbow on a WD40 nymph. And it was a wily one. When I got it within reach it swam a quick circle around my ankles, breaking the tippet and speeding off in one motion. If trout could laugh, this one would be cackling for sure. We fished upstream a bit and the head of a nice little pool produced this pretty little brown. It zipped up and down the pool when it was hooked until I netted it and got a quick photo. We stuck around a bit, but it was getting increasingly hot and that cooler of beer and water in the truck was calling our names.

Next stop: the more well known and heavily fished West Branch. I hadn't been back there since that last epic sulphur hatch I fished, and I'd been thinking about it ever since. Fishing there in the evening is one of my favorite places to be. This being the weekend, I expected the pull-off to be full, but surprisingly there was only one other vehicle parked there. It was late afternoon by then, and I was wondering if there would be anything hatching. The sulphurs may be gone with the crowds, but now is the time for caddis to take over and they were definitely around. Not in any great numbers, but enough to keep fish rising steadily for the evening. I rigged up an elk hair caddis and an emerger dropper and worked my way through the slow water. I've been concerned about the water temperatures here. I've heard conflicting stories about whether recent work on the dam had fixed the issues with the water flows. Unfortunately, it seems that whatever was done wasn't enough. The water was right around seventy degrees, which is definitely on the warm side for trout. It will only get warmer as the summer goes on and this stream will soon be out of commission for yet another year. What a shame. The action wasn't as intense as my last visit, but every so often a brown would grab the emerger with a splashy take. The dry fly was mostly ignored, with maybe a couple exceptions. Given that I practically yanked the fly out of the mouths of the takers, it was hard to tell which of the flies they were going for. I'm still working on taking that crucial little pause before setting a dry fly. The often recommended time it takes to say "God save the Queen" seems unbearably long to wait for an impatient guy like me. Couldn't be any worse than a missed hook set that ends up in the trees though, that's for sure. As it got dark it seemed to slow down a little more. The rises were scarce and nymphing wasn't feeling very appealing. Time to call it a day. At this point I was almost exhausted from a full day of fishing streamers, poppers, nymphs, and dries all over the place. I needed some rest. I still had twenty four hours to fish.

Snook in the surf

Another trip to Florida and another attempt at snook on the beach. Between the brutal summer sun and high winds from a passing offshore hurricane, the conditions have been tough and limiting on this trip. By 10am the sun is high and the wind and waves start to kick up, which puts a real damper on the fishing. The water has to be pretty calm to spot snook on the beach, this time of year their backs have lightened considerably and they seem almost translucent against the sand. If the waves cloud the water they become virtually invisible. I got in one early morning on the water when the wind was still low and wanted to make it count. Short version: I finally caught one. This snook was the first one I spotted and I thought I had spooked him- turns out he was actually lunging for my fly from a few feet away. I made sure to strip strike this time and was thrilled when my line tightened. It was a great fight, I let him take a couple good runs until I was able to beach him in the surf for a quick photo. I don't know if I finally did something right or just got lucky- but I'll take it either way.

Father's Day Bass

There's nothing I would like more than take my son fishing for Father's Day, but we have at least a few years until that's going to happen. At seven months, he's mostly into steady naps- between brief periods of mayhem. I do hope to strap him into the baby bjorn and fish a safe, non-wading stream for a little while one of these days, just to see if it can be done. In the meantime, this Father's Day I settled for some solo fishing before joining the little guy and mom at home for the afternoon. I first had to make the difficult decision of where to go. I've had precious little time on the Croton streams so far, just one evening session that was short but sweet. I haven't even been to the Amawalk yet this season. I love it there, but I don't always catch fish.  And catching fish was definitely the goal this time. A sunny morning on a pressured stream isn't exactly a sure thing. In the end, I went for the closest thing to guaranteed action there is and took the boat out on Kensico to hunt for smallmouth bass. I've had a lot success this time of year drifting the shorelines and throwing poppers and streamers. It's tough to pass up a sure thing. And being able have a cooler of  beer within reach while fishing on a hot sunny day doesn't hurt either.

I set the alarm for 5:30 and was surprised to see the sun well on its way up already. I moved quickly and by 6:00 I was on the water and rowing to my favorite spot. I usually troll a streamer as I row, and right after I spotted something on the fish finder the rod bowed deeply- just like I hoped it would. This fish was putting up a strong trout-like fight- especially considering this was a 10 weight trolling rod. The ultimate goal on Kenisco, which I have yet to do, is to catch a big reservoir brown on the fly and I thought this might be the day. I was completely shocked when I saw the bright colors of a lowly yellow perch. A big one, actually, but not a brown. Oh well.

I made it to the shoreline where I usually find bass and started casting a big deer hair popper. I had a couple missed strikes, but the bass were mostly pretty elusive for the first hour or so. Finally I tried a streamer dropper, using the popper like an indicator and suddenly smallies started coming out of the woodwork. I didn't see them just cruising around like I have this time of year, they were tucked way into the overhanging branches and waiting to pounce. They went nuts for the black wooly bugger, completely ignoring the popper.  I didn't bother counting, I must have landed well over 20 fish throughout the morning. They were mostly little guys, but there were four bruisers that were a blast to tussle with, complete with jumps and deep runs at the boat. I had the security of 15lb fluoro tippet and an 8 weight rod that gave me the bullying power to get them to the net quickly. As I was fighting the largest one of the day, another big one swam over and followed it so closely I thought for a second I had hooked them both. After I let the first one go, I made another drift past the same tree and that second one came back to take a swipe at my streamer that promptly landed him in the net as well.  By now, I was feeling pretty good about my decision to fish Kenisco, I've never seen that happen on a trout stream. Eventually wind kicked up, like it always does on the reservoir, and the drifts got shorter and harder to manage. It was an easy decision to call it a day- the whole morning had been perfect and beyond satisfying. I don't know how long to wait to take my son fishing, but when he's ready I know we'll have a day just like this one.

The Magic Hour

You wouldn't know it from looking at this blog lately, but I have actually done some fishing this season. It's been an amazing springtime that has been jam packed with quality time with family, friends, and the rewarding new job of being a father- but fishing is still ever present in the back of my mind. It's just so much harder to find the time for it these days. I've managed a couple great fishing trips that were meaningful because one was with my brother, who I don't get to see often enough, and the other on the Delaware with a good friend who is slowly succumbing to the addiction that is fly fishing. Seeing him catch his first brown on the fly was better than catching one myself. My brother and I both had a fishless day, but we visited a gorgeous stretch of the Roundout that felt like being in Montana. The only fish we saw were a pod of tightly stacked up carp, who wouldn't touch the flies we put in front of them. I don't think I recruited another addict that day, but he did say "I can see why you like this so much".

This being mid-June, it's about time for the long awaited sulphur arrival. It's the hatch we wait for all year around here and the word is out. I saw a window of opportunity for a quick session on Friday evening and made a beeline to the stream that's a sure thing right about now. When I got there I was pleasantly shocked to discover an empty pull off. This place is no secret. It's been a long time since I could string up a rod on the roadside knowing exactly what fly to tie on and feeling certain I was about to hook at least one trout. I had it force myself not to sprint down to the spot I had been daydreaming about for months. I took my time, sort of, and walked up on rising trout and the sounds of birds settling into the evening. And the sulphurs were there too, some being chased by the swallows. It was like a waking dream, everything was exactly as I had thought it would be. In photography, the time when the sun begins to set is called the "magic hour" because of the beautiful and fleeting quality of the light. The same is true for this time on a stream. Not only is the fading light magical, but you can see and hear all of the creatures stirring and emerging from their hiding spots, including the fish. And of course the bugs come out... the trout had already gotten into the action and were rising up and down the stream, sipping on fluttering sulphurs and caddis. My second cast met with a small trout. It look little time to land and release it. I paused to tie on a fresh fly and wait for the water to settle until the fish would rise again. It didn't take long. As it got darker, and I caught more trout, they rose constantly and carelessly as the insects multiplied. It seemed like everything on the stream was taking advantage of this narrow window of time. I had a headlamp, but it was becoming too dark to see my fly among the rises. Instead of "one more cast" it was "one more fish" and it didn't take long to meet that goal. I walked back through the dark woods, taking my time now, just listening to splashing fish and the birds.

Small Streams

I've always loved fishing small streams, and I recently fished one of the smallest ones I've ever visited with a fly rod. I was staying near Kerhonkson, NY with my family and the area is filled with tiny streams that aren't on any maps. One afternoon I decided to get a better look at the closest one. It didn't look like much from the road, little more than a ditch really, but as I followed it into the woods I discovered that it merged with another even smaller stream and then ran along a large meadow. It was three feet wide at best, but it had all the structure and character of a typical mountain stream. And the setting couldn't have been more perfect. There were a couple kitchen sink size pools, and as the cows in the field looked on I kneeled down and drifted a small elk hair caddis through the gurgling water. I had a feeling there were trout here and sure enough, a bright brown trout parr smacked the fly right away. I pulled it to my hand for a quick photo and release. It was oddly satisfying to catch such a small fish in this tiny stream and I no longer felt the need to keep fishing. I meandered back to where I had entered the woods and noticed that the stream as seen from the road somehow looked a little bigger now.

Southern Culture on the Fly

In case you haven't heard, S.C.O.F. has another typically awesome issue online. This one in particular caught my eye when I saw it because it's a rare convergence of my career and fishing. I work for the magazine this cover brilliantly references and I couldn't give it a heartier endorsement. Steve and his team put out a top notch journal and the photos in this one will get you pumped for the season for sure. Check out an issue, if you're not familiar.

http://www.southerncultureonthefly.com/

Stalking Snook

Fishing with a guide is a very rare extravagance for me. I really can't afford it. However, after more than a few failed attempts at catching a snook on the fly in Florida this past year, I vowed to invest in the expertise of a guide when I returned. I saved up for months, sold some old gear on Ebay, and spent some time looking for just the right guy to fish with. I've only fished with a guide on a couple of occasions before and had walked away both times wondering if I should have spent the money on gear instead. One of these trips didn't even produce any fish until I went out on my own after our time was up and the guide was long gone. I didn't blame him for that though. It's not completely about catching fish- what I really want and need in a guide is some serious instruction and constructive criticism. Not to mention, an experience I couldn't produce on my own. It's a tall order, I know. I had recently read a great story by Thomas McGuane about snook fishing with a known Florida guide who pushed him to the limits and made the experience closer to hard work than a leisurely pursuit. They also happened to catch fish. A lot of fish. This was exactly what I've been looking for. I tracked down this guide and booked a day with him.

The day finally arrived last week and after a nearly wordless introduction, we were in the boat and on plane- flying over clear water that seemed about a foot deep. He took us deep into the back country, away from any other boats or anglers. Or anything at all, really. Eventually he killed the motor and we sank into stillness and quiet. He handed me a rod and we jumped out and set off on foot, leaving the boat anchored in the shallows. We waded barefoot through a passage in the mangroves that felt like an overgrown tunnel, sloshing our way through the roots. Eventually, he turned around and said it was time to be stealthy and not make a sound. "These fuckers will hear you and feel you move, believe me." I did believe him. I tried my best to creep through the knee deep muck without splashing or tripping. Before long we entered a slightly more open area, surrounded by mangroves and dead silence. I saw some large, ghostly wakes cutting through the middle of the water. Every few minutes there were massive splashes in the mangroves and tiny baitfish would explode from the surface. Snook were definitely here. He gestured to walk at his side and told me to pull out some line and be ready to cast. We painstakingly made our way through the still water towards the middle as he scanned the water like a hawk. All I could hear was my heart pounding as my bare feet sank into the muddy bottom.

"Right there. Cast! Cast!"

I spun and clumsily cast to where he seemed to be pointing. Then I saw the black back of a massive snook turn away, several feet from my fly, kicking up a cloud of silt. "Chris. You HAVE to get it right in front of these motherfuckers. And don't turn or move-just cast when I tell you to. He's fuckin' gone." We moved on. Slowly. A missed cast is a missed snook and this fish was now impossible to catch, even if I could find him again. But there were more. The next one was cruising in the shadows of the mangroves, about thirty feet away. "Cast. Now!", he hissed. This time I didn't shuffle into position, but my cast fell short. Not even close. I had been secretly worried that my limited casting abilities would be a setback and it was proving to be true. He told me to let my back cast straighten out more and stop my forward cast higher. "That's your problem". I needed to hear this, clearly, and it helped.

The next target came into sight and I desperately wanted to get this one right. I made the distance this time, but the fly landed too far to the left. "Leave it. Wait. Strip! Strip! He ate it!" I instinctively lifted the rod when I felt the fish and then saw the now familiar turn and a huge puff of silt underwater. It was gone. "You have to strip, don't use the rod". I knew this, but habit and adrenaline had overridden my mind. Classic saltwater rookie move. Now I was really starting to worry. The sun started feeling a little hotter on my neck. If he was frustrated with me, and I'm sure he was, he kept it to himself. And despite my mistakes, he genuinely seemed as excited to be there as I was. "Let's go get these fuckers. They're smart, and they're sleazy, but we'll get 'em."

We moved on and silently pushed through the labyrinth of mangroves and skinny water. I occasionally saw the lazy black torpedo shapes cruising through the shadows up ahead, but his eyes usually found what I couldn't make out at all. "There. Cast. Right there." I put the fly roughly where he pointed. "Strip. Strip! He saw it. He's coming. He's on!", and I felt a jolt go through the rod to my hand. One of most powerful fish I have ever hooked on a fly rod was suddenly on the end of my line. The stillness became chaos as the hooked fish tore up and down the edges of the mangroves. I struggled to keep it from getting to the gnarled roots that would allow escape. A few minutes later I landed my first snook and relief coursed through me. Both of us, probably. "That other one you missed was bigger. But you caught your first snook!" I got another one shortly after that, maybe as big as that first one. The three runs it took were unforgettable. The speed and power of a snook is unlike any fish I have experienced and sight fishing for them made it even more of a thrill. We spent more time on improving my casting and fished hard for the rest of the day. Those would be my only fish, but I didn't care.

This was exactly the experience I had hoped for- some unvarnished instruction and an opportunity to stalk and catch a fish that has eluded me for a while. And there was absolutely no doubt that I couldn't have done this on my own. It was a fantastic day, one I'll remember for a long time. And more importantly- I learned enough that I might even catch a snook on my own some day. If I see one anyway. And I have a new goal: cast better. Way better. 

A Return and a New Year

Well, it's been a while. As planned, the past couple months have been both a blissful blur and a thoroughly exhausting time caring for our new son Oscar. He's perfect in every way and we are so grateful to have a healthy and (mostly) happy little guy. And his timing was impeccable- what better time to hole up and nest than the dead of winter. But, a little fishing on the side sure wouldn't hurt. When I manage to sneak in some sleep,  I still dream of casting to willing trout. And this is a fishing blog, after all. So with much needed extra help for the wife at hand yesterday, I got the green light to get out in the world. With temperatures just over my comfort baseline of 40 degrees, there was no way I'd pass up a day of sanctioned fishing. But where to go? From what I'm hearing, the East Branch is far from productive these days. The water is colder than most winters, which seems to have slowed things to a crawl. So, I swallowed my pride and headed to the Mianus.

I've written about it in the past, but the Mianus is essentially a dog park with a trout stream running through it. It would be easy to write it off entirely if it wasn't a great trout stream. And in late winter, when cabin fever is peaking, it becomes dry fly heaven with an impressive early stonefly hatch. This being mid winter, however, I really didn't know what to expect. When I arrived I was relieved to see a nearly empty parking lot. I geared up and started hiking upstream, where I eagerly fished the first pool I came across. I had already rigged up a tiny WD40 nymph dropper from a size 14 black stonefly (to cover the bases) and commenced to drifting. I was enjoying being reacquainted with the lulling pace of dragging an indicator rig up and down when suddenly the yellow thingamabobber dipped. I lifted the line, probably not as sharply as I should have, and felt the tug of a trout. The excitement of having hooked up so quickly faded as the trout came unbuttoned after a brief tussle. I caught a glimpse of it- it was a fairly thick brown that I would have loved to gotten to the net. Disappointing. I was also dying to know which of the nymphs it had honed in on, but I took this as a sign of the good day to come.  And not for nothing, a reminder to man up on those hook sets. I pushed on and worked my way through the other runs I'd fished last year.  Without all the people around, this place really is a gem of a stream. The water was gin clear and I could see all of the places where a trout could lurk. Though there are a few sections of solid nymphing water, I realized that this is really more of a dry fly stream. The frequent stretches of slow water are ideal for long drifts. I tried a dry dropper rig for a while, just on the off chance I could induce a rise or a take on the nymph, but ultimately that first missed brown was the only sign of life in the stream I saw all day. Not a single strike. I was a little surprised, and disappointed, but just barely. This is winter fishing after all. Being out there in solitude and shaking off the rust was well worth the trip. Even with the cold. Maybe the Mianus isn't so bad.


As it got dark and my thermos ran dry, I made the hike through the barren woods back to the warmth of the truck. That early lost fish was still nagging at me, so I made one final stop at the first pool where I had started. Maybe the lone wolf brown was still hungry. I was on my third drift when suddenly a big stick landed in the water about two feet from my indicator. Then I saw the yellow lab that was furiously paddling towards the belly of my line, making a beeline for the stick. The owner apologized profusely as I reeled in. "So sorry, I didn't see you there. I didn't even know you could fish here!"

Reservoir trout on the fly

One of my longtime goals has been to catch a Kensico trout on a streamer and yesterday it finally happened. It was a perfect windless day to be on the water, so I got out there at dawn and headed for deep water. Kensico is a huge body of water and in order to encounter a cruising trout the best method by far is rowing with sinking line and using sonar to find the fish and the bottom structure. I covered a lot of ground while slowly trolling an articulated rabbit fur streamer, as deep as I could get it. At one point I marked a cluster of fish holding roughly where I thought my streamer was. And then suddenly the rod bowed deeply. After reeling in about 100 feet of line (with 50 feet of fluoro leader) and two long runs at the boat, I had a thrashing laker in the net. Not a huge trout, by reservoir standards, but it was pretty satisfying after putting in a lot of effort trying to catch one on a fly for a while now. The ultimate goal is to connect with one of the monster browns that these reservoirs hold and I think I have a chance now that I've figured out an effective trolling rig. And when the water gets even colder they'll be near the shorelines, within casting reach. That's something I'd love to accomplish and it seems slightly more possible now with the right conditions. And a lot of luck.

Casting Lessons with Joan Wulff

I've always wanted to go to the Wulff School of Fly Fishing in Livingston Manor, run by Joan Wulff herself- a legend of fly fishing and the widow of famed angler and author Lee Wulff. I know people who have taken the two day course and they just raved about it. It's on the bucket list for me, but in the meantime, the next best thing is this new free online series of casting instruction videos from Winston Rods starring Joan Wolff herself. I'm a s̶l̶o̶p̶p̶y̶  self taught caster, so I'm really looking forward to watching these and hopefully improving my technique.

Check it out.

Fall Streamers

Yesterday I dedicated a morning to trying out a rig I've been meaning to fish with for a while- a sinking poly leader, streamer and nymph dropper. This being late October, there's only one open stream nearby, so I hit the East Branch at sun up. I love fishing there in the early morning. The crowds have yet to appear and everything just feels fresh and full of possibility. It was cold, in a bracing kind of way that fills you with energy. I was already feeling pretty good about this outing.

I rigged up a black wooly bugger with a green copper john and stripped it through a run that spills into a deep hole.  It didn't take long for a rainbow to grab the streamer and make a break for it. I felt comfortable putting a little pressure on him, I was rigged up with 4X- so I brought it to the net pretty easily. Well, I guess the poly leader works. I fished my way through a few more runs, trying different ways of fishing the streamer. I seemed to have the most luck with a dead drift- it was like nymphing without an indicator or split shot. I caught some nice little rainbows, and a brown that fought so wildly I actually wondered what the hell was on the end of my line until I saw it. Spirited little guy. As it got later and sun was getting higher the fish seemed less active . I made my way downstream and saw a couple guys fishing the two runs I had my sights on. Time to move on.

I still had some time to fish, so I drove down to a lower section that seems to get less traffic. One part in particular has some deep runs and pools that I wanted to check out. I'm glad I did. The very first cast connected with a sturdy fish that put the 4x to the test. At this moment I was not missing the intense anxiety that comes with 6x tippet and a big fish. I felt pretty confident I would land this one and it was so much fun to be able to firmly lead it upstream without fearing that dreadful pop and then nothingness that has plagued me this season. Nonetheless, I was still very relieved to get it in the net. It was a fat 16" rainbow with a gorgeous magenta slash and gill plate. Just a beautiful creature. It felt good to watch it swim away. This was the rare kind of day where things went as planned and the fish were in a cooperative mood. I felt uncharacteristically fulfilled with the morning I'd had. I packed up and went home. 

Rules and Conditions

They say to never fish during a full moon. Or is it always fish during a full moon? And who are "they" anyway? I really can't answer any of these questions, as a Friday trip to the Farmington made clear. Friday happened to be the day of a full moon and also a picture perfect day to fish (see photo). And after last time, I was feeling somewhat confident that this could be a good day of fishing on a blue ribbon stream. But, for some reason things just seemed off. Having generally fished less than I'd like to these days, I felt a bit rusty. Even when I warmed up I still felt clumsy. And it seemed that the trout were not interested in eating much of anything. The only fly that brought a couple fish to the net was a tiny little blue wing olive wet (size 22) that I tied on as a dropper. This fly is just a few wraps of green thread that form a minuscule body and a hint of a wing- but apparently it doesn't go unnoticed. Aside from a small brown and a gorgeous little rainbow, this fly also hooked the biggest fish of the day- which unfortunately made quick work of my 6x tippet. But I won't get into that. What was really kind of shocking was the late afternoon caddis hatch that sent hundreds of little tan sets of wings fluttering around without a rise in sight. Not a single one of them fell victim to a trout. And this was in a spot that I'm certain holds many fish. Very strange. Normally I'd chalk this all up to my own shortcomings as an angler- but no one else there seemed to be doing any better. Except for that guy using bait with the stringer of rainbows. I won't get into that either.

Weather and solunar tables have always been something I've had a hard time putting any faith in. For example, I have a beautiful antique fisherman's barometer that my wife gave me as a gift that claims to tell you when the fishing is best. Which is supposedly when the pressure is high or rising. Well, this happens to be the complete opposite of current theories that claim the reverse. I understand technology has advanced a little since this thing was made- but I can't quite account for a complete 180 on the science here. In my own experience, here in modern times, I definitely have had better fishing during the low pressure that precedes a storm or heavy rain. But not always. And I've also read that prolonged periods of high pressure can create ideal conditions for fishing. Ok then. And I can't even begin to speculate about moon phases and fishing. I have a handy little iPhone app that shows the best days of the month to fish based on the moon phase. Guess which day was rated the absolute best day for fishing this month? You guessed it: Friday.

"They" also say the best time to fish is when you can. And as my life gets more complicated, I can certainly get behind that sentiment. It's probably the only reliably true thing that can be said about this pursuit. And I'm still glad I fished on Friday, it was a fantastic day even if the fishing was slow. But, I sure could do with some consistent information on the subject of what makes fish active or not when it comes to conditions. If any of you guys have some illuminating experience with this, or otherwise, tell us about it in the comments.