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.

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.

The Farmington

After this weekend, the Farmington might just be my favorite stream in the North East. I drove up early Saturday morning with Eric and we put in almost 14 straight hours of fishing- a long day if I've ever had one. We'd initially thought that with the heat and all, maybe we'd leave for a lunch break and return for dusk, but we just couldn't seem to tear ourselves away from what was probably the best day of fishing either of us has ever had. The action was almost non-stop and the weather was totally comfortable, aside from a couple short downpours. And I'll get this out of the way first: I did not take any photos. You'll just have to take my word for it. My barely functioning iPhone quit for good after my pack took a dip in the water- so the photo above is the only evidence I have that I was even there. 

My first fish of the day was a powerful brown, maybe about 15 inches or so. I was pretty pleased with what I thought could be the best I'd do all day. Well, this fish turned out to be pretty unexceptional for this river. They stock them bigger up there, apparently, and both of us caught fish like this all day long. And we lost some much, much bigger ones. I won't tell too many sob stories- but one fish in particular was a heartbreaker. It was one of those stubborn, large trout that immediately let you know they aren't going to cooperate. And with the powerful current that surrounded us both I don't think I had a chance of landing this fish. I could barely even move it until it made a slow, unyielding run into faster water and snapped the tippet. There were other encounters like this, but that one stung the most. 

We stayed until dusk and that's when things really got interesting. There was a bit of a sulphur hatch that ramped up the action and revealed just how many fish inhabit this stretch of the river. I made the mistake of moving on from a run that was producing fish in search of new water, but still did pretty well. Eric, on the other hand, wisely stayed put and had an epic session of dry fly fishing. I think there's a lesson there somewhere. But I really can't complain, this was a fantastic day. When it was finally too dark to tie on a new fly, we called it a day and lurched back to the truck. I don't think I've ever been that sore, tired, or satisfied from a day of fishing. I can't wait to go back.