Frankly I never, never, ever thought this would happen. I'm a stream fisherman. A trout fly fisherman. I like to be on the move. I like to hear the stream. Pond fishing is so boring. Just standing there.
Well, the strange thing about fishing fever is that it makes you go fishing under whatever conditions you have available. Because the drive to catch fish trumps all.
And so I find myself in the afternoons, after work when out at the company headquarters, fishing a pond. A mightily productive one. Even though the fishing pressure is heavy, I essentially never get skunked. I'm sure I did at first but I've figured it out.
It started with bluegills. And then more bluegills. I wrote about that in a previous entry. And that baby bass., shown at right.
But it just got better. Because I caught my first, second, third crappie. I think. There might be another one in there too. It feels that way but maybe not. Each has been caught on a streamer, unlike the bluegills that take tiny midges. Here's the first crappie:
And here's the next:
And then today, a beauty.
They really are neat fish and they put the bend into my smallest bamboo rod.
I'm going to be jumping around in my journal. That's just how it will go. Today I am writing about today, and yesterday, and a bit about last week. Some other entries are still in draft, for stuff that happened months ago. I'm going to write when I feel like it, not in perfect order.
As the persistent reader has probably already gathered, I am primarily a fly fisherman, and feel only competent in that discipline but I do try to use other methods as well, from time to time. I have a bit of resistance to going after trout in a stream with anything but flies and fly line though. It is an irrational emotional thing, and not to be overthought. That's for me to do. Perhaps it has to do with my history of fishing with my father and how special that was. Or maybe it has to do with watching opening day or Wissahickon fishing. You can read about this in a previous entry.
Some time ago I wrote about catching bluegill in the pond near my office. Well, that exercise continues to attract an inordinate amount of attention from me. I've been over to the pond two days in a row this week, and I think twice last week too. But something interesting has happened: the fish got "smart." They are there, but they just don't take the Royal Coachman any longer. Whereas before I literally could not keep them off my fly, now they are eschewing it for whatever natural forage they are finding.
I should mention that after the post I made in April about the advantages of fishing while talking on the phone, I started catching bluegill like crazy--a week later. Now it is late May and the fish habits have changed.
Yesterday, I had an ultralite spinning rod in the car, and my tackle bag with flies and some lures, and I didn't want to waste time getting back to my billet to fetch my fly rod, so I went straight to the lake. I came up with a slightly unorthodox method. Having previously (oh yeah, the day before? or last week? I actually can't remember) discovered that a wiggly worm thing on a hook just doesn't go very far, I tied on a small Luhr Jensen spoon, with the hook off---and a trailer, with a streamer fly:
Use the flickr link instead if you need to. Google is not working right.
Well, it worked! I caught a fish! After only 5 casts. (Well I spent 10 minutes in another location first....never mind that). Of course if you know fish, you'll instantly recognize the Black Crappie. I didn't at the time.
After that, I proceeded to spin-eptly lose my lure and my fly by breaking the line while casting. I really don't know how to use a spinning reel.
I went back tonight and brought my 9 foot salmon rod with 7 weight line. I needed distance. And tied on a different streamer--first a black/silver one, and a the end a black ghost (on which I lost a good opportunity--a real take but botched set). This was interesting because I had multiple hits. Over and over. And two really good takes that I failed to set the hook on. And a number of other botched attempts. When I tied on a rubber-legged fly with yellow legs, I got LOTS of attention. But the fish would swirl, then "punch" it, but would not put it in their mouths. But they hit it over and over!
I also brought the ultralight. This time I used a 1/32 ounce jighead and two #1 shots, and one of those white spinny-tailed worms, with a follower on which I tied the same type of streamer used on the fly rod. Now this got interesting, because one one particular cast (and only one) I had something really take my lure. It pulled hard enough that line was spooling off the drag--much bigger fight than anything of the panfish sort. But I did not "set" the hook hard enough--I lifted the tip, then I cranked and the drag screamed. After about 5 seconds, the load came off. I kind of think whatever it was had the white wormy thing in the mouth but the hook point never got him. Maybe it was a bass!
Finally, I slipped and fell in the lake while fly casting the black ghost 40 feet and that was pretty much it. Time to go wash my shoes. I suppose not filming with a gopro is good. I'd look like a clumsy fool.
I keep catching trout. And bluegill. And some other stuff.
But the trout!
Yes, I know, they are mostly all stockers but still. After a nearly yearlong trout drought, it is awakening--not satiating--my long-latent trout fly fisherman brain stem.
First a little history. Remember the title of my journal? I need to cover the back-story. It was early Spring 2016, and my daughter, out of the blue, said, "I want to go fishing!" I don't know where it came from, or she told me and I forgot. I will ask her but the point here is that she immediately caused an effect on me. My latent fisherman self had been put away for years--really for over a decade, because that self is a small stream trout fly fisherman. That is my roots, my core, my fishing identity but moreso my emotional center. When your teenage daughter says "I wanna go fishing" well, you go!
I fished with my father as a kid, and up until I was around 30. Sad to say, I think our last trip actually fishing may have been 1995 (that's the trout stamp on his license). But we took trips in early 2001 to stock the stream with his grandson. I feel like we never fished enough. But when we did, it was incredibly meaningful. This was not your low-effort local fishing. It was get all the stuff together load the car drive 2+ hours to the Poconos, get to the Swiftwater Inn (sadly gone now) get out on the stream and fish the day. Later, the club bought a farmhouse and that was fantastic! No more renting at the inn. Fish the whole weekend. We'd have pan fried trout for lunch. Private water. Natural wild brook char. Classic unspoiled small stream fishing. Local Wissahickon fishing? For years, I turned my nose up at more than the smell. (That sentiment is changing but that is another story.)
I suppose every boy or girl who grows up fishing with dad, or mom, may have the same emotional touch with fishing. I really feel my father out there. It comes with the circumstances. Because he was also a birder, I think of him when a warbler sings. The sound of the riffle, the breeze, the smell of the creek--these all bring back more than memories--more a feeling of connectedness, of wonder, of bliss.
And so as I expand my Connecticut fishing experience, I am also reliving my childhood. And remembering my father and what he enjoyed, and what was meaningful to him. It really opens up more than these sort of trite superficial aspects. Rather it opens the memory and my thoughts to everything he believed in or cared about. How do our parents influence after they are gone? Profoundly.
Just a week ago or so, I had one of these profound mornings on the river. It was a half hour from home, and I was alone there, with my father's bamboo and his waders, and his Hardy LRH Lightweight reel and some 40 year old Scientific Anglers double tapered line, and antique Cortland leaders in my pocket, of the vest he gave me as a kid. I was literally trying to fill his shoes.
The riffle was beckoning. The pool near the road seemed too easy, too lazy, too over-fished. So I walked a bit farther. The sound of the riffle reminded me of the 'road' stretch on the Swiftwater. I had to fish it. I worked up the brook, with my father's favorite fly tied on--a royal coachman--and presented it dry, as well as wet, methodically working upstream. As I settled into a rhythm, it was astounding how I both appreciated greatly the fortunate day, but also missed my father. I wanted him to be there. 14 years ago, we lost him. It does not seem so long.
When I hooked up in that riffle, it was like so many before--it feels at first like another snag but somehow you know it isn't and you instinctively lift the rod tip. Then as trout tend to do, the fish swims towards me trying to spit the fly. Unlike the big game fish you see on TV, my experience with trout is mostly opposite. You can't retrieve fast enough to keep up with the best of them. The line goes slack, and off it goes. And so it was on this day. At 4 feet out, I lost it. But no matter. I had found my quarry in that seam and I was content for the next 5 minutes as I walked out.
Going by the road pool, I watched a man land a brook trout. Sometimes there really are fish right next to the road.
Near my office in Massachusetts, there is a pond. It might be called a lake but it is small, and is actually part of the headwaters of the Charles River. For the past 4 years, I've ridden and skated and skied by it regularly. But until I went fish crazy last year, I never thought much of fishing it. I certainly noticed fishermen. But it isn't a babbling brook, so it didn't catch my attention. (Except of course it did. I realize now that my fishing radar has been on for years--I just wasn't acting on it.)
As fall set in, I considered getting a MA license. Eventually I caved one day in December and bought one for 2017. But except for one misadventure involving ice, I hadn't attempted fishing it.
For some reason, I wrote to my local fish guru at the local tackle shop back in Connecticut. I do this from time to time. I gave him a run-down of my "opening day weekend" non-exploits. He wrote back:
"Thxs 4 the update. Opening day always has a few interesting tidbits to
chew on. Sounds like you encountered more interesting pic possibilities
emanating from shore than the water. HaHa. It was a hectic weekend, for
sure. End of today ought to be decent before the barometer drops. Give
it a try."
Well, so now I had to try. I have some stuff up here at the office so that I can stop on the way home, meet the kids on the Shetucket or the other streams on the way home.
I got to the lake at around 7 PM. Not dusk yet--but sun low. I quickly rigged up (and lost a coachman that blew away in the wind. (An Orvis from literally 40+ years ago, too.) I've eschewed my father's favourite fly this whole year. I don't know why except that I keep hearing about others. And I've always kept a lot of whacky flies in my boxes.
But this time I tied on a royal coachman variant. I actually loaded up a new fly box with *only* flies of my father's from brand new unused 40 year old Orvis containers.
I found a likely spot (again, my radar has been on!). NOT where all the others go. It is in a wooded point with a lot of trees overhanging water. I roll cast some 45 year old Sci Anglers double taper 5 weight out, and started with dry presentations. Immediately I saw a lot of breaks but not rises. Once I towed the fly under, I started getting hits. But I would react too quickly. I realized that the stocked trout were probably all gone and that I was most likely feeling sunfish. It went on like this for a half hour, playing with twitching or horizontal "jigging" and alternately letting it sit, then retrieving it slowly into closer water, then rolling back out again.
For some reason I decided that I needed to talk to one of my cousins. I'd given her advice about her kevlar canoe a few days ago by email and wanted to see what she thought. So we start talking, and I continue casting, but all one handed. I stopped playing with "retrieves" and just set up and cast with my left hand with the line clamped (like the photo above -- except lefty).
Well, I started catching fish!
The first one was a good sized sunny about 4.5" long with beautiful indigo blue aft belly and red up forward belly. It had a blue opercule too. No vertical stripes. I didn't get a photo--I was photoing it along the bank and lost control of it and it swam. I continued talking on the phone as this is going on (speaker phone is wonderful!).
Next, another fish hits and I pull it up the mud/grass bank. I think it is as small bass. I've never caught a freshwater bass before. Ever.
I don't know what kind it is.
So far, so good. All in about 10 minutes.
Then, yet another fish! this time smaller. A 2.5" bluegill.
Then my cousin insisted I put the phone down and save that fish! Of course it died. So I used it as live bait for another half hour. I learned that If I had lots of line stripped, and I twirled it around and around underhand "David (and Goliath) style," I could huck it out 30 feet--as far as a roll cast! It would carry the line right through the guides if I pointed the rod correctly.
One fish hit it. Pretty hard. But nobody claimed it. Perhaps the Big One was somewhere else.
Now I had this dead little fish. What to do?
I took it "home." And I fileted it. And cooked it. And ate it!
https://youtu.be/MCffzJ4P-1U
(That's a friend of ours off-camera.)
It was quite a beautiful little fish. And tasty, too.
Post Mortem Analysis.
Now the talking on cellphone while fishing seems bizarre. It is certainly out of character for me out trout fishing, in the brook, away from it all. And I've only had a smart phone a little more than a year. I even had a flip phone for a couple months this year. And yet I think this phone call made me a better fisherman--by accident. I also know that my cousin is my fishing muse! (She told me of her bait fishing as a kid, her brother being a fly fisherman, and how she later got her own gear and went to Montana...all this while in real time I'm reeling in a bass...)
You see, I was lifting the rod tip too soon before. My trout instincts were at play. The brook trout spitting the hook....needing to get the load on and keeping it on.
Yet by being on the phone and one handing, I was distracted enough to allow the fish to hit repeatedly. I didn't rush the set. Having watched "Extreme Philly Fishing" a lot, I knew this was an effective technique for panfish on jigs. I've watched him watch the tip, waiting, waiting, then setting.
So go ahead--talk on the phone when you fish. You may just catch more fish!
Tuesday, March 7, 2017
This is my introductory post.
Because I like riddles, I'll leave it to the reader to figure out why I might call my blog, "Cargo Cult Fishing (in Connecticut)."
There are many blogs out there, tantalizing me with tales of beautiful wild jewels (brook char) and untouched (or nearly so) creeks. Many are in Connecticut. Some may in fact be places I've fished!
I finally realized I needed to write some experiences. I guess I'll start where I am, and might go back and fill in previous experiences, as I also go forward. I'm not sure I'll be a dedicated diarist. But we will see.
Just two weeks ago, in a thaw, I got back out on a local brook. I had fished it in the snow the week before. With no luck. I sneak out for an hour or two here and there. All the trips run together and most are without cameras. But this time I used one:
As you can see, I didn't catch anything. Then again if I had, I probably would have dropped my camera. The water was so clear! And cold. And sandy bottomed. I was using my own version of an oversized elk hair caddis, tied with deer hair per Kelly Galloup's suggestions on youtube.
I started tying flies in the past 10 months. This is a new idea. My father never tied. But I am a cheap bastard and want to be able to lose flies without losing money. (Except that that is a conceit.) At least I *feel* like I don't lose money. I lost this fly.
You might be able to divine the sort of equipment I use, too. I'll leave that to the reader for now.
Frankly I never, never, ever thought this would happen. I'm a stream fisherman. A trout fly fisherman. I like to be on the move. I like to hear the stream. Pond fishing is so boring. Just standing there.
