Wednesday, June 29, 2016

Of Access and Eels

The Connecticut coast isn’t known for its public access. Much of Long Island Sound’s shoreline is privately owned and challenging to access legally. There are several city and state-owned beaches and parks, but they’re dwarfed by the amount of private beach associations, mansions, and manicured lawns. While the public trust states that Connecticut’s shore belongs to the people, you still have to get to the water without trespassing (or without getting caught). So when an opportunity presented itself to fish a private stretch of striper heaven with landowner permission, I jumped at the chance.

This past weekend I finally linked up with a family friend after a year or so of talking about fishing together. Probably like most reading this, Rob is crazy about fishing. He’s caught trout on the Provo, smallies on the upper Housy and schoolies on the lower Connecticut, but he had never attempted full-on surfcasting at night for that next size class of stripers. Rob was determined to change that and recently scored permission through a childhood friend to access a rocky shoreline that screams big bass. He texted me some possible dates and we hatched a plan.

What a sight we must have been fully decked out in surfcasting gear strolling across a great lawn at sunset getting showered by sprinklers. And how refreshing it was to be able to fish a spot like this without having to sneak in after midnight and constantly look over a shoulder. Once on the water, we maneuvered a maze of bowling ball-sized rocks until we found boulders to perch on and tossed top water lures to kill time before dark settled in. When we could no longer see our plugs, I gave Rob a brief tutorial on how to handle, hook and fish live eels. He had never used this prime striper bait before; in fact, he told me the only nightmare he could remember having as a kid involved spearing huge eels. Nothing like a baptism by fire.

Wading up to our waists, we began working the water in front of us that had a left to right swing forming with the incoming tide. It was a gorgeous summer night with a light breeze. The last quarter of the strawberry moon hadn’t risen yet and the dark sky aided us in seeing a few shooting stars. Even better was that there was no one else around. Only one boat passed our field of view the entire time and there wasn’t another surfcaster for miles. On the flip side, the fish didn't seem to be around either...at first. After about 90 minutes without a touch, we took a short breather on shore and re-hooked our now dead eels.

Sometimes a quick break can make all the difference, or at least renew confidence, because within moments of resuming I saw Rob’s rod double over. It was difficult for me to tell what exactly Rob was dealing with because he didn’t make a sound and the fish didn’t take a yard of drag for the first half of the fight. But that soon changed as the bass came in close and bugged out in the shallows. His locked-down drag started paying out line and the fish moved a good deal of water around. When I finally clicked on my headlamp, there was a thick, healthy bass a rod's length away. It was easily twice the size of his best striper to that point.

Rob’s reaction to the catch ranks up there to some of the better I have ever witnessed. I don’t remember seeing an angler so genuinely happy in that moment. His smile said it all. Rob knew this was special; that you don’t just waltz into a spot like that, fish at night with eels for the first time and catch a 30-pound striped bass. It took me many a night of trial and error to eventually stumble upon a striper in that class. But I was ecstatic for the guy. We could have went home with a skunking and Rob would have been more than fine with it, and I could tell he soaked in the info I shared like a sponge.

That bass bought us another solid hour of fishing. Both of us, now brimming with confidence, fished hard for one more fish, a smallish striper in comparison but a decent catch from shore most summer nights. With the hour getting late and a wedding the following day hanging over me, I had to call it quits. Back at his family’s cottage, we rehashed the tide over a cold beer. As a sign of appreciation, Rob presented me with a bottle of Irish whiskey he had been aging for some time. He texted me not long after I left saying that he was going back out solo that very night, and since then he’s contacted me again about gaining more access along Connecticut’s striper coast. I have seen his condition before in me and my close friends; it appears to be early onset of diehard surfcasting syndrome. If not controlled, it can ruin relationships, careers, and leave you broke and sleep deprived. To all of you like Rob out there, be forewarned. 




Wednesday, June 22, 2016

Trials and Tribulations of Chunking

When the first adult menhaden invade my local waters around mid-May, it's hard for me to target striped bass with anything else. I love tossing flies and plugs in early spring and live eels when the dog days of summer kick in, but chunking bunker dominates my saltwater fishing for a good portion of May and June. While snagging this oily baitfish with a weighted treble hook, lopping off its head, and sending it to the bottom attached to a 10/0 octopus hook is far from glamorous fishing, it's a pretty damned effective method. For some reason, maybe the lack of big bluefish locally, the small pods of menhaden roaming out front haven't really concentrated yet, which means snagging, especially from shore, is no easy task. The other night, in fading daylight, a friend and I could barely make out the small circles of nervous water moving quickly from left to right about 50 yards out. A near perfect cast was needed, placed behind the school so not to spook them. We missed a few shots, but ended up with one lone bait between the two of us. A few beers and some whisky kept us busy as we hoped for more bunker to pass us by, but eventually it was time to soak what we had. After about 20 minutes, a healthy bass picked up the head piece and treated me to a great fight in shallow water. After a few photos, we sent the sea lice-laden fish back on her way. My only piece of bait was in the bass' belly and my partner's half soon fell off the hook during a retrieve after spider crabs had their way with it. We would have paid top dollar for a few more fresh bunker that night. Who knows how many stripers were prowling in front of us on that outgoing tide? Sometimes I take for granted large, concentrated schools of menhaden in close proximity to shore. It sure makes for easy snagging. This time I worked hard for one prized menhaden, and it payed off. 




Monday, June 13, 2016

When It All Comes Together

Editor's note: The following is a guest post from my good friend Aaron Swanson. We shared a tide together for three nights this spring in search of a fish, up to that point, we had never come in contact with. I think his story does a fine job of connecting the events that unfolded to the much bigger picture that can sometimes get lost in the fray. 

I’m staring up at the tip of my rod, framed in a smoky haze of clouds and moon light.  I give the rod a few soft bounces. My hand cranks slowly, just keeping my reel moving. I think of nothing in particular, then, there is a sudden sensation I can’t quite place. 

It’s like the ground I’m standing on is alive. The rocks are crawling around, over my feet. I’m happy to be dressed in waders when I realize there is something climbing on my heavy boot. Peering down into the inky knee-deep water reveals no clue to what it is. Experience eventually fills the wonder in my mind; it keeps me from flailing my legs about to shake off the unseen visitor. I am merely a barrier to a horseshoe crab, seeking to participate in an ancient ritual. My foot mistaken for a prehistoric looking partner to latch onto, ride into the wave wash and create a new lineage.  The new generation will play an unlikely part of sustaining life around the world. 

Springtime in the northern hemisphere provides the opportunity to observe the interconnectedness of life. Watching the interaction of species in my corner of the globe to serves as a reminder of how we are all part of one big world. The horseshoe crab in particular, alien and otherworldly looking is a perfect example of how the small things in life are often the big things.

The crabs are remarkable beyond their longevity as a species. Other animals rely heavily on these dinosaurs, including humans. It’s hard to believe a better chemical compound isn’t available to test for the presence of bacteria in medical equipment. Horseshoe crab blood is used just for this purpose. The same crabs little brothers pick up at the beach, to scare and chase their sisters with, legs flailing and tails wagging. Strange ways we are tied together, though certainly more glamorous than when we chop them up for eel bait.

I witnessed a part of this year’s horseshoe crab spawning migration as I do most years, creeping around in the water with a fishing rod in hand and bag full of lures slung over my shoulder. The convergence of species in the coastal shallows makes up a snapshot of the web of life. How it works and how long it’s been working.  I’m out targeting fish that are there to spawn. The crabs are there to do the same.  Eggs they lay sustain vast species of shorebirds whose migrations are timed perfectly with the event. They need them to refuel on their journey in their own quest for finding a mate and rearing a new generation.

My rod snaps forward as the metronomic cast and slow retrieve of my lure leaves me in contemplative state, waiting for the telltale bump of a fish.  

I consider how these shorebirds became so reliant upon the crabs. Certainly in a different way than humans have. The fact their arrival is timed precisely when food sources like the crab eggs become abundant enough to sustain them is one of those things in nature I think can be too easily taken for granted. 

The roped off areas I observed on the walk out on the beach are meant to protect piping plover nests. They demonstrate the impacts people have on these places and cycles. Our presence and activity, even if unintentional, can interrupt these cycles to the point where a species could be lost. Tightly flocked shorebirds buzz by in the evening sky, just out of casting range. An oyster catcher struts around on the beach behind me, punctuating the night with sharp calls.

My rod jolts and flexes and I go from not thinking about anything, to the depths of considering the circle of life, to laser focus. I keep steady pressure on the fish now surging at the end of my line, using all its power to try and free itself from the meal that unexpectedly is now pulling against it.

The Native Americans called this fish Squeteague. The name was given many years ago by people who came to the same beaches to reap the same bountiful convergence I see here today. Squeteague show up seasonally where I fish. Though they can be caught for a portion of the warmer months, they are most available to the shore-bound rod and reel angler during a relatively short window. They are here to do the same thing as the crab hitching a ride on my foot – spawn. They come in around the moon tides during the spring, drawn to the sandy bars and estuary mouths where the water warms to just the right temperature. The same place the crabs, fish and birds have come for thousands of years. People, like me, have always followed.

This year, rather than just looking for stripers or bluefish like I usually do during this part of the month, a friend and I chose to focus on what many anglers consider an elusive quarry. We set a goal to finally catch a species new to both of us – the Squeteague. In all the years we fished saltwater together, regardless of their rumored presence, neither of us incidentally landed one of these seemingly mysterious fish.  If we were going to get one - we had to make a point of targeting them. A few token purchases at the bait shop paid the price to get enough information to set us in the right direction. The moon and tide aligned to set the conditions that gave us the best chance at contacting our targeted quarry. Wives were informed: it didn’t matter how many nights it would take, we’d keep going until it happened. 

The spots where these fish tend to congregate aren’t really a secret. They look for a certain type of structure at a certain time of year with a particular purpose – and they’ve been doing so for a long time. This means, where I live, if you’re targeting them at the “right” time you’ll have plenty of company.  It is almost overwhelming how many anglers flock to the scene, adding to the amount of biomass already present. This is spring run fishing in the tightly populated east coast – the annual migrations draw people to them as they always have. As foreign as it is for me to fish so close to other people, I feel happy to be a part of it. 

Every moment I play the fish is another it grows closer to gaining its freedom. Although the drag on the reel is set so the fish can be played lightly – much lighter than I would the typical bass or bluefish – I tense with each run. 

Squeteague are also known as weakfish. The modern name for this species of Drum, comes from rod and reel anglers who use hooks to catch them, rather than nets weirs and spears as the native people did. They came to be called “weak” because their mouths, when penetrated by a steel hook tear easily, leading to disappointment and frustration.

As the fish draws closer I can tell it’s different than the other predatory fish I target. There are more headshakes and somersaults than a sulking striper, and it gave no blistering bluefish runs during our contest. A worthy fighter in its own right, this one just feels different than any other saltwater game fish I have played. The fish makes a last stand, forcing me to pause my backward steps up onto the beach. This is the critical moment. If I’m to win this battle I can’t let it go on any longer. I regain control of the fish, step back up onto the dry sand and there it is. A speckled beauty slides out of the foamy wave wash onto the beach. My first weakfish.

Over the next few nights we observed what was to be a solid run of these fish. There were two remarkable nights in particular when more than a few good sized fish hit the beach with many anglers cashing in on the action. During one of the busiest periods I’d landed enough nice sized fish to satisfy not only the goal we set but a season’s worth of weakfishing. I took a minute to look around and soak in the scene around me.  The crabs paired where the waves met the beach, the random shrieks of busy shore birds, the anglers posed in their fighting stances, rods bent, engaged in silent battles. 

This is why we fish; things change with time but life’s elements will continue to converge as they have for generations. I was there in the moment with it all coming together around me. And when it all comes together, it’s pretty incredible.









Monday, May 9, 2016

Branching Out

Anglers are a funny bunch. We can get pretty comfortable in certain stretches of water that treat us well. Whether in fresh or saltwater, we all have our favorite spots. Often times we grow complacent and keep going back to those comfort zones while ignoring other areas or bodies of water entirely. I am guilty of this. I have been fishing one small stream off and on for over a decade, yet in all that time I have only seen about a mile of it. A select rotation of riffles and pools usually produce a healthy lot of wild browns and native brookies on every visit. It's a quick hit that's not far from home for me, a good option for when I don't have the luxury of a full day on the water (full day on the water...Ha!). 

Catching fish in familiar water is fun. I wouldn't keep doing it if it wasn't. I didn't see a need to explore any more of this particular stream. Hell, I hardly ever re-rigged or changed flies--a small pheasant tail nymph under a Stimulator fooled 90% of my trout here. This spring, however, I forced myself to branch out to water up and downstream of my usual haunts. No rods were carried on the first two scouting walks. I took some photos and mental notes at each run I would have fished. One thing I noticed right away was that the dry-dropper technique wasn't well suited for much of the new water I encountered. It was back to the basics with a method and fly pattern responsible for hooking me, and likely thousands of others, on fly fishing in the first place. Many years have gone by since I tied and last fished a small black and olive Woolly Bugger, but like a good bird dog it went right back into action without skipping a beat.

When I finally found time to fish the sections I scouted, the first pool I gravitated to was deep, slow and littered with woody debris--a haven for wild trout. I must have pricked 10 char in that hole alone on my trusty bugger, most of which could fit in the palm of my hand. Feisty, dark fish that acted like they hadn't seen a fly in some time. A handful of heftier brook trout darted from the darkness to pounce my streamer, but any dinosaur brown trout in this new stretch remain elusive for now. It was a short outing, but one of the most productive 90 minutes of fishing numbers-wise I've ever had on this stream. The best part about that day is that I only fished a fraction of the water I scouted. I'm pumped to get back there. I don't get out quite as much as I used to, but I find myself looking forward to the trips more than ever.