Taste of Summer

An 11:30 a.m. low tide and 50-degree air temp helped form my decision. The plan was to rake local quahogs for a Sunday feast of stuffed clams and clams casino. After having success at this particular spot in September, confidence was high that I would find hard shells where I left them. That morning I layered up like it was a winter steelhead trip and waded into the 41-degree Long Island Sound. 

The tool for this is a long-handled rake with steel tines protruding from a wire basket on its business end. When the tines come in contact a clam, there is a distinct feel and sound that helps differentiate between a quahog and say a rock or empty shell. Let me cut to the chase and admit that I didn't hear any good sounds while raking that morning. I tried out deep, in shallow, and even on an exposed flat at dead low tide. For more than an hour, I moved all over the place and used muscles I didn't know I had, yet never zeroed in on where the bivalves were burrowed. 

One thing I learned is that I still have a lot to learn when it comes to clamming. Perhaps they were in water deeper than I could wade. Or maybe the clams were buried deeper in the sand and mud than the rake could reach. This is not a heavily pressured area, so I know it hasn't been picked over. Wherever they were, it wasn't where they were just a few months ago.

On to plan B. 

There was just enough time to call an audible. My wife and daughters were coming to meet me and friends at the beach for lunch. I reached them before they left the house and requested another tool for a different kind of clamming. Soft shells, affectionately known by many as "steamers", are also found in this general vicinity, but in a precise area buried under a specific substrate. 

While the quahogs here live in soft sand and mud in open water, the steamers prefer life under a rocky bar that extends perpendicular to the beach. Getting at them requires a short-handled tool, like a garden claw or trowel. Instead of wading and raking in water, this method consists of kneeling and digging on dry land during the low tide window. My tactic is to throw a heavy rock on the bar to see where the soft shells spit sea water from their siphons. In the summer, one toss of a softball-sized rock could unleash several clues on where to pinpoint digging efforts. On this day, nothing. Zip. Nada. 

Instead of calling it quits, I dug a trench where they'd normally be and, sure enough, I found one about six inches down. It was a slow slog, but I kept at it and they came in small bunches of two or three every couple minutes. It was hard work for an appetizer, but I was pot committed (pun intended). The take home count was around 50 steamers, which is a perfect quantity for our family of four. Everyone was happy for a taste of summer; broth, butter and all. 

While I didn't come home empty handed, I did strike out on my original plan. Winter clamming for quahogs is something I'd really like to focus on. It goes to show, no matter how much time we spend on the water, there will always be so much more to learn. 

Third Saturday In April

So much about our Opening Day tradition has changed since I first joined my uncle more than 20 years ago. The location, the duration, the crew, even the fishing regulations—they all evolved over time. In the early years we stayed on a state-owned property along the river with dozens of others for one wild night before the third Saturday of April. With that site long since shut down, we now stay on a private piece of land miles from the river with a small and seasoned group for three memorable nights. We have added on days, lost a crucial participant, and gained others. Virtually the entire river is now open to fishing before Opening Day. The State even moved trout season up a week, yet there was no question within our group about whether or not to stick with the traditional weekend.

But the more things change, the more they stay the same. The gathering of friends. The reunion around the camp fire. The celebration of spring. The serenade of peeper frogs. The patter of rain on the tent. The smell of wood smoke. The morning dew on the rain fly. The hum of the Northstar lanterns. The swilling of whiskey in camp chairs. The fire-cooked steaks. The waders drying on Russian Olives. The rigging of fly rods on tailgates. The whittling of walking sticks. The cigars on the riverbank. The prepping of cheese spreads with grandfather’s KA-BAR. The crackling of the late night fire. The chill when you step away from it. The rehashing of stories I’ve heard for years. I’m thankful those things haven’t changed.

When I first started going on this trip, the weekend was something I circled on the calendar months in advance. When that Friday morning finally came, I’d wait by the front door for my uncle’s red Mitsubishi Mighty Max pickup to pull in the driveway. My pile of gear was pathetic—pretty much everything I used was loaned to me from fishing rods to sleeping bags. As we drove north on Route 8, we may as well have been on a logging road in the Moosehead region. We were so unplugged from the real world. It was so different than what my friends were doing back home. For better or worse, those trips exposed me to food, language, behavior, and fishing techniques that a Connecticut kid in the 90’s would be hard pressed to find anywhere else.

Now with over two decades of Opening Day weekends in the books, inside I’m still that excited kid making mental notes of the trip months in advance. While the world got a lot smaller since those first years, in a way it still feels like I’m cut off from the rest of civilization when I’m in the woods for those three nights. A temporary reprieve from responsibilities at home and in the office. And we’ll keep going that third weekend in April so long as we are physically able to do so. Carrying that Opening Day torch and passing it on to our children and their children along the way. It’s tradition after all. 

Opening Day Revisited

I realize mayfly hatches and cooking around a campfire are not things most people think about this time of year, but somehow I got a bit sidetracked this past spring and never put up our annual post from Opening Day (see the past few years here: 2013, 2012 & 2011). Well, we sure as hell didn't skip it! We had a another kick ass weekend in the woods, heavy on eating and drinking and light on fishing. One cool thing about waiting until December to put this up is that just a few months of ice fishing separate us from this wonderful spring tradition again. For those that hate winter, perhaps the photos below will help pass the time a little easier.

Eat Like Kings

One of the most anticipated things about Opening Day weekend is the top-shelf food consumed in camp. For three nights and four days, if we are not fishing or sleeping, we are eating or preparing the next meal. It's three square meals a day all weekend, but it's broken up into two breakfasts and a monster dinner. We forgo eating lunch to fish during the bulk of the day, then go to town on appetizers and the main course late into the night.

Breakfast sandwiches and bowls of Cheerios with bananas are always on the morning menu. The dinners and appetizers are where we change it up a little bit from year to year. This Opening Day consisted of paella (a Spanish rice dish) served with clams on night one. We kept it simple on night two in the pouring rain with natural casing hot dogs topped with kraut. Then the grand finale was the classic steak with baked potatoes.

Fresh seafood made up most of our apps. This year's sampling included clams from Long Island Sound, oysters from Point Judith Pond and sea scallops form George's Bank. Of course you can't overlook the serious cheese spread that was cut up each night.

A little excessive for a camping trip?  Probably, but then again Opening Day isn't just any old camping trip! All this food and camp talk has me already looking forward to next year...

A nice cheese spread with my late Grandfather's KA-BAR.

  

Top neck clams fresh from Long Island Sound.

Clams on ice waiting to go down the hatch.

My uncle preparing his famous roasted oyster dish.

Big boy steaks over an indian fire with potatoes baking in the coals.

 

Kurt prepping ingredients for the paella dish.

Sea scallops wrapped with bacon held together by tooth picks whittled in a pinch.

Slicing up natural casing hot dogs before they go over the fire.

What It's All About

Like many anglers, I am big on traditions, and the grandaddy of them all in my book is Opening Day of trout fishing season. It's been nearly two decades since my first Opening Day celebration, which has grown and morphed over time into what is easily my favorite trip of the year. It is a tradition, God willing, that our crew will continue recognizing until we are physically unable to do so. The hope is, when that day comes, a new generation will pick up the torch and carry it on, but they need to be shown the light first. This year's trip brought us one step closer to that reality, as we introduced new blood to our cherished Opening Day rituals.

Max, my 13-year-old cousin and youngest son of the trip founder, experienced Opening Day weekend in all its glory this year. Between the sampling of weather, camping, incredible food (which deserves its own post), camaraderie and fishing, it couldn't have been drafted up any better--just a textbook Opening Day like we'd been doing it for a while or something. The kid was absolutely blown away like I was for my first time about his same age. Everyone in the group took their time to teach Max the "right" way to do things, from whittling walking sticks to mending a fly line. I may be biased, but he is a natural with a fly rod. We all caught ourselves shaking our heads on the riverbank just watching his nearly perfect casts and drifts. And when he fought and landed his first feisty rainbow trout on the long rod, there was a well deserved photo shoot, high fives and smiles all around.

Every Opening Day is special and looked forward to, but this one was on another level and rightly so. A new member has been sworn into our crew and another ambassador to the sport has been created. We were treated to a glimpse of the future of Opening Day and I'm proud to say the future looks bright. 

It always starts at the woodpile.

Derrick spinning flies under lantern light.

Chef Aaron mans one of the Coleman grills.

A meeting of the minds about fly selection.

If the rocks around this firepit could talk...

 

A fine looking campsite.



Gearing up before a full day on the water.

Learning from the master.



Enjoying the show from the bank.

Max's first trout on the fly!  I can't tell who's happier.

He's getting "the look" down now.

Dad showing son what the stocked trout grow up to be.

The obligatory group shot with a new addition.