Old Fashioned Winter

It's been a cold winter and I squeezed as much out of it as possible. I fished through ice on 10 different days, in four different months, on six different waterbodies, with a bunch of different people, targeting a number of different species. There is still more than foot of ice on certain lakes and ponds in Connecticut, yet my season is over. And it will go down as one of the most memorable of my life. 

There were lots of highlights, but one that rises to the top was ice fishing with my uncle again after nearly eight years. I will always owe him a debt of gratitude for getting me hooked on hardwater. It came full circle this winter, with both of us witnessing each other's best ever trout through the ice. Those memories will forever be etched in my brain. 

Bringing my girls out three times this season was another high point. It felt a bit forced one 13° morning, while doing sock changes in our shelter in front of a Mr. Heater. They fought through it and earned the chance to see the biggest bass any of us had ever experienced through the ice. A couple of weeks later, we had a kids day in tee-shirt weather, chasing flags on a favorite pond, eating hot dogs and grilled cheeses. Those trips will always stay with me. 

It seems to be the new norm that ice fishing seasons like this one are few and far between. Some years I don't get to walk on my favorite deep-water lakes, or get to fish with my favorite people on earth. That's why winters like these become chiseled into our memory, and keep a fire lit until we're fortunate to live through another one. 

Yak Toggin'

A relentless wind ushered in Connecticut's fall tautog season. Blowing hard from the west, it limited when, where, and how anglers could target blackfish in the Sound for days on end. The only calm window during opening weekend was supposed to be early Sunday morning. The wind was predicted to subside for a few hours before ramping up again as it shifted east. I loaded up my kayak and gave it a go. 

A stunning dawn sky made the trip even before wetting a line. As I anchored to a familiar patch of rocks in around 15 feet of water, there was a magnificent sunrise at my back and an unexpected pillar of light along the shoreline to my front—an A+ start to the morning.

It was a high incoming tide and my game plan was to jig crabs with the lightest weight I could get away with. Lucky for me, a pile of sizeable blackfish was parked on the structure directly below. Vertical jigging from a kayak oddly reminds me of jigging through the ice—I'm crazy about it. On the very first drop with a small green crab, and every drop after that, the action was immediate. Within 30 minutes of fishing, I had a limit of 16" to 18" tautog bleeding out on my stringer. 

While still relatively early at this point, the wind was changing and I didn't want to be on the water much longer. At the same time, I had a solid bite going and felt the urge to hold out longer for a larger specimen. I put the Asian crabs aside and reached for one of the last few greenies. The age-old 'big bait, big fish' theory was to be tested again. 

When I set the hook on the next good hit, it soon became apparent that this tog was in a different class than the rest. It was heavier, pulled harder, and peeled more line off my reel, yet I was lucky it stayed up and away from the craggy bottom. Though it wasn't a high bar to begin with, when the blackfish finally surfaced, it was clear this was my biggest ever of the species. I celebrated like it, too. 

It measured 22.5-inches long from its broom tail to its impressive crab-crushing mouth. Known to be slow-growers, this tog was likely older than my kids, and was getting released back into the gene pool whether I had my limit or not. It was a short trip and this was a hell of a note to end it on. The wind did eventually shift east and pick up substantially. A friend fishing one of the local breakwalls said it was blowing so hard that he had trouble staying anchored. 

With the fish I took home I was able to share a few filets with friends and family, as well as savor some ourselves. Later that night, in a cast iron pan on the grill, we fried tog nuggets for the kids and tog tacos for the adults. It was the icing on the cake of a truly memorable day.

Farewell & Adieu

Red-winged blackbirds are calling in the marshes. Stonflies are hatching on thin blue lines. Osprey and river herring are arriving any day. All signs pointing to winter's last gasps and another ice season's end. 

The weeks and months leading up to ice fishing are filled with anticipation. Hours upon hours devoted to prepping gear, securing bait, analyzing forecasts, and checking ice. Then, after arctic blasts transform our lakes and ponds, we fish when we can until its gone. Sometimes the season doesn't last long and the brevity of it all adds to the allure. 

This year my hardwater season lasted 51 days from January 14 to March 5. In that time I made six trips to three water bodies--the first half focusing on northern pike, the second half reuniting with a favorite trout lake I hadn't fished since 2011. Those two styles of fishing are incredibly different, but each enjoyable and exciting in their own right. 

It's always bittersweet packing away the ice gear in the rafters of my basement, but bidding farewell to winter means saying hello to spring and all of the amazing outdoor opportunities it brings. 

Here a is a short video from my ice season finale and a few other memorable moments that will hold me over until next winter.

Raising the Bar

I have hooked and landed longer brown trout through the ice, but never one so heavy. This fish was stuffed yet still had room for my pike shiner set 30-feet down. By the time I had reached my tip-up, it had ripped dozens of yards of Dacron from my spool. Then I gained it back, hand over hand, and it froze on contact against the bare ice. Luckily most of the long battle was between the last 20-feet of line, half of which was 10# test fluorocarbon that gave me a little more confidence during the final throes around the hole. 

When my fishing partner reached down and helped scoop the trout topside, there was a sense of joy and relief, followed by fast action to document the new personal best before its healthy release. It is moments and fish like this one that become seared into our memory and drive us out into the elements each winter.

 

Return of the Jig

I really enjoy ice fishing with tip-ups, but there is something special, and different, about jigging. Hooking and fighting my quarry through the ice with a rod and reel is such a thrill to me. When the target species is a quality trout that rushes 20 feet up the water column to eat a metal spoon I am pulling away, well, even better. 

It had been 11 winters since my last trip to this favorite body of water. Like seeing an old friend, we picked up right where we left off. I already can't wait to get back there, and God willing it won't be as long until next time. 

Hells Bells

Our limit of 12 lines was set under the ice before the sun lifted over the trees. Despite only having a half day to fish, hopes were high as we drilled the first holes on this waterbody of the season. There was a layer of gray ice on top of a thinner layer of black ice; enough to feel comfortable, but an approaching storm bringing warm air and heavy rain meant a total reset was imminent.  

It’s funny how two anglers in the same area using the same thing can have completely different results, but that’s precisely how our day started. We had a mix of tip-ups and jigging rods spread over a familiar spot. They were baited with medium shiners that Buddy was able to secure on short notice. For the first two hours, my partner’s flags popped left and right resulting in more than a dozen yellow perch to my none. When one of Buddy’s perch came topside, it puked up dragon fly larvae and gave us a neat glimpse at what some of the fish were eating below.    

Out in deeper water, I hopped around and jigged the extra holes we drilled at first light. There weren’t many targets showing on my sonar, but I eventually coaxed a bluegill into eating a Hali jig. If not familiar, this little lure has a gold drop-chain hook and I tipped it with a piece of fish meat. The flash and action of the jig call fish in, but the freebie on the hook is what seals the deal. The dark bluegill was a modest first fish of my ice season, but I was happy to be on the board.  

The calmness was soon broken up by a jingling sound behind me. Bells clipped to a jigging rod bouncing violently set me in motion like a fire alarm. The drag on my reel had been loosened, but apparently not enough as the rod managed to free from its holder and inched closer to the hole in the ice. I grabbed the sliding rod and, all in one motion, cupped the spool and reared back to set the hook. 

By the weight on the other end, I knew straight away this wasn’t a panfish. I tightened the drag, yet left it loose enough to protect the light line for what turned into a lengthy back and forth. As the fish tired, it flashed under the hole a few times revealing the telltale markings of a northern pike. After a quick photograph it was sent back down to keep on growing. Still, it was a solid pike, especially on the rod and reel.

Once the excitement settled down, I set out for one last jigging mission. Every so often I picked my head up from staring at the fish finder to scan our spread. After one such check, I looked back down at the screen to see a large mark merge with the small mark of my jig. The hit and hookset were simultaneous and the rod immediately bowed over. It was on the lightest rod and reel combo on the ice that day and, while it was a smaller pike than the first, the battle was just as spirited. Thankfully the Hali’s tiny hook perfectly pierced the outer skin of the fish’s top jaw or else there was no chance of landing it. Catching those fish back-to-back further cemented just how much I enjoy fighting pike through the ice on jigging rods.

While my time was up, Buddy stayed through the afternoon and returned for a few hours the next day with another pike and more yellow perch to show for it. Unfortunately, after that, the integrity of the little ice we had came into question. The warmup and rain on Christmas Eve were the death blow for this spot and a handful of other places in Connecticut that had fishable ice. It was a tease by any definition, but I was grateful to have been on ice at all. As I type this in early January, I’m holding out hope for an extended cold spell and the semblance of a real hardwater season, yet the days are getting longer and sun is getting stronger so it had better happen soon!

First Ice

Around the time the mums begin to wither and oaks are the only trees left with leaves, diehard ice anglers experience a concoction of feelings—equal parts eagerness and excitement peppered with a dash of agita. These feelings wash over like a wave with the first true cold snap of fall. Akin to a bat signal, it sends hardwater fanatics across the north to basements and garages to tie leaders, tinker with tip-ups, and dust-off augers. We set up crude tanks and trek to streams or ponds to catch bait. We interpret long-range weather forecasts and Farmers’ Almanacs. We look to nature for signs of a pending hard winter: an unusual abundance of acorns; early departure of waterfowl; the width of the brown bands on woolly bear caterpillars. We wait for ice.

Ice fishing is unique and highly anticipated for a bevy of reasons. Perhaps the most important is that the allotted time anglers are able to partake in it each year is very unpredictable. We have zero idea when the season will begin or end any given winter. In comparison, I know exactly when blackfish season starts; I can set my watch by when migratory striped bass show up; I can go to my local tailwater and catch trout all year long. For ice fisherman, Mother Nature is the ultimate decider when our season starts and stops. We must be patient. 

Here in southern New England, in our coldest winters, the fishable ice window is about three months long, four if we are lucky. Some years things don’t always pan out that way. I’ve experienced more than one season that started with an early freeze and came to a halt with a midwinter thaw. I’ve also witnessed ice seasons that never got going until the late innings with only a handful of bodies of water locking up. While walking on water is more of a certainty to our north, it’s still not a guarantee on large and popular lakes like Sebago and George. As the old adage goes, absence makes the heart grow fonder and ice fishing’s indefinite and limited timeframe each winter certainly helps me appreciate it more. 

Though I get jazzed up for any kind of fishing, the lead up to first ice—that brief period when lakes and ponds initially freeze over with clear, hard ice—is tough to beat. When our quarry, unpressured for weeks, sometimes months, are still active and sense the coming doldrums ahead. This can translate into fast action—whether jigging up a pile of panfish or chasing flags all day—and it’s not unheard of to pull your best fish of the season during this early part of the season. It’s not some magical time where fish are committing hara-kiri on the end of your line but I’ve doing this long enough to know that you want to be on the ice as early as you can once it starts.

There are no hard and fast rules with first ice. For example, we know it begins when liquid finally becomes solid, but it’s less precise when it ends. First ice doesn’t necessarily happen all at once either. Your shallower lakes and ponds lock up first, naturally. That’s why bass, pike, and pickerel are usually first on many anglers’ target list. As the season progresses, deeper bodies of water follow suit and ice anglers start spreading out to target different species like trout, walleye, and crappie. 

There is nothing in the world like walking on a sheet of black ice before any snow covers it. It’s a thing of beauty—the consistency and hardness of it and its lack of imperfections; the way shanty anchors bite into it and the crunching sounds boot studs make on it. The optics of black ice are surreal. When walking over shallows, you can make out every piece of structure from boulders to weed lines to stumps. If you’re really lucky and hook into something under black ice, you get a first-row seat to the tug-of-war right underneath your feet. It’s a wild experience.

As in any type of fishing, having a small circle of friends that you trust and share information with pays dividends, but it’s tough relying solely on second-hand ice reports. Checking the ice’s thickness and quality yourself is the only way to know for sure. I live at least an hour’s drive from my favorite ice spots, so scouting is both time consuming and costly, yet those who scout are usually on the ice first, long before anything trickles down to social media. There’s been times I’ve bailed from work early to check spots that I had hoped to walk on the following day only to find wide-open with white caps. I’ve also gambled without scouting and drove 90 minutes only to be been turned away from crap ice, all before the sunup. First ice will always be a risk/reward scenario—wait until word gets out or be one of the first groups out there. 

I don’t have the flexibility at home or at work as I once did, so I try to make the most of every opportunity and relish the days or nights on the ice when they come. I’ve come to accept that that feeling in the pit of my stomach won’t ever go away when I am stuck at work knowing other anglers, friends or not, are drilling holes on fresh ice. I know they feel the same way when the tables are turned. Just fish when you can.

Here I am, more than 20 years after being introduced to hardwater, and those feelings of excitement and anxiousness as the season approaches haven’t faded a bit. My sled is packed and ready by the basement door like a bird dog waiting for the next upland hunting trip. Until then I’m keeping an eye on the weather and hoping for a string of calm, cold nights. If we’re fortunate to get some good ice this winter, have fun out there and stay on top.

Fifty Days

Fifty days. That’s not a big window, but that’s what we get here for fall blackfish season. There are short spring and summer seasons too, yet there is something special about targeting these bottom-hugging brutes on crisp fall days. This year’s opener fell on a Thursday, smack in the middle of a Nor’easter. No sane angler got out until Saturday when the Sound finally calmed down. That meant just one day’s worth of keepers were culled from the inshore haunts before I got out there Sunday morning with buddies Mike, Dan, and Chris.   

It had been a year since any of us had targeted blackfish and there was a feeling of anticipation on the boat during the chilly ride to the breakwalls. We weren’t alone. Even from a couple miles away we could see dozens of boats that looked like white specks against the rocks. We motored along until finding a vacant stretch a respectable distance between two boats, dropped anchor and inched the stern tight to the wall. Chris tossed a line fixed to a metal bolt that caught between two granite slabs and tied it off to a cleat. The duel anchor system is popular when targeting tog, allowing anglers to stay put over one spot, in our case a rod’s length from the wall in 10 to 15-feet of water. Blackfish are so structure dependent that a few feet in either direction can make the difference between a desert and an oasis. 

Tautog eat all sorts of crustaceans and shellfish, but crabs are hands down the preferred bait when targeting them. It seems like you can never have enough on hand as tog are masters at cleaning hooks with their human-like teeth. It’s not just them down there either; an underwater camera would likely reveal a mob of small black sea bass and cunners pecking away at your offering as well. The two species of crab most often used for blackfish in Long Island Sound are both invasive to the area, the Asian crab and green crab. Asian crabs are smaller on average, usually fished whole. The green crabs grow larger and are either fished whole or cut in half or quarters depending on their size. What works better is all personal preference. Some anglers stick to the go big or go home theory. Others lean toward Asian crabs because it’s faster and easier not having to deal with cutting—just pierce the crab with a jig and drop it down. I like to mix it up and experiment with both and let the fish decide.

On board for this outing we had 12 dozen Asian crabs and a bag of greenies for good measure. All of us had our sights set on jigging with light-ish tackle. The tide wasn’t ripping that morning so we got away with using jigs from one to one and a half ounce. There were high hopes for a boat-wide limit (3 fish per angler, 16-inch minimum). That would allow each of us a fresh dinner and some filets to vacuum seal for the freezer. Mike had the hot hand to start, landing the first two keepers. Pretty soon we all got in on the action once we got a handle of the rocky bottom below the boat. The key to finding larger fish seemed to be locating holes and crevasses that blackfish were hiding out in. Those same holes added to the challenge of landing a bigger fish if you were lucky enough to hook one.

With this style of fishing, it helps to have braided main line to better feel light bites and a long, heavy leader to stand up to the abrasion that comes with the territory. I needed all of my four-foot 40-pound leader when I battled my best fish of the day that almost never saw the net. When my jig sank down a few additional feet into one of those holes, it was greeted by a tap, tap, crunch. With the drag locked down, I tried like hell to pull the fish out of its lair but it bulldogged back down into the rocks until I felt myself hung up on bottom. Completely stuck. No headshakes, nothing. Somehow patience prevailed and after letting it be for 30 seconds that felt like 10 minutes, the blackfish worked itself out of the snag and continued to pull hard until it was flapping on the deck. I was proud of this one—not huge but my biggest to date and certainly the most memorable fight.

Over the course of a few hours that morning, we chipped away and eventually got our limit and released a bunch of shorts, a number of them just under 16-inches. Mike added a keeper black sea bass, which was a welcomed bycatch. Right up there with the fishing was the banter and camaraderie that comes along with togging. In a way blackfishing reminds me of some of the ice fishing that I do—friends jigging and BSing in close proximity, pausing once in a while to drink a beer or wolf down some food. I also like that it’s not super competitive out there. There are boats upon boats full of anglers, but they are all respectful to one another and everyone seemed to be bailing fish and doing their own thing. After a triumphant ride back to the marina, we got a workout fileting the 12 blackfish and bonus sea bass. I ate some of my share that night. I kept it simple with salt, pepper, and butter in a cast iron pan. It was as delicious as I had remembered it and couldn’t have been fresher. I’m not sure if that will be my only togging trip this fall, but if it is it was definitely one to remember.