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.

Best Laid Plans

"Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth." -Mike Tyson

It was the height of the fall run. A Friday in late October tailor-made for paid time off. The primary thing on my mind was false albacore. The goal of this trip was to catch my first of the season and, more importantly, my first ever from a kayak. By now, anglers had been getting their fill of little tunny locally for two months. I was not among them.

After losing the only albie I had hooked all season weeks earlier, I was eager to settle the score. Getting one in a kayak would wash away that feeling and more, but I had to put myself in a spot with high probability and that meant heading an hour east. Also in tow were blackfish gear and a bucketful of crabs. My thinking was to check-off the main target then pivot to tuatog. 

It sounded good on paper. 

I had fished the area before from shore, but not much by boat and never in my Hobie. Between advice from a friend and studying the Navionics app, I pieced together what seemed like a solid game plan. The sunrise was gorgeous and conditions were tranquil, at least to start. After pedaling out to where the cove opened up to Long Island Sound, I spotted the first telltale feed, a little tunny porpoising like a half-moon through the surface of the water. They were around and eating. What could go wrong? 

Well, anyone who has spent time targeting albies knows that some days it seems easy and other days they make you want to pull your hair out. It was definitely the latter on this outing. They were in sparse pods and popping up only intermittently. There were times they'd be on top and within range long enough for one cast, but no sustained feeds where you get multiple shots. It was challenging to dial in a pattern and they were eating microscopic bait that I couldn't identify. To round out my excuses, the flat calm conditions were ideal for spotting these fish, not catching them.

In the hours spent chasing, dozens of boaters motored by en route to their favorite rock piles. I eventually conceded and joined them, hoping to salvage the trip with a blackish limit. The conditions were evolving though: the tide flipped; the wind picked up; a chop developed. Anchoring in a safe manner proved difficult and pedaling against the current to stay planted above structure wasn't easy either. The scenario was perfect for spot-lock technology that I didn't have. Despite jigging up a handful of tog, none were close to keeper size and the expedition was starting to look like a bust. 

I had a hard stop in order to get back home in time for school dismissal. During the long pedal toward the launch, I scanned the area of the day's first albie sighting. Deteriorated conditions established a renewed confidence if I could only get within range one more time. As if the Fish Gods were throwing me a bone in the 11th hour, a small platoon of albies slashed on top about 20 yards off my bow. A few cranks of the reel handle after a well-placed cast and the line came tight. YAHTZEE!

A bundle of frustration and second guessing evaporated in that hookset. Battling a not-so-little tunny from a kayak was everything I expected and then some. Being low to the water and that close to the action was an awesome feeling. The fish made a few memorable runs and had me reaching the rod tip beyond the bow because it was changing directions so much. Throughout the fight, it was pure adrenaline. When it hit the net, it was immense relief. A really cool moment for me that almost didn't happen, but I'm sure glad it did. 

Just like I planned it. 

Thankful to get the hook-up and fight on film. 

Summer Medley

Salt air and fireflies.

Flounder, quahogs, and blue claws. 

Summer ends too soon.

My brother summited California's Mount Whitney and left a Connecticut Yankee sticker.

Spring Seef

Coming off a winter with zero chances to ice fish any of Connecticut's deep-water lakes, I had been itching to visit one in a kayak this spring. It took a little help during Holy Week for my cards to line up right. With a day off of work, kids in school, and ideal weather conditions, excitement levels were through the roof as I drove north last Thursday.

When I finally launched at 8:30, it was 46 degrees with fog thick enough to make me question how well I knew my surroundings. Later in the morning, when it eventually burned off, temps spiked over 20 degrees. Thankfully there was little to no wind to speak of, making the surface of the lake smooth as glass and allowing sound to carry more than usual. The loud and eerie calls from a handful of loons fishing nearby reminded me of time spent on Woods Pond in Maine as a kid.

rigged & ready 

After peddling halfway to the planned starting point, I saw a fish eat on the surface close enough to warrant a hasty cast. It resulted in a reactionary strike and a long-distance release, but it was a welcomed sign of activity to come. As I approached the deepest bowl of lake, there were two gents drifting in a small jon boat – the only other anglers on the entire body of water.

My game plan was the same in the kayak as it was when I have been fortunate to ice fish here: vertical jigging with soft plastics and metal spoons to imitate the lake's main forage of landlocked alewives. Whether my fish finder was not up to the task or I still haven't fully dialed-in the unit yet, I couldn't see my jig or targets on screen in detail like I usually do while on the ice. Though still confident in my method and the spot to keep doing what I was doing, part of me felt like I was fishing blind.

glass

soft plastics

That method consisted of jigging on bottom and up through the water column with occasional pauses in hopes a chasing trout would pounce on my offering. More than few times I stopped to cast at the ever increasing number of trout feeding on top. Some of the takes were gentle sips while others were a porpoising action that revealed flanks of spotted silver and copper. There were unmistakably large fish in the mix. I reached over the side of the kayak and cupped in my hand what they were eating—small midge that were emerging from the lake bottom about 75-feet underneath. As the sun started to peak out, the hatch shifted from midge to larger stone flies. It was a sight to see.

elephants eat peanuts; big trout eat midge

a stonefly takes flight

The brown trout eating on the surface were keyed in on bugs, wanting not much to do with the baitfish offerings I presented them. Never during the trip planning stage did I ever think a fly rod and assortment of dry flies would be needed. I hooked and lost one more on the surface, but ultimately decided my time would be better spent targeting the trout I couldn't see eating herring down below.

During one of the many retrieves with a lead head and soft plastic, something heavy doubled over my new St. Croix rod on its maiden voyage. With the water so clear, I got the first look of the fat seeforellen brown trout when it was still more than 10 feet deep. I had stared down at many silvery trout on this lake through holes in the ice, but never before in open water. The sharp single hook of the jig was firmly planted in the trout's jaw, yet the jerky headshakes and barrel rolls on its way up from the depths had me muttering a hybrid of prayer and cursing. When it finally came within arm's length, I slid the net under the weight of its body, hoisted up, and let out a sigh of relief.

On a bump board on my lap, the fish measured a hair over 22-inches. More impressive than its length though, was its girth. This trout was built like a Mack truck—a body type achieved on a healthy diet of fish, not just bugs. The population of illegally-introduced alewives in this lake is booming, and the seeforellen strain stocked here are taking full advantage.

herring eater

seeforellen

catch & release trophy for CT waters

After admiring the trout in the water, one of the heaviest I have ever landed in Connecticut, it kicked away strong, straight back down to whence he came. It was an awesome feeling and affirming moment. The idea of a solo kayak mission on this body of water had been consuming me for months since the winter that never was. While I may never luck out with the same extraordinary conditions again, it was satisfying to know that I could pull this type of trip off and have a chance to catch big trout like that, or bigger. 

Morning grew late and the fog completely burned off, revealing a bright blue sky and a completely different day than when I started. It was darn right hot out for April. The amount of fish eating up top dwindled. I missed one more solid hit just off bottom. My time on the water was growing thin, but the long peddle back to my truck was an enjoyable one. I hugged the shoreline and snuck right up on a pile of largemouth bass of impressive size, yet couldn't coax one into biting a tube. There were two bald eagles perched in a tree along the last leg of my journey back. A fitting way to finish an outing that I will look back on for as long as I'm around. 

a gorgeous body of water

had to pullover for this on the way home; spring in New England

celebratory libations

Year of the Yak

The year of our lord 2021 was a game-changer thanks to a kayak that willed its way to me. Investing in a proper platform for outings on Long Island Sound and beyond had been on my mind for years. Things accelerated last March in the classifieds section of a Connecticut fishing forum. For sale was a second-hand Hobie Mirage Revolution 13 in good condition with a mess of accessories going for a very fair price.

Contacting the seller set off a chain of events and a roller coaster of emotions. As luck would have it another angler inquired just before I did. The seller honored this order while assuring me the other guy wasn’t a serious buyer. Daydreams of pedaling through epic blitzes were dashed when a text, apologetic in tone, explained that the buyer was serious after all and—poof—the Hobie was gone. It was business and life went on.

Two weeks later I found myself on that forum again with a blinking icon on the screen. Low and behold it was a message from the fella who beat me out for the kayak. He had realized that his back wasn't cut out for hauling around the heavy Hobie and wanted a center console instead. An interesting development, but by then the news was almost a week old and the kayak had been listed for sale again. Here’s the kicker, a new buyer was supposed to pick it up at the guy’s house yet never showed. By this point the Fish Gods had made their intentions clear—this kayak was meant to be mine. I sent a deposit to hold it and a few days later drove it home in the slow lane on 95 like there was a newborn in my truck.

One of the best parts about this new chapter is all the learning that comes along with it. While I made some memorable one-off trips in the past—Costa Rican roosterfish remains one of the coolest experiences of my life—I never put in enough time to get truly dialed-in on a kayak. The technology has come a long way since and this would be my first time using a yak with pedals and a rudder. A rookie season of trial and error lay ahead of me and I was stoked to reinvigorate my passion for angling by introducing new tools and techniques.

The first expeditions were family beach days where I brought the Hobie along to get my bearings. After ferrying my daughters around and making drifts for fluke (and catching mostly sea robins), I confirmed what I already knew—the MirageDrive is outstanding. The pedal-system really gets the kayak moving at a good clip and fingertip steering with the rudder control is a breeze. I also accepted that it’s going to take some getting used to how wind, tide, current, and pedaling influence my drifts.  

By the time the fall run kicked into high gear locally, things were clicking a little more on the yak. On a sunrise mission in September, I made a short peddle to a submerged boulder field that boaters often blow right by. It is ideal surfcasting habitat, yet the land around it is private and a pain to reach legally. The kayak solves that issue and for the first hour of daylight, each drift passed the point resulted in a hook up. Stripers and blues were fighting over my spook, sometimes slapping it a few feet in the air. That morning was further validation that the Hobie will be key for accessing spots that seem to be dwindling by the year.

Arguably my most gratifying kayak experience in 2021 didn’t involve a rod and reel. My friend Greg kindly invited me on an excursion to a salt pond for an afternoon of clamming and looking for Native American artifacts. We crossed the pond to a stretch of shore that has produced a number of ancient stone tools for Greg over the past few years. It was awesome exploring a beautiful and bountiful place that indigenous peoples had hunted and gathered for millennia. There must have been a horseshoe up my arse because my first time there I found a gorgeous quartz projectile point, nearly intact except for a missing ear on the base.

Later we anchored in knee-deep water over a patch of silt and sand that is home to quahogs—a species of shellfish that has drawn humans to salt ponds like this since the ice sheets retreated. Using steel rakes with wire baskets, we worked the bottom and occasionally heard or felt one of the hard-shelled bivalves knock against the teeth of our rakes. A dozen or so perfect specimens made their way home with me and were cooked on the grill that night. The kayak turns out to be an ideal mode of travel to reach clam beds and arrowhead spots and my hope is that these types of trips will only increase in frequency.

The last tour of 2021 came in November and had me in a wetsuit because of colder water temperatures. Hellbent on catching my first keeper-sized tautog from a kayak, I focused on jigging with Asian crabs over rocky structure in about 10-15 feet of water. After realizing I need more practice in the anchoring department, I moved on to peddling against the current in an attempt to stay on top of the desired spot. Situations like this are why spot-lock technology is so highly coveted. It was not optimal, but I managed to land a pile of shorts before finally putting an old bulldog on my lap.

With birds wheeling in the distance, I gave up on any shot of a limit and released the blackfish. For the next hour I peddled after a body of fish that would surface briefly, go down and then pop up again a football field away. The water clarity was crystal clear and I witnessed multiple stripers following each retrieve of the lure. Not giant fish, but it was a gas and my legs were burning from all the chasing. A memorable way to close out the inaugural season. 

At nearly 14-feet and 90-pounds fully rigged, the Hobie is a beast that takes some effort to get loaded and launched. Outings require a little planning ahead and a decent window of time to make the exertion worthwhile. Though I didn’t get out as much as I wanted this year, it’s a long-term investment and built to last. I plan to add a few creature comforts in the offseason, specifically setting up a fish finder. The kayak came with a couple older model Humminbirds that will do the trick until I upgrade down the road. Something to tinker with until we get ice strong enough to fish on. All in all, I’m pretty jazzed up on this kayak thing and look forward to the journeys ahead.