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.
Our footprints were the only ones
on the lake aside from the coyote tracks we followed to our spot. It was a deliberate
walk in single file, testing the ice in front of each step with whacks from a heavy
steel chisel. There should have been more ice than there was, but a recent snow
had slowed its growth and hid her imperfections. Even still, there was enough black
ice under a grey layer to make us feel comfortable, and temps would be stuck in
the 20s all day.
It was mighty good to be ice
fishing again, but in the back of our minds we knew it was fleeting. Just like last
season, it looked like we could be in for only a short window, so we had to make
it count. That’s why we took the day from work and set our alarms for 3 a.m. It’s
also why we brought more gear than we needed. What’s the point of owning all of
this stuff if we don’t get to use it?
A flag went up just as snowflakes
from a light system started to come down. Jeff noticed it first, standing tall
on the farthest tip-up in my spread. The bait was a large fallfish that I had
trapped in my home waters and vacuum-sealed almost two years before. It’s hard
to describe the feeling when approaching a dead bait flag on a windless day. Suffice
to say, it was exciting to look down and see a slow rolling spool with line off
to the side.
With a firm tug on the Dacron, my
hook found purchase in the maw of a hefty pike and the fight was on. Euphoria was
soon replaced by despair when the tension went slack. The predator below had
bolted toward the hole, fooling me into thinking I had lost her. Once I retrieved
enough line to come tight again, our spirits lifted and the battle resumed in
close quarters. The fish was still green when her jaw opened just enough for a
plastic gripper, and we kept her in the water as we removed the hook and readied
the camera.
When we pulled the entire fish
from the hole, what struck me first was its color. It sported the darkest
greens I had ever seen on an esox—just an absolutely gorgeous specimen, thick
from head to tail, well on its way to becoming a true trophy. After quick photos
and a measurement, she kicked away strong and cemented a memorable first-fish-of-the-year
moment. Jeff and I were flying high for the rest of the outing and it set the
tone for the ensuing days, which may or may not have been the last of the ice
season. Time will tell.
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