“A father is a man who expects his son to be as good a man as he meant to be”. -Frank A. Clark
In a touching scene from my favorite movie, Forrest Gump, Forrest learns that his mother is sick and in characteristic fashion, runs home from his work as a shrimp fisherman to be with her. Sitting bedside, his mother tells him that she is dying. When Forrest asks why, she reassures the simple-minded Gump that death is just a part of life, something we are all destined to do. At the end of the scene, she poignantly adds, “I didn’t know it Forrest, but I was destined to be your Mama. I did the best I could…”
And so it is with fathers. Flawed as they often are, fathers show up to work, bring home the bacon, and love in their own quiet way. Fathers are that stern voice that makes children take notice, the very bedrock on which order in the family rests. They are like a feather of destiny, floating on a breeze, just doing the best job possible to land softly on a few great moments in life.
Summer fishing with my Dad and nephew Jake…
For me, those greatest of moments were when my Dad spent time with me and took me fishing, a sport in which he never participated on his own, but nonetheless made the time for because he loved me. He bought me gifts for fishing, took me on fishing trips, and most of all, gave me life and tucked into it a marvelous little gene that has always drawn me to water…
Me and Pop
Fathers of yore often take a bad wrap for old-fashioned values, but I grow more fearful with every Father’s Day that these same values are being lost to us and have been diluted to the point that Father’s Day itself is on its own bad course with destiny.
Me and my boys – a favorite pic of all of us on a night fishing for blues…
I look at my own two sons, standing so close to the line that separates man and boy and hope I have given them what my Dad gave me; that sense that being a father is doing the best you can do with what you have, and hoping they can be as good a man as you meant to be…
And let us remember a final duty: to understand that these men made themselves immortal by dying for something immortal, that theirs is the best to be asked of any life — a sharing of the human heart, a sharing in the infinite. In giving themselves for others, they made themselves special, not just to us but to their God. “Greater love than this has no man than to lay down his life for his friends.” And because God is love, we know He was there with them when they died and that He is with them still. We know they live again, not just in our hearts but in His arms. And we know they’ve gone before to prepare a way for us. So, today we remember them in sorrow and in love. We say goodbye. And as we submit to the will of Him who made us, we pray together the words of scripture: “Lord, now let thy servants go in peace, Thy word has been fulfilled.”
An excerpt from President Ronald Reagen’s speech to the families of the USS Stark, May 22, 1987.
A recent comment on this blog came from someone I didn’t know. Its timing was prescient, appearing on a day of tremendous importance that I had forgotten in the fog of everyday living. I have written here before about connections using the metaphor of dropping a pebble in a vast body of water – a seemingly simple act that can nonetheless touch distant shores. John Donne’s poem, For Whom the Bell Tolls, tells us that we are all one, interconnected, and not islands of mankind, even in death. This theme of connection also applies to my life as a fly fisherman, for the very act of fly fishing is fundamentally based on connections – the knots we tie, the line we use, the casts we make, the flies we use, and ultimately the act of enticing a fish to strike.
So out of the blue I was reminded by a former sailor, named Dan, that I had missed the anniversary of the attack on the USS Stark in the Persian Gulf on May 17, 1987. I felt bad that I had to be reminded, but grateful to hear from a sailor who shared my own loss.
USS Stark FFG-31 heading out to sea while conducting training operations at US Naval Base Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, in 1983. I was aboard her then…
It turns out Dan once worked for a Stark crewmember by the name of Bob Shippee, one of the 37 sailors who lost their lives as a result of the attack on the USS Stark. Dan’s email correspondence following his blog comment reinforced the importance of connection and celebrated the impact one life can have on another.
Bob Shippee, FTCS, USN. “No greater love..”
Dan was fresh out of Fire Control Systems “C” school in 1977, an E4 (3rd class petty officer) and was assigned to serve at the Sperry plant in Ronkonkoma NY. Sperry was the maker of the MK92 fire control system used on all Oliver Hazzard Perry guided missile frigates, like the USS Stark. At the plant, the Navy ran a full scale mock-up of an Oliver Hazzard Perry class combat system. The detachment used the mock-up to develop preventive maintenance procedures, exercise the system software, and train new Combat System crews prior to reporting for duty to their newly commissioned ships. In total, over 20 sailors and 2 officers were on hand at the Sperry unit, all of them having to be the best in the fleet in order to get such a plum but vitally important assignment.
Bob Shippee was Dan’s lead petty officer, and in Dan’s own words, “the kind of person who commanded instant respect.” Shippee was “confident without being arrogant, had superb technical knowledge, and could easily hold his own with engineers who integrated the system equipment.” He did more for Dan as a man than any of his friends. Dan credits Shippee for lessons he still uses in his career as an engineer, including the values of continuous learning, integrity, respect, hard work and duty.
According to Shippee’s obituary in the Watertown Daily Times, Shippee grew up into a smart kid who preferred to keep a low profile in school. He wrestled in high school, hunted and fished as many kids do in upstate New York, and worked in the afternoons after school at a local horse ranch. With the draft on in 1969, Shippee decided to sign up, partly out of patriotism, and partly because he could take his pick of service. His father suggested the Navy. Although Shippee signed up at a time when the draft was still in force, he did not have to join the service. A boyhood operation had left him with only 10 percent of his hearing in one ear, but recruiters believed he was faking it. When tests proved otherwise, they told him he could obtain a deferment. Shippee refused and his stance of take it or leave it must have impressed the recruiters because the Navy took him on anyhow. And this would end up being one of life’s greatest blessings for my new friend, Dan.
FTCS – the rate and rank Shippee attained…
In reverence for his former shipmate, Dan finds a quiet spot alone, every Memorial Day. There he thinks about the loss of his friend, Bob Shippee, and all the others throughout history who have given their lives for their country. I do much the same. As in past years, I return to Balls Eddy every Memorial Day. On one such Memorial Day, soon after hearing from Dan, the West Branch of the Delaware ran clear and cold, the birds were in full song, mayflies and caddis fluttered about in the spring air, and eagles soared effortlessly against bluebird skies. I arrived before 8 am, rigged up, put on my waders, and after a walk and wade downriver, was soon at the head of a long run I love to fish. The head of the run has fast water where the water bubbles and foams white. Behind the large rocks at the head of the run are eddies and good holding water for trout and it’s there I like to fish a nymph, dead drift.
Bob Shippee’s run…
For the first hour of the morning’s fishing, I chose flies that matched what was hatching. Caddis rode the wind upriver, but my imitations were not getting any interest. 9 o’clock came around and I knew I would soon hear three volleys of the gun salute made by a Marine Color Guard at the cemetery.
At 9:05 AM I heard the shots, the salute to the fallen, and their echo off the surrounding verdant hills. I paused, retrieved my flies, and got very quiet. I said a prayer for all of the fallen heroes of the Stark with whom I served; DeAngelis, Kiser, Foster, but I added one more name this time – that of Bob Shippee – because I now knew him through Dan. The rush of the river sang aloud and seemed to lift my prayers skyward. And I wondered if he heard me.
Then I changed out my fly for a March Brown soft hackle and cast upstream into the fast water. I watched my indicator, kept slack out of my line, and followed it as it passed in front of me. On that first drift my indicator shot like a rocket upstream. I lifted my rod on instinct and instantly felt that good spongy heaviness of a large trout. I saw the flash of the fish as it fought, slowly and carefully played it out of the fast water, yielding to its powerful runs, then gaining line, and finally brought it to the net. I removed the fly and cradled a beautiful brown trout gently and reverently in my hands, set it down for a quick picture and then released it. The trout swam off and vanished back into the river. And I knew then that Bob Shippee had heard me…
This spring I had the pleasure of fly fishing with guide, Daniel Scheda. I first booked Daniel for a wade trip on a Lake Ontario tributary last Fall. During that terrific trip, Daniel spoke passionately about the incredible smallmouth bass fishing that could be had during the pre-spawn bite on new-to-me Eighteen Mile Creek.
Eighteen Mile Creek is a tributary to Lake Erie, located just south of Hamburg, NY. It’s named appropriately after its run of roughly eighteen miles from its source in the town of Concord, flowing north and then west before entering Lake Erie at the community of Highland-on-the-Lake in the town of Evans. It has one major tributary, the South Branch Eighteen Mile Creek, which joins the main branch within Eighteen Mile Creek Park. The creek drains a 120-square-mile watershed.
Given its proximity to Buffalo and its suburbs, Eighteen Mile Creek can get significant fishing pressure, according to Daniel. The trib’s spring and fall runs of steelhead are the most noteworthy draw, but as we prepared for this trip, Daniel warned me we’d want to start before sunrise to get a jump on the fishermen drawn to its spawning run of smallmouth bass. It would turn out that his advice was well-founded.
I met Daniel just before sunrise at a public access to Eighteen Mile Creek, referred to as “18 Mile Creek – Lake” on google maps. The access has adequate parking space and lies just off Old Lake Shore Road. After gearing up, we initially fished a deep pool under the Old Lake Shore Road bridge. Daniel had me start the day fishing an indicator rig and a marabou jig. We would fish two color variations of this jig off and on throughout the day – black and white being his favorite colors – but Daniel will also fish other colors such as olive, brown, and even chartreuse. What intrigued me most about this fishing technique was the subtlety of the “takes” one experiences. I easily missed at least a dozen fish during my initial attempts to fish the jig with success. Even brief hesitation or a hair’s touch of the indicator was a missed bass, and these fish were consistently hooked in the top of the mouth. According to Daniel, the bass come up, mouth the jig, and reject it in the blink of an eye, so quick hooksets are critical, and “free” as he reiterated throughout that great day on the water.
The early morning was spent fishing from the bridge access down to the lake, and even fishing the lake itself. This was about a half-mile wade and a fairly easy one at that. This section of the river is generally wide and shallow, with deeper cuts, especially where the river runs up against the shale shoulders of the creek banks.
Looking downriver to Lake Erie from the Old Lake Shore Road bridge.
As we waded downstream, Daniel changed to a streamer set-up, using a 7 weight 9-foot fly rod rigged with a floating WF7 line. The leader was tapered to 2X and 7.5′ in length. Daniel clips the last 18″ of the leader and ties on a micro-swivel with 18″ of 8 to 12 lb fluorocarbon tippet tied to the swivel. He goes with the 8 lb tippet if the water is really clear but generally fishes 12 lb., as the bass are usually not at all line shy.
Daniel’s streamer of choice is a pattern he learned about while fishing Michigan rivers for smallmouth: Schultz’s Swingin’ D…
Outfitter and guide, Mike Schultz, created the Swinging D as a swim fly with built-in wounded baitfish motion. The fly features tandem hooks, the front being as large as a 2/0, with the rear stinger hook at a size 2 or smaller. It also uses a half cone-shaped buoyant head that gives the fly diving motion. The fly is typically fished with a sinking or intermediate line to pull it down in the water column.
Daniel’s Swingin’ D was a little different in that the head was not buoyant. Daniel made it using a 3D printer out of a dense plastic that allows the fly to sink, primarily because the relatively shallow nature of 18 Mile Creek would not allow the use of a sink-tip line.
The bass had a hard time resisting the side-to-side action of the Swingin’ D, including how it pauses and suspends between strips. The fly Daniel had me use was the white version, with plenty of flash. It was highly visible in the relatively clear water of Eighteen Mile Creek and watching the eats of the bass was exhilarating to say the least.
We fished the streamer down Eighteen Mile Creek to the lake. One area in particular, where the creek hooks northeast, featured a deeper cut along the bank and a long submerged log. We caught many bass there – the bass seemed to love having the structure of the log for cover – no doubt due to the presence of bald eagles and osprey along the creek and lakefront.
We also fished the lake itself at the mouth of Eighteen Mile Creek in the shadow of the shale bluffs looking out over the lake. This was much deeper water but nonetheless productive.
The lakefront of Lake Erie is shown here looking southwest. Note the tall shale bluffs. The creek is seen in the background to the right in this picture.
After wading and hiking back to the car, we drove upriver to another DEC access at the end of Basswood Drive. There is a nice parking area here and like our first stop, a good number of cars and trucks filled it. We hiked down a long trail into the creek gorge and arrived at a very nice hole just upstream of a right-angle bend in the creek. This section had several anglers fishing it for obvious reasons as it was excellent holding water, so we crossed the creek and moved upriver to a place where a massive stone train trestle crossed the creek gorge. This was another fine stretch of water characterized by deep shadowy cuts in the river bedrock.
Daniel Scheda is seen here at the train trestle pool upstream from the Basswood access. This stretch featured deep cuts in the bedrock of the creek and good holding water for smallmouth bass.
Two fly anglers had been working this stretch from the other side without luck and took some time to sit and watch Daniel and I as we worked the cut with the marabou jig.
We moved again after landing a fair number of bass, climbing back up the long trail out of the gorge to the access where we rested and took a lunch break. Thick Wegmans subs with all the trimmings, chips, cookies and water made for a great lunch.
The weather had been perfect for smallmouth fishing, especially given the very clear water conditions. Smallmouth bass are light-shy, and for good reason. Eagles, osprey, kingfishers, and herons all have incredible eyesight. It had been overcast all morning but now the cloudy skies were hinting at rain.
Our last stop was a spot Daniel referred to as “the cemetery.” We parked along an old cemetery perched on high ground that overlooked the creek gorge. A long footpath led us down the gorge to the creek. From there we fished upstream with the streamer and indicator rig, picking away at the bass in the many runs and pools of that section of the creek.
We headed back to the car just in time with the rain starting. While I was very pleased with the fishing, Daniel said the bite had been better the prior week. He had noticed on a number of occasions that the bass were not as aggressive in taking the fly, likely signaling that the spawn was nearing. Indeed, we did see some bass on beds and of course avoided them. Regardless, I would classify it as a great day with over 30 bass to hand. The quality of the fish was excellent, with size ranging from 14″ to over 18″.
A fine bass caught under the tutelage of Daniel Scheda, a terrific fly fishing guide.
Eighteen Mile Creek is one of many Great Lakes tributaries that get runs of spawning smallmouth bass in the spring. Like the pre-spawn bite in our local warmwater rivers, timing is everything for this bite, so these more distant destinations require a bit of luck to time it right or a local who can give one a call when the fishing is on. And while our local Southern Tier rivers can provide some very large bass for the taking, the tribs like Eighteen Mile offer a shot at some truly epic lake run fish, measured more in pounds than inches.
The distance to Eighteen Mile Creek is roughly 3 hours from Vestal/Endicott/Binghamton, so not ideal for a day trip but not impossible either. It would be a better overnight trip, arriving in the evening to get a jump on a very early start the next morning. If you go, be armed with a 10 foot 6 or 7 weight for indicator nymphing, and a 9 foot 7 or 8 weight for streamer fishing. While flows when I fished were fairly tame, boots with felt and cleats are recommended, as well as a wading staff to keep safe especially when you are wading across bedrock.
I’ll add that Daniel Scheda is a fantastic guide who knows the tributary waters of Western NY extremely well, along with the fishing along Lake Erie and Lake Ontario. He is easy to fish with and extremely knowledgeable. My two trips with him were outstanding. Daniel also has a great YouTube channel featuring videos of his fly fishing trips as well as fly tying of his favorite patterns. It’s well worth a look!
The abundant and willing sunfish might well be the gateway species for almost all fishermen, but one could argue that stocked trout – “stockies” – hold that honor for the fly fisher. Just the thought of them ushers in memories of chilly mornings and swollen creeks colored up blue green with snow melt, and perhaps too, the aroma of bacon, eggs, and coffee before heading astream.
So many moons ago I shivered before flowing waters on the early morning eve of opening day, huddled under a coat too big for my teenish frame and in baggy waders, patch worn. At the crack of sunrise, I tossed a weighted nymph upstream and followed it with my rod tip as an older gentleman, a friend of my parents, suggested. He was upstream of me and watched me between his own casts, correcting me in an encouraging way. I endured his success, as he caught one stocked brown after another, while my own drifts carried untouched. But finally, on the verge of giving up in frustration, a 12″ brown’s take jolted my fly rod and clinched my love for these novitiates of the trout world…
I grew up from there, as most of us flyfishers do when we get serious about this sport. Once one fishes fabled waters and ties into bigger and wily wild fish, stockies fade away for some fly fishers, the looked down upon sand-lot players in the shadow of the big leagues. But not so much I, and I suspect a few others as well. Stockies are mostly pursued by spin anglers armed with panther martins, phoebes, salted minnows or worms, but dotted among these anglers will wade the occasional fly fisher, immersed in a veil of memories of long-gone opening days.
I’ve been driving the same hour-long commute to work for some 12 years now and while most would consider it a tiring slog, it’s made brighter in that a good portion of it takes me aside a pretty little flow that snakes its way on a journey south to the Susquehanna River from its marshy headwaters far north. It’s there all year for me, but in spring, it sings a siren’s song, beckoning me to fish. This spring was no different and knowing it would soon be stocked, I spent the part of a day pulling my gear together to have on hand in my truck when Mother Nature was in a good mood. That day came one weekday afternoon when the creek levels had mellowed. The skies were partly cloudy, the sun peeking out here and there enough to warm the afternoon into the low 50’s, though snow was still clinging to the brown earth. I snuck out of work a little earlier than normal that day like a school kid cutting class and soon arrived at this pretty little creek. To my delight, it was void of any fishermen.
I rigged up not my finer custom 4 weight with its dark green glossy blank and bright hardware, but my St Croix 7.5-foot 4/5 weight. This sturdy little 2 piece has always been perfect for plying stocked waters – a bit worn from use, but no worse from wear, the once-gleaming finish of its dark blue blank and wraps a dull blue, the Fenwick-style grip yellowed and pock-marked from years of use.
There was a jump in my step as I left the truck and followed a twisted path creek-side. The creek ran to the banks, still with the tinge of verdant green of snowmelt. The sun lit the water enough that little black stoneflies were about, flying, if you could call it that, and dappling the water with their clumsy flutter and just occasionally prompting a splashy rise.
I chose a streamer for my fly – a picket pin up-front and a white marabou streamer running tail-end Charlie. I pinched a small shot ahead of the lead fly and pitched the rig across and upstream, mending as it passed, giving the flies short crisp strips as they swung across and below me.
Stepping and swinging down the head of the run, I picked up a bunch of 1 year olds, striking and battling with the vigor all brown trout bring to the fore. And then, casting into a deeper roiled run, I felt a better take. The brown writhed snake-like in the depths, flashing a bit of butter brown, then dug down into the current putting a pretty bend in my 4-weight rod. I landed it and admired it, and continued on, collecting a few more of these two-year olds, amidst a bevy of their younger, slighter brothers, too numerous to count.
Stockies beckon us out in the uncertainty that is Upstate NY spring weather, well before softer May late mornings lure us astream. They put some urgency behind combing through our gear, long forgotten in winter’s doldrums. They hasten us to open fly boxes and get to the tying vise. They force the examination of our 3 and 4 weight rods and reels, our boots, waders and all other manner of the gear we pack, and usually this surfaces at least one issue needing attention.
Figure how many hours you work, attend to family, home, and life’s basics – sleeping, eating, exercising – and stockies prove a bargain in the world of fly fishing. We’re not talking a lot of prep – simple rigging, typically just a floating line and maybe an old leader that can get one more use with a bit more tippet. The put and take creeks are abundant too, and these days the added bonus is that us “artificial lures, catch and release only” fishermen can get out to a bit more solitude before the crowds appear on the traditional opening day.
Some of these small, stocked waters carry the lure of an occasional holdover, smart enough to evade the previous spring’s onslaught. One cold March morning I happily recall a wet fly I swept down into the dark depths of an undercut tree and the solid stop of the fly. My hookset was poorly timed, but good enough to light the darkness of the undercut with the flash of a bigger trout than this creek had ever produced. Short-lived though that hook-up was, it seemed a good way to end a nice morning of numerous 1- and 2-year-olds, brightly colored, ragged-finned, and ever ready to play and a perfect transition to warmer days and “better” trout.
“Study nature, love nature, stay close to nature. It will never fail you.”
Frank Lloyd Wright
It’s early April and it’s about this time every year when you gird your loins for early season bronze. The weather is still typical of spring in upstate NY – cold days interspersed with near summerlike ones, rain showers, spitting snow and just about everything in between. The hills come alive with the newness of pea-green spring leaves. Dogwood and redbud dot nature’s canvas with white and pink. Occasionally you’ll hear a gobbler looking for love and if you’re lucky enough to be fishing on a river with a tall white pine, you just might witness an eagle on the nest, its spouse roosted nearby.
But you’re always cautiously optimistic. The rivers are dropping and clearing of the blue-green of snow melt. Their feeders, the little fingers that start high in the surrounding hills are no longer gushing. You find yourself checking the USGS gauges, looking ahead at the 10-day forecast, and stopping riverside to get a read on water temperatures, anxiously awaiting spring’s turn.
Those days leading up to early season bronze are always too slow in coming and then too quick to arrive. The spring of winter departing is spent chasing stockies or steelhead and shaking the casting rust free. But all that time you’re waiting for that window to appear. Like the eyebrow windows of old houses, they are there but barely windows at all.
You’ve already geared up. The tackle, vest, waders, wading staff and net are ready and waiting in the truck for windows of opportunity are never convenient; they taunt and tease in their coming and going, and so when one finally arrives, you’ll make up any excuse to be late to work so you can be on the water well before the sun pokes its head out from behind the hills.
You’ll pull up to the river in the truck and 4 wheel it across a cornfield just spread with manure. The river on these spring days is guarded by mostly barren trees, save the conifers, and it calls to you in the stillness of the morning. Your waders and vest are on in no time and you’re soon stringing up an 8 weight with an intermediate sink tip line and a relatively short leader. You pick out a big wooly bugger that fished the fall bite well. It’s long with a marabou tail that doesn’t meet the standard for Fly Tyer magazine, but does it ever dance in the water. You remember Lefty’s words as you tie it on – something like “why feed them appetizers when what they really want is steak.”
You make the short hike through the riverbank woods beyond the cornfield. Now it’s pretty easy but once summer comes this place will be a tangle of briars, Japanese knotweed, and swarms of mosquitos. Breaking into a clearing, you look down on a shallow bay where a small river braid rejoins the river. There’s no direct current here, just a backwater that’s silted a bit over a gravel to rocky bottom. You gaze into it in the half-light of the dawn, and you focus on a few large dark spots, the size of big dinner plates, on the bottom. On one, is a bass, and a sure sign that the pre-spawn bite is on.
This spot has always been good to you. When you fish it right the fishing can be “stupid good” as they say. Every bass you catch is a good one, meaning 16″ plus with some nudging over the 20″ trophy mark. But length doesn’t do these big female bass justice – they are heavy with eggs, their bellies broad, bloated, and deep. And they are on the feed to carry them through the coming rigors of the spawn.
You quietly slip into the stillwater and do your best to avoid the beds. Across the bay is a high bank and narrow peninsula shouldering the heavy current of the main river stem, built up over years of high-water events. Below the tip of the peninsula is a tongue of fine gravel over which the river runs clean and fast. To either side the river deepens. You wade along the spine of this gravel tongue, casting up and across river and letting your big streamer swing. You’ll swim the streamer with intermittent short strips, letting it pause at times, and continue it back to you. And you’ll do this thoroughly like a well-rehearsed dance as you cast and step downriver. It’s a favorite rhythm you fish to.
Under that log was a big spawning bed with a rather large male on it, perfectly positioned for good overhead cover and well camouflaged.
The mornings are always colder than you’ve planned for. It seemed warmer when you stepped out to start the truck in the dark at home high up in the hills. Now in the river valley, butt-deep in the spring cool of the river, your hands wet from casting and stripping, you’re shivering. The sun is still hiding behind the hills to the east but the promise of it warms you.
Wading downriver and casting, you’re just above a depression in the river bottom and in year’s past, that’s where you’ve always picked up a few big females. You’ve reasoned it’s a good place for them to hold as they stage to move up on the nests the smaller males have dug. Swinging the big bugger through that area rewards you with a solid take, heavy spongey weight, head shakes, and strong surges as the bass fights. You fight the fish with your rod tip low to the water to keep this bass from jumping but it still makes some big boils in the river. You slowly work it towards shore and this one has plenty of fight as smallmouth bass always do.
You finally land her, stepping back to admire her laid out in the shallows, bankside. The barring on this girl is heavy – a pattern that reminds you of a jaguar. The brown and golden hues are near-perfect camouflage with which evolution has adorned her, and she’ll need it as she does her thing in the shallows soon enough. Her gut is distended with eggs, the progeny of generations to come.
The hook slips out easily and you lip her and carefully draw her out through the bank water to where there’s current. Kneeling down, you hold her there, letting the river flush her bright red gills with oxygen. She’s kicking in seconds, ready to go, shaking her head back and forth against the hold of your thumb. Then you release her and watch her melt into the river.
Years ago you might have stayed and fished this stretch for hours, picking up more bass and feeling the accomplished fly fisherman for doing it. But in later years, you’ll limit yourself to just a few. With each coming year it’s less about the fishing and more about the immersion in nature.
And so, you leave the river early, hiking back through the woods to the truck, thanking nature that you took part in such a spectacle for yet another year in your life. It’s not every year mother nature grants you this gift – the vicissitudes of early spring weather and river conditions being what they are, but each year that she does is truly a sacred gift. You pinch yourself to have the privilege to be a part of it and to be able to remove from the day having left as little a footprint as possible, the only evidence of your fishing being the grin on your face and a thumb marked with lip rash.
I am not alone at all, I thought. I was never alone at all. And that, of course, is the message of Christmas. We are never alone. Not when the night is darkest, the wind coldest, the world seemingly most indifferent. For this is still the time God chooses. Taylor Caldwell
Jack Hoffen arrived at the river access parking lot in the dark of early morning, rigged up and donned his waders and heavy outer clothing, and then hiked a half mile through thigh-deep snow. Once riverside, he looked down-stream in the faint light of dawn and took solace in the view. The silver lining in the dark cloud that followed him that morning was that he was the only angler on his favorite Great Lakes tributary.
It felt good to be fishing, especially without the typical crowds, but most of all because fishing always lightened his emotional load. During his most trying times he had made a point of going fishing despite the weather or conditions, as he knew he would end the day with a fresh perspective on a problem or at least with the will to face it on his feet. Today, especially, he needed to get away from his troubles, for it was Christmas Day.
The morning dawned bright with a clear sky and the sun gave Jack some relief from the bitter cold. But as morning turned to afternoon, snow squalls swept in and darkened the sky, coating the ground with yet another layer of lake-borne snow. Fringed in the white of the woods, the river ran quietly by, its sounds deadened to a soft murmur.
Jack had fished a broad riffle and deep run all morning and early afternoon without as much as a touch from a fish and decided to make a move to a choke point upriver where big boulders had been placed to protect a high bank from erosion. He watched the swirling waters of the eddy that the boulders formed and thought how similar his emotions had been lately. The spot had been good to him in the past but now, absent anglers, he could fish it more effectively than he ever had. None of the egg patterns he used earlier that day had worked and it was bothering him. He had adjusted leader length, weight, tippet size, and changed later to an indicator set-up with no luck. Even the Salmon River Gift, a favorite pattern for killing the skunk, was not drawing strikes. It was as if the steelhead and brown trout had taken the holiday off.
Jack opened his sling pack, searching for answers. Digging deep into his bag, he pulled out a box of woolly buggers. He had not opened the box since the spring when black sparkle buggers had been the ticket for dropback steelhead. The woolly buggers were arranged in tight, orderly rows in the box, much like the sardines he had wolfed down for lunch. He grew sad thinking about the spring of the year and its excellent dropback fishing and how a great day on the river had ended so badly. He remembered returning home that evening and finding the note. He grew sadder still thinking about where his life had taken him: a cold tin of sardines on a lonely river on Christmas Day.
Emotions welled up while Jack looked at the box. Reality bit as hard as the tug of a steelhead taking a fly on the swing. His eyes clouded up with tears, several of which dropped into the box and onto the flies in their neat rows. And that is when Jack noticed a different color bugger emerge that had, until then, lay hidden by its black, brown and olive box-mates. Pulling the fly out, he recognized it as a pattern a guide had him fish on the Bighorn River many years ago, in happier times. The pattern was called “The Grinch”, and for good reason: it was dressed in glorious Christmas colors; a red and green sparkle chenille body, red wire counter-wrap, and an olive marabou tail accented with red flash. Maybe, he thought, this pattern was different enough to rouse a strike. Darkness was approaching as he tied on this last hope of a fly. He decided to fish it dead drift off an indicator, letting it swing as it tailed out downstream.
The Grinch
Jack lobbed the rig up above the river chute and high-sticked it, watching the white indicator as it bobbed down the fast water of the chute and into the run below. Once it had swung out, he let it hang briefly in the current and repeated the process like any good steelheader would do. After a dozen drag-free drifts, he changed his cast so the rig would drift closer to the large boulder that formed the choke point in the river. The indicator rode the heavy water, then shot underwater as it ran along the seam the eddy formed off the boulder. Jack immediately swept-set the take and felt the heavy sponginess of a good fish. It was all he could do to recover the slack caused by the fish as it immediately reversed course and rocketed down the river. At last, the line came tight, and the drag brought the fight to the fore. A lengthy battle ensued up and down the pool.
Jack beached the fish on the smooth gravel at the tail of the pool. The buck steelhead laid there looking almost as dark as the water, with the Grinch prominently adorning the crook of its jaw. He removed the fly, briefly admired the fish, and then held the big steelhead in the current to revive it. Slowly its strength came back and then it was gone, back to its icy black world.
Day’s end neared: the sun dropped behind the hills to the west and Jack began to think about the long hike ahead of him through the deep snow of the woods. He wished he had brought his snowshoes. Before leaving the river, in a moment of charity that belied his troubles, Jack clipped the Grinch off and left it hanging from a small tree, near the pool tail-out, much like a Christmas ornament. ‘The Grinch may have stolen Christmas, but this Grinch gave it back’, he thought to himself. Perhaps some lonely, discouraged angler, like himself, would discover it. And maybe too, it would do more than catch a steelhead on an otherwise luckless day, as it had for him.
Jack hiked back to his truck in much deeper snow now, and he labored against it, breathing heavily as he lifted his legs high to move forward with each step. The sky had cleared again, and the wind had dropped. He could see the stars overhead, bright pinpricks that winked at him amidst an inky black canopy. The woods were beautifully silent and still.
Jack thought about the steelhead and the fly that saved his day. The fly reminded him of characters of Christmas stories whose lives – sad, destitute or seemingly doomed – had been saved: the Grinch’s heart had grown three sizes larger, Ebeneezer Scrooge had changed to keep Christmas better than any man alive, and George Bailey discovered that one who had friends had no troubles to fear in life. Jack could not be sure his wife would ever forgive him or even return to him, nor could he bet that his children would ever open their hearts to him again. But for the first time in a long time, Jack Hoffen looked forward to the future, as dim as it might be. Hope, ultimately, had finally come to him in the form of a fly. He had a lot of Grinches to tie before this Christmas day ended.
“Even a fishless morning can still be a great day because of the experience earned and knowledge gained. Count the hours, not the fish. Be an observer, look for things, think about what’s going on around you, work the structure and remember that time on the water builds casting and fishing skills.”
Bob Popovics
I met Captain Greg Cudnik at the Barnegat Light marina, where his 25-foot Parker, “Endless Summer”, was docked. It was “Oh-dark-thirty” and the air was unusually warm for November. On past trips, I would have been dressing up with foul weather gear and layers of warm clothing, but not this time. The ocean water temps were still in the 60’s, 10 degrees higher than normal and air temps and weather had been unseasonably warm.
“It was really blowing at my house”, Greg remarked as I got my gear out, implying some concern about the day’s fishing prospects. It was definitely breezy at the marina, but I was hoping the fly-fishing gods would mediate that for this trip.
We geared up and headed out in the early dawn. Captain Greg powered the Endless Summer into the inlet as the ocean poured into the bay at peak flood tide. I had two10 weight and two 9 weight fly rods rigged and ready, the former with T-14 and T-17 sinking heads and the latter each with a floating line and intermediate line.
An Atlantic Menhaden, aka as “bunker”. These baitfish can exceed 6″ in length.
We began casting the sinking head rigs and large bunker patterns as there were bunker everywhere. They were so thick in places that the water took on a purple hue where these baitfish were concentrated. Bunker are filter feeders and a prime source of food for striped bass. The stripers will at times crash through pods but are more likely to sit below them waiting for an errant or confused bunker to stray from the protection of the school. A common technique to catch very large striped bass is to live line bunker, and that’s what most of the boats out around Barnegat Inlet were doing. Indeed, last year in late November I caught a 40 lb bass with Captain Greg using that exact technique, after several fruitless hours of dredging with a sinking line and bunker fly. Admittedly, I had given up the ghost that day…
Big striper caught live lining…
And so, on this trip I was out for another go, trying to get a larger bass to come to the fly. I’d had plenty of success in the past with nice schoolie and schoolie-plus bass, as well as some very nice bluefish, but a solid striper had eluded me.
I fished a large bunker fly deep along the north side of the jetty to no avail for over an hour. Captain Greg was “feeling” a change to topwater and wanted me to try a large popper. I had a big-bodied bug made for saltwater and tied it on to my 9 weight floating line rig. To my delight, not much casting was needed to fish the popper over the submerged rocks of the north jetty. The flood tide had set up an ideal drift along the jetty. Greg expertly positioned his boat ass-end and “up-current” to the submerged rocks. The flood tide poured over them, creating big standing waves and a perfect ambush site for the bass that so love turbulent wash-water and rocks (in Maryland, stripers are referred to as “rockfish”). Any bunker that strayed too close to the hydraulic set up by the flood tide was surely going to get carried away over the rocks, banged up, and disoriented. Smaller baitfish have a hard time holding in such fast, turbulent water and they are prime pickings for a big, powerful, bass. All I had to do was occasionally cast over the submerged rocks, popping the bug up current, and then let it slide back over the rocks. At times all of the fly line was off the rod tip, with me using the backing to pop the bug.
We worked the length of the submerged jetty and after a time I got a slashing strike that missed the popper. Greg expertly held the boat in position as we drifted along and then I was onto something very solid, followed by a powerful run that caused my 30 lb dacron backing to tangle around my wrist and come tight with no give. I scrambled to untangle at the risk of injuring my wrist as dacron under strain can be sharp, but before I could clear the line, it popped, and went slack. This fish had broken the backing and not at the backing knot! My heart sunk for losing such a fish as well as all of my floating fly line, my leader, and the popper.
After collecting myself, I broke out my 9 weight rod rigged with intermediate line. Greg went through my fly box and found a large white streamer. This fly was tied on a 6/0 short-shanked hook with a spun deerhair head tipped with scarlet red. two big eyes, and a body of long white hackle and white ostrich herl, a good 6″ in length. I couldn’t recall where I got it or what it was named but Greg felt it would be a great choice to fish just under the surface. Greg added that often times big muskie flies do well for stripers.
The Montauk Monster
I fished this big streamer like I had the popper, casting it to the rocks and letting it slide over them in the flood tide, then stripping it back in with erratic movements and letting it slide out again in the frothy wash of the tide. We slowly made our way towards the beach and parallel to the submerged rocks. It wasn’t long before I was onto something solid. Backing stripped off the reel in head-shaking surges, my 9 weight bowing to the submerged jetty, as the fish hung close to the rocks.
It took a while, but slowly I gained back my fly line. Greg had the net out and with one good sweep landed my personal best striper on the fly.
Personal best – 28″ and roughly 12 lbs.
After releasing this striper, we returned to our station along the rocks. It was not long before I was into a nice bass again…
Hooked up! Note the large standing waves where the flood tide races over the submerged jetty. Barnegat Light stands proudly in the background.
As with the prior fish, this bass held heavy in the wash but over time, it was landed and quickly released.
A second nice striper in hand with the Montauk Monster placed perfectly in the corner of the mouth.
We continued to fish the remnants of the flood tide and I tied into another good bass, but the hook pulled mid-way through the fight. After that the bite turned off, even for the live liners fishing near us. I suspect the change of the tide had something to do with the shut-down.
Bass on the fly. That’s a TFO BVK 9 weight blank I built that’s served me well fly fishing, saltwater. The standing waves are from flood tide current racing over submerged jetty rocks. The boats in the background are fishing the inlet.
When we got back in after this great trip, I promised Greg I’d dig up the name of this fly that served us so well. The movement in the water was, as Greg would describe it, “Sexy.” At 6.5″ in length and mainly white, it surely matched the large bunker that schooled above the bass. Driving home the next day, it came back to me: I’d bought it online through Orvis – it was called “The Montauk Monster.”
The Montauk Monster had proven itself. After doing some research on this fly I found that it is the creation of Joshua Fine, a veterinarian. Fine is a featured fly tyer for Orvis who reportedly put a tremendous number of hours in developing this fly at the bench and in field trials before he came up with the winning combination. After all the development work, Fine reportedly what maty have seemed like an eternity tying samples and creating the material list and technical drawings for Orvis. The ostrich herl compresses when wet which makes it easier to cast. Though I didn’t do a ton of casting with this fly, it did appear to be a much easier cast than the bunker fly I was fishing earlier that day.
Motivated by the fly’s success on our trip, Captain Greg tied a few for future trips and the results were inspiring.
Greg’s initial tie of the Montauk Monster
In fly fishing there are two general schools of thought as to effectiveness, one being that fly selection is of primary consideration, the other being that proper presentation is more important than fly selection. There are times when one or the other on their own can make the day, but in my experience it’s usually a blend of the two. The right fly fished poorly generally won’t work, nor will pure presentation when the fish are on a specific bite. On this memorable day with Captain Greg, I’d say we fished correctly in terms of the method, location, and tide. And, we also had the Montauk Monster…
Perhaps you’re one of the lucky ones, like Jeff, a past visitor to this blog, who, in the company of another angling friend, celebrates the start of Thanksgiving Day fly fishing Fall Creek every year. Most of us with families, and especially those who have angling-averse families, must resign ourselves to the traditional family get-together; watching football, drinking, and eventually sitting down at table adorned with turkey, stuffing, sweet potatoes, cranberry relish, gravy, more drink, pumpkin pie, and more drink. It’s not all bad, mind you. It’s just that the holiday is all about giving thanks, and what better way to give thanks than to catch and release a few.
Striper on the fly released pre-Thanksgiving…
My destiny this year, as in all years past, is chewing on a drumstick while visions dance in my head of fly fishing for stripers and blues with Captain Greg Cudnik out of Barnegat Light, NJ. Late November fly fishing in the salt can be very, very good. And in terms of table fare, striped bass is exceptionally good, though I release almost all I catch,
Hooked up earlier this November on the Endless Summer with Barnegat Light in the background.
My mother always drummed into my head, no pun intended, that if you’re handed lemons, make lemonade, and so I decided to do a little research regarding this historic event in hopes that my findings might support a change in the family tradition – a change that might even extend to a cultural renaissance of this feasting holiday. What follows is sure to enlighten…
The Pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock on December 11, 1620 – towards the end of the striper run, oh by the way. Apparently, the Pilgrims were not too skilled with the fly or any other manner of fishing, because their first winter was terrible. They lost 46 of the original 102 who sailed on the Mayflower, to starvation. The next year, however, smiled on the survivors, as the harvest of 1621 was bountiful. The colonists, along with 91 Wampanoag Indians (credited with saving them from complete disaster), decided to celebrate their good fortune with a feast.
Broiled bluefish, Squanto?
And what did that feast include? Well, my research shows many variations in the menu, but by most accounts, one traditional item that almost assuredly was missing was, of all things, turkey. Turkey was present in the wild at the time of the first Thanksgiving, but the word “turkey” was used by the Pilgrims to mean any sort of wild fowl. Good ole’ gun-toting Governor William Bradford apparently sent four men “fowling”, so more than likely, any “turkey” in the center of the table was actually a sea duck or goose. Also missing from the feast was the potato, considered poisonous by many Europeans at the time, and dairy products, since there were no domestic cattle available.
From other accounts and records of daily life in Plymouth, we know that rabbit, chicken, squashes, beans, chestnuts, hickory nuts, onions, leeks, dried fruits, maple syrup and honey, radishes, cabbage, carrots, eggs, and possibly goat cheese were available, although not necessarily all used in the same meal. The corn was most likely in the form of meal rather than on the cob, and pumpkin would have been served in the form of a pumpkin pudding or stew, and not in a crust.
Most noticeably “on the list” were some items few Americans would ever consider to be Thanksgiving table fare. Governor Bradford lists bass, cod, and “other fish of which they took good store”, these fish being herring, bluefish, and lots of eels. Clams, lobsters (without the drawn butter), mussels, and oysters were undoubtedly part of dinner, too.
So, seafood, yes, seafood, made up a good part, if not the majority, of the original Thanksgiving meal. And how might that seafood come to our modern-day Thanksgiving table? You guessed it; fly fishers could go out and catch, and maybe this one time of the year, not release, their favorite piscatorial delight for part of the feast. Imagine the pomp and circumstance as the weary fly fisherman returns in the early afternoon to spread the day’s bounty across the table for all to marvel over. This addition to Thanksgiving would surely strengthen the tradition, put smiles on the multitudes, and kill TV ratings around all the damn football games that play that day.
I therefore propose that the readership spread the word. This isn’t your grandfather’s Thanksgiving anymore – go forth and fish up some fare, and put a little Thanksgiving in Thanksgiving…
To all, a safe, belly-expanding, and joyous holiday…
Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.
John 15:13
One of the great themes in fly fishing is that of connection. We hold a fly rod in hand, to which a reel, our line and a fly of choice are all connected, and we send that fly to the water to ultimately connect with a living thing.
We are also connected to place as fly fishermen. As such, a favorite of mine has always been the Chenango River, a place I’ve enjoyed wet wading in early September when the smallmouth bass are sensing the turn of the river. Their metabolism, then, holds its summer-high and the bass instinctively heed nature’s call and feed aggressively knowing that fall and a long winter of starvation approaches. It’s still early though – the green of the surrounding old hills hemming in the river hasn’t faded just yet, though an errant maple may have decided otherwise with a faint flash of autumn hues.
Seasons play a tug of war this time of year. The nights, cooling with the dwindling daylight, still yield daily to the lingering warmth of late summer. You’re caught casting the river with big streamers to match the baitfish that have been growing since spring, and hoping the fishing holds on a little longer than last year…
Wading slowly downriver, one makes casts to undercut and shaded banks, across soft ripples, and into the deeper pools, and if on a good day the bass are in play. There can be some good tugs from a few dandies with fallfish mixed in, and in one deep hole, a big channel cat may just decide to crush a size 2 wooly bugger swept deep across its hold.
The wade continues and in the dying of the day, I’ll leave the river and return to my truck, not knowing until recently that the river provided a far deeper connection than the tug of fish pursued, and one that represented the highest calling in life.
My parents and much of my family on both sides, grew up in Staten Island, NY, one of the five boroughs of New York City. Back in their day, it was a good place to grow up, and very much a melting pot. They both advanced through the NYC Public School system, ending with Curtiss High School and a sound education. Among their classmates was a good-looking and very well-dressed kid named “Vinnie” – Vincent Robert Capodanno Jr. Both of my parents knew him fairly well apparently, my father in particular, but neither mentioned him until one day, when my mother told me that she and my father graduated high school with a Marine who died in Viet Nam and received the Medal of Honor. I don’t recall the reason this came up or whether she stated his name, but she claimed he had jumped on a grenade to save the lives of other Marines in his company.
Vincent Capodanno went on after high school to become a Navy Chaplain after first being ordained a Catholic priest and serving time as a Maryknoll Missionary. Intrigued by his story in the military and the connection to my family, I searched for this hero over the years but to no avail as my parents had never told me his name. And then one day I hit it right while googling the internet, and up he came with his story of true sacrifice.
Father Capodanno was known as the “Grunt Padre” because of his devotion to “his Marines.” He was unique in that he would intentionally go on operations where risks were the greatest and in complete disregard to policy for chaplain conduct in the field. Even under direct orders to stay back, he would sneak off and hop on a Huey to be where the action was hot and where he could do, in his own words, the most good. It was said he would carry extra supplies, give his poncho to a needy Marine, provide smokes, candy, and Saint Christopher medals. He carried a pack like all the other Marines, slept in the mud, endured the sweltering heat, the insects and the toil of long marches. He said Mass in the field, heard confessions, and offered an ear to listen to the concerns and fears of young soldiers in a foreign, far-away land.
Father Capodanno, saying Mass in the field…
After reading several books about him, I soon learned that Father Capodanno’s sacrifice was a bit different than what my mother had told me, but nonetheless, one that earned him, posthumously, the Medal of Honor and a path to sainthood in the Catholic Church.
Although he served in several combat operations during his tour, some in which he was wounded, his participation in Operation Swift would turn out to be the end for him and many other Marines. At 4:30 am, on September 4, 1967, company-sized elements of the 1st Battalion 5th Marines encountered a large North Vietnamese unit of approximately 2,500 men near the village of Dong Son in the Thang Bin District of the Que Son Valley. Outnumbered by over 5 to 1, Companies B and D were badly in need of reinforcements as the fighting intensified. By 9:14 am, 26 Marines were confirmed dead. At 9:25 am, the commander of 1st Battalion 5th Marines requested further reinforcements. M and K companies were whisked into action by helicopter that morning, and among them was Father Capodanno.
The ground fire in the vicinity of the proposed landing zone (LZ) just east of Hill 63 and the Dong Son village where B and D companies were fighting was so great that the choppers were forced to set down a distance away. This required both companies to march roughly 2.5 miles to the action under extremely hot and humid conditions.
A command post (CP) and aid station were set up on a small knoll, the other side of which raged the battle. Father Capodanno could hear the gunfire and PFC Stephen A. Lovejoy, M company radio operator, calling back to the command post: “We’ve been overrun. We can’t hold out.”
The CP on the knoll, after action. Note the captured rocket-propelled grenades and automatic weapons used in the battle by the PAVN.
Operation Swift
Father Capodanno dashed over the hill, found PFC Lovejoy, grabbed him by the shoulder and brought him back to the relative safety of the CP. Time and again throughout that late morning and early afternoon Father Capodanno would do the same thing with the wounded and dying. His first wound of the day was a shot through his right hand disabling his fingers. He was bandaged but refused to leave the battlefield on the next medevac. “I need to be where my Marines need me most,” he said. Choking in the midst of tear gas deployed to make the North Vietnamese disperse, Father Capodanno—who had given his gas mask to a young Marine who was without one—got his second wound from a mortar shell, disabling his whole right arm and shoulder. He was bandaged up but again refused to leave the battlefield.
A short time later, Father Capodanno ran to aid another wounded Marine, Seargent Lawrence David Peters, Squad Leader of the 2nd Platoon. Though mortally wounded in the chest, Peters had propped himself up against a tree stump, exposing himself to enemy fire in order to direct weapons fire on enemy machine gun positions on the adjacent ridge. No one dared go near Sergeant Peters, except Father Capodanno, who ran to the dying man’s side despite the intense weapons fire and his own wounds, to pray with the Marine and to care for him in his last minutes of life.
Seargent Lawrence D. Peters, Binghamton son…
The last moments of Father Capodanno’s own life took place near an enemy machine gun nest that three Marines were trying to take out. All three men were cut down, two killed instantly and a third, Ray Harton, shot through his left shoulder. A corpsman went to Harton’s aid but was quickly shot through both legs. As both men lay bleeding on the battlefield, Father Capodanno ran to them. He first went to Harton, who had served the priest’s Mass the day before, anointed him and said, “Stay calm, Marine, God is with us all today and you’re going to be OK.” Then he ran to the side of the corpsman, with his legs shot up—who was also a Catholic—and prayed over him, while shielding him. As he prayed, Father Capodanno was shot 27 times in the back.
Father Vincent Capodanno, Navy Chaplain, LT USNR
It was only after reading several books on Father Capodanno that I found yet another serendipitous connection in this story. Seargent Peters, it turns out, was Binghamton born and raised, and was also awarded the Medal of Honor posthumously for his heroic actions that fateful day. And even more ironic, I learned he was buried in Chenango Valley Cemetery, not far from the Chenango River.
Call it serendipity, chance, or destiny, that my parents brought me into this world and that through them I found a connection to their classmate and friend who would become a priest, Navy chaplain, Medal of Honor winner, and Servant of God on his way to sainthood. That chaplain came to the aid of a young Marine who grew up just down the road from where I’ve lived these last 30 years. On that hot humid day in a part of the world so unlike home, Father Capodanno gave Seargent Lawrence Peters last rites amidst the cacophony of battle before he himself succumbed shielding another mortally wounded Marine.
And so, I’ll never fish the Chenango River the same, as I’ve fished it in years past in search of smallmouth bass on the feed. I’ll fish it reverently on these early fall days and wade it as if walking on sacred ground, knowing the deep and heroic connections that lie just off the river’s banks.
“The house was built on the highest part of the narrow tongue of land between the harbor and the open sea. It had lasted through three hurricanes and it was built solid as a ship.”
Islands in the Stream
Ernest Hemingway
It was mid-April and my wife and I were in Destin, Florida, our “happy place,” but I was not completely happy. The weather was sunny and mildly warm, with the winds out of the south at 15 to 20 mph blowing across the gulf – a huge fetch of water – and the surf was up. Rip tide warnings were posted in the weather forecast and the surf flags flew the dreaded red, doubles no less, standing straight out in the wind, as in “stay out of the water.”
For flyfishers of the Emerald Coast, April can be an incredible time to fish for pompano which are migrating northward along the Gulf and Atlantic coast of Florida, searching the warmer coastal waters, and on the feed after spawning in the Gulf, offshore. Pompano will move seeking their ideal water temperature, moving inshore from the Gulf after spawning for warmer coastal waters above 68 degrees and then moving north ever-seeking water in the 68-to-75-degree range, not too hot and not too cold.
It was pure torture for this flyfisher, knowing the fish were there and not being able to get to them with the high surf conditions. So, I monitored the weather daily, viewing the beach cams and hoping and praying to see a drop in wave height and action. Unfortunately, as long as the wind remained blowing strongly out of the south, the surf just continued to build and get dirty, another condition that can turn the bite off for pompano.
After a week of this, I finally noticed a change in the forecast that predicted a wind shift out of the north. On the Florida panhandle, northerly winds translate to lower surf, and better access for fly anglers who generally must wade out to fish from the first bar. Conventional anglers need only wade out to cast a long line, anchoring their baits, then retreating to the beach where they can wait for the bite while basking in the sun on the beach.
Meteorologists get a bad rap for forecast accuracy but Weather.com was right on the money when it forecast a wind shift. Early the following morning I stared in disbelief at a surf that was almost as calm as a mill pond. The surf laid down to the point where I was wondering if what I saw on the beach cam was a still picture in place of the usual video stream. The winds were still on the breezy side, but I could deal with that. A coffee or two later, I saddled up in the golf cart, gear at the ready, my 8 weight TFO BVK home-build strung up with a 350-grain intermediate sink tip line and 5-foot leader, with a pink and white clouser, size 4, on the business end.
A pink and white clouser – a terrific searching pattern to use for pompano, as well as redfish, ladyfish, and sea trout. Like rainbow trout, pompano like a little bling.
I parked near the beach access and made the hike eastward beyond the hotel beaches where swimmers and sun-bathers were already taking station. Soon I was striding at a good pace along the wet sand, eyes on the water for bird play, signs of fish, and surf structure. The water was crystal clear and the white sand bars stood out in contrast to the emerald green and deeper blue of the troughs.
Beautiful Destin – looking westward to where I was fishing. Note the first and second bars and the trough between them. Often times the pompano will cruise that trough and come up on the first bar in search of food.
On my way, I stopped and talked to a spin angler, hoping he’d gotten into some pompano. He was fishless at that point but reported a good knockdown on his rod soon after his first cast. I remained hopeful as I continued eastward, pausing at a spot where the last house on the beach stood – a massive single floor mansion that had the look of a bunker – it’s outer skin concrete white – dotted with a series of magnificent windows looking south over the beach and to the expanse of the gulf. Beyond this house was the Topsail Hill Preserve Park and miles of unoccupied beach. Normally I would continue on to a place where I had done very well on previous visits, but this place looked fishy, and the first trough took an appealing curve in close to the beach. I decided to drop my pack there, under the stony gaze of that mansion, and give it a try…
I waded a bit beyond the first bar, waist-deep in the still relatively cool clear gulf surf, fanning casts out to the deeper water off the edge of the bar, then stripping the fly back in short erratic retrieves. A few skipjack, smaller but very aggressive surf dwellers, would annoyingly attack the fly and sometimes hook up. But after a few minutes I finally came tight to what would turn out to be my first of over a dozen pompano, with half as many lost. As typical with pompano, the take was solid and followed by some spastic headshakes and then the launch of a fish with drag-strip speed.
A beautiful pompano of good size. These fish are terrific gamefish on the fly rod, having tremendous speed (note the forked tail), and using all of that deep side profile to their advantage in the fight. They also are wonderful on the grill, with firm slightly oily flesh and a skin that crisps. Amazing table fare.
I landed that first fish under the gaze of a few beach-combing onlookers. Much to my delight, the bite lasted an hour and a half. At times, large schools of pompano of 30 or more would cruise through, their silvery sides shimmering as they scavenged for sand fleas, crabs, and small baitfish.
The sand flea or mole crab, a favorite food of pompano, among other surf-dwelling fish. These crustaceans inhabit what is known as the swash zone, the wet sand area where the surf coats the sand and retreats. The sand flea can hold its appendages close to its body, allowing it to roll in the tidal currents and waves but it can also quickly dig into the sand and disappear from predators.
The fishing was on and off as the pompano cruised the trough – fast and furious one moment, dead the next, requiring fast casting when sighting an approaching school, almost always followed by immediate hook-ups.
Vlahos’ Marbled Sand Flea – a great fly pattern designed to imitate the real thing. I have used this pattern with great success – cast it out, let it sink, and let the surf move it about, interspersed with occasional strips and hang on!
My time fishing on the bar was as always almost magical in terms of the plethora of marine life seen, including sea turtles, rays, schools of big jacks moving through just out of casting reach, distant sightings of porpoise, and an occasional shark. On this day, one very large shark sauntered in, sinister black against the white of the sand bar, leaving me to slowly vacate his hunting grounds until he was well out of sight.
As in most of life, all good things must come to an end. Perhaps porpoises had moved in stealthily to drive the fish off, or maybe the pompano just moved on as is often the case with many fish of the surf, roaming endlessly for miles in their incessant search for food. The previous spring, I had fished this same bite but had given up in desperation with waves that occasionally broke over me as I fished the trough. On that venture I witnessed a pack of porpoises herding the pompano and playing with them like a cat does with a mouse, literally flinging the fish high into the air just 30 feet from me. At least I knew I had found the pompano, but who could blame them for ignoring my fly when fleeing for their life!
Having had more than a day’s worth of fun, I grabbed my pack and started my walk back to the beach access hidden in a morass of beach hotels and towering condos. On the way I stopped to speak with a spin angler who was set up with several surf rods. He was an older man, sporting a colorful shirt that worked hard to stay buttoned. We talked about the fishing and after learning of my success, the angler inquired as to where I’d found fish. I described the place, and this affable fellow immediately recognized it. “Oh,” he said, “that place belongs to Jerry Jones. I know Jerry through his son…” On he went with a long-winded oratory about his bountiful business connections, his southern drawl mixing with the cacophony of sunbathers close-by – radios playing, laughing gulls on the breeze, kids shrieking, water lapping up on the sugary sand. And all the while above his chat, the high-pitched whine of my fly reel played in my ear. The warmth of that late morning just sweetened the happiness of coming home after some solid fishing.
After politely disengaging the spin angler, I continued my homeward walk. It was close to noon, and the hotel beaches were crowded with vacationers from places like Columbus, Ohio, Ridgeland, Mississippi, and Memphis, Tennessee – the heartland and the southeast- all basking in the warmth of the sun, adoring the brilliant Gulf waters, and enjoying a mere sip of the good life that attracts so many to such a place. Seeing them and thinking of my own short visit made me wonder whether Jerry Jones even stayed at his place and whether he knew what lay just beyond his very own front yard…
Recent Comments