It is foolish and wrong to mourn the men who died. Rather we should thank God that such men lived. George S. Patton, Jr.
Yellow perch are a blue-collar species of fish, and I write that with praise. They show up for work in their green-barred overalls trimmed in bright yellow as if they’re ready to watch a Green Bay Packers game.
Jack perch – the kind of yellow perch Richard liked…
They are the quintessential working man’s fish species; reliable as a quartz clock, massing in large schools, and endearing bait and lure anglers alike for their willingness to strike nearly anything that happens to scoot by their snouts. What they lack in size they most certainly make up for with a feisty attitude on the hook, and even better, their ability to grace the plates of anglers looking for deliciously mild fish. In some northern locales they are regular menu fare. I enjoyed some of them myself this summer while fishing with a good high school friend in the Thousand Islands.
I’d tangled with yellow perch in my spin angling days, but I’d never heard of ‘jack perch’ until I met John, a coworker and now a good friend. John’s father, Richard, a life-long Buffalo resident, fished for them in the Niagara River. Turns out, the jack perch is a bigger badder yellow perch, meaning that Richard preferred his perch on the big side.
John and I worked together a number of years, then went our separate ways to the call of different jobs, different careers. As is often the case these days, one must leave home to keep employed, and that’s just what John did, leaving New York to continue employment in Florida. We have kept in touch to this day, and until recently, I’d always ask about his father, Richard, and his pursuit of jack perch.
As he got into his 90’s, Richard’s health declined. John would tell me how he didn’t fish any more, but he’d still park by the river and watch others fish. And then came emails reporting hospitalization – good days and bad days – and finally, Richard’s passing.
In the aftermath, John shared a picture of his dad with a stringer of perch. He looked the part – a true fisherman – not all ‘tweedy’ as they say in some fly fishing circles. Plain and simple as the fish he pursued.
But there was more I never knew about the man who loved jack perch. He learned the building trades as a young man and then in 1942, answered the call to war and enlisted in the Army Air Force. He joined what I believe to be a version of the Navy Seabees – a combat engineering and construction unit that built the forward airbases from which the United States waged war – the 818th Engineer Battalion (Aviation), or EAB.
John shared a copy of his father’s discharge papers, and quite frankly, I was blown away by what I read. This humble man had seen it all. Under a section entitled ‘Battles and Campaigns’, were listed, Ardennes, Central Europe, Normandy, Northern France, and Rhineland. For those not schooled in military history, his unit participated in the D-Day invasion of Normandy, the campaigns to take back Northern France, the Battle of the Bulge (Hitler’s last attempt to break through the Allied assault in what was considered the impenetrable Ardennes Forest), and the final assault of Germany. Indeed, according to what I read on one website on the 818th EAB…
This battalion landed on Utah beach on June 30th, and followed advancing armies through France to Luxembourg and to the Nancy area, engaging in the construction of 18 airfields. In the “Bulge” area, the unit was forced to mine and guard their installations. Y-46 at Aachen was one of the first fields in Germany, and the 818th built 12S and Estrips east of the Rhine.
During 3 precious years of his youth, Richard no doubt grew up quickly. He fought in the most historic battles of World War II, participating in the great struggle to defeat a tyrant who nearly enslaved the world. In so doing, he witnessed the absolute best and worst of mankind. Then he was honorably discharged and returned to Buffalo where he married and raised a family, worked, went to church, watched Buffalo sports teams, and fished for jack perch. Richard was 95 years old when his heart finally gave out and another member of ‘The Greatest Generation’ left us for the final call. I know he is bankside once again, watching a bobber float down flowing waters, surrounded by those who left this good earth before him.
Why does a salmon rise? Why does a small boy cross the street just to kick a tin can?
Lee Wulff
Jimmy’s text was direct – “5:30 Byrne Dairy. I’ll be parked next to pump #5. I have all the gear we will need. We will be walking.”
I had arrived at the Tailwater Lodge the night before, checked in, ate a great elk burger and quaffed 2 excellent martini’s, assuring a good and early night’s sleep, though truth be told, I never really sleep before a fishing trip. At best i slept a few hours, waking for hours at a time, going through a fishing checklist.
I was up early, downed a couple of cups of coffee, pounded some yogurt and an apple, and was soon driving in the pre-dawn darkness to the Byrne Dairy in Pulaski under star-studded skies. Jimmy was there in his old Escalade SUV. He complimented me on being early to which I replied, “that’s what the Navy does to you.”
From there we drove to the Ballpark, one of sixteen recognized “holes” on the Salmon River. After parking, we trudged a circuitous path in the dark to the sound of rushing water. As we approached the river, here and there were headlamps and flashlights of anglers already setting up. Then there was the wait for the magic 30 minutes before sunrise in the chilly morning.
The Ballpark…
We were, like every other angler I saw, fishing a similar rig – the well-recognized chuck and duck method of fly fishing – essentially lobbing an egg pattern on tippet with weight on the leader above a swivel. Jimmy painstakingly instructed me where to fish in some pretty fast water and all I could think was how the heck will we ever land a big king in this stuff.
We fished the Ballpark until it was pretty evident that the fish were not coming up in the numbers Jimmy expected. Initially I got a rod-jarring take so violent that the fish immediately broke off on the 15 lb. tippet. It was an apt introduction to the power of these fish. There was another brief hook-up and then finally, a cast to a lone fish that Jimmy’s eagle eyes had spied in a fast water slot – a king just holding and to most, hardly noticeable despite its large size. The fish ate and the fight was on, at first just holding in a fast water slot as if I were snagged to the bottom but with the slow, almost imperceptible pulse of a tail pumping in the water. Then it was running up, pulling drag, which was good of course – the fish now fighting both the heavy current and the fly reels stout drag – and which caused Jimmy to cry out amidst the commotion, “that’s where we want him to go.” But salmon have a mind of their own and don’t behave the way us anglers would like. The big fish slipped across and ran down to a pocket on the other side of some rocks and held again. After a bit and no sensation of life in the line, Jimmy waded out, net in hand. It appeared that the salmon had slipped the hook and in so doing hung me up. Jimmy rooted around, somehow keeping his balance in that fast water and the fish suddenly reappeared out of nowhere and the fight was back on. It now surged downriver over a rapid and into a deep pool, jumping and cartwheeling as it went. After being saved once, I thought for sure I was done. But Jimmy’s excellent guidance in fighting these fish saved the day. I was able to turn him to the head of the pool, some 50 feet below us, where Jimmy could finally net him. It was a brute of a male king. Jimmy painstakingly lugged it upriver – asking how in the world we hadn’t lost him.
The only King landed on Day One, but one well earned…
Our next stop was also the last one for the day – the private water of the Whiskey River Lodge – a place I knew from last fall, again fishing with Jimmy.
We both parked, then carried our gear – the two 10-foot 10 weight fly rods, tackle bags, and the big landing net with innumerable zip ties to close the gaps left by thousands of salmon landed over the years – down the path to the river. We stopped briefly, looking down from the high bluff, and I could hardly believe my eyes. Across the run were at least fifty big kings – quite possibly more – their broad black tails waving in the current. A few anglers below us cast to them and with every cast, they would slide out in unison to avoid the invasion of their world. Jimmy commented on their fickleness in the clear low water of the run. It would be something we would have to overcome and he had just the strategy in mind.
Looking upriver – the Whiskey River Lodge watching over the run…
Once we got down to the river, we waded across to the low end of the run where Jimmy felt the fish would be less skittish under the cover of faster water. And Jimmy was right. He made a point of emphasizing the use of “marks” as we fished, setting me up on a large frying pan sized patch of gravel. He’d set me up, give a little instruction, then retreat back to the bank, watching patiently and making suggestions as needed.
It was more chuck and duck with the use of mending to get the egg down in the complex currents. The salmon were certainly there and appeared more comfortable with my drifts. Jimmy had me casting, then pulling out quickly after the short drift to avoid the snaggy bottom. I was getting hook-ups – Jimmy estimated at least 20 – but managed nothing to the net.
I got back to the Tailwater Lodge around 2 pm and decided to try my luck on the lodge’s private water. Downstream there were some very nice pools but they were locked up with a reasonable amount of anglers on either side, so I hiked downriver to the end of the property, looking down on some fast water, straining to see life. From the bluff I could look down and pick out a few fish, but getting down to the bank and casting to them was another thing. After a few noble attempts, I walked back upriver and found a few pools where I’d be alone on the Tailwater side of the river. I fished a good 2 hours without success. There were a few salmon caught but none for me. I headed back to the lodge to shower, enjoy a well-deserved drink, and dinner.
The two prominent common names for my quarry, Oncorhynchus tshawytscha, stem from historical and regional influences. “King salmon” is attributed to the fish’s size, prestige, and superior quality, highlighting its large stature and desirable characteristics, especially in regions like Alaska where it is the state fish. The name “Chinook” originates from the Chinookan peoples, Indigenous groups residing in the Pacific Northwest, particularly along the Columbia River. With all due respect to the Chinookan peoples, you’ll rarely hear the King Salmon of the Great Lakes referred to as a Chinook.
The story of what business Pacific salmon have doing in the Great Lakes is an interesting one. Before the 20th century, Lake Ontario supported the world’s largest freshwater Atlantic salmon (Salmo salar) fishery. These fish were landlocked, living in the lake and its tributaries rather than migrating to the ocean. By the late 1800s, however, mill dams blocked spawning tributaries, deforestation altered water quality, overfishing reduced numbers, and pollution degraded habitat. By around 1900, Atlantic salmon were claimed to be extinct in the Great Lakes. From the 1860s to the 1940s, U.S. and Canadian agencies attempted to re-establish salmon through artificial propagation. This included planting 13 million chinook salmon and landlocked/anadromous Atlantic salmon in Lake Ontario and other Great Lakes between 1873 and 1947. These efforts failed to produce self-sustaining populations, largely due to habitat degradation, predation, and the absence of natural spawning runs. Interestingly, it was the gradual habitation of an invasive that would be the basis for the Pacific salmon fishery that exists today.
By the middle of the 20th Century, some 70 years after they were first documented in Lake Ontario, alewives–able to move through locks and canals–began to dominate the Great Lake ecosystem. With numbers exceeding their carrying capacity, these plankton feeders underwent massive die-offs that littered miles of shorelines and hundreds of public beaches, with the accompanying putrid smell of rotting fish, in Lake Michigan, Huron, and Ontario. Those massive die-offs sparked public outcry, and fishery managers had an answer. By 1966, the Pacific salmon species they had tried unsuccessfully to establish years ago had a food source and the salmon fishery took off. The New York state record King salmon, caught in the Salmon River in 1991, weighed almost 48 pounds. The record New York Coho is just over 33 pounds. Those fish all got fat on alewives.
The Alewife – the food of Kings… (picture courtesy of jeffelliotoutdoors.com)
So, it goes in the modern era of this increasingly interconnected world – a seemingly biological invasive disaster turns out a success in other ways.
Day two of my trip started much the same as my first day, meeting Jimmy at 0530 at the Byrne Dairy and then heading off to a new spot – Pineville. We walked, rather stumbled, in the dark save Jimmy’s headlamp, crossing the bridge there and then descending down a rocky goat trail to the river where we had the place largely to ourselves.
We talked in the pre-dawn darkness – Jimmy lit a cigarette and though I only smoke cigars, the smoke smelled good on this early chilly morning. I asked Jimmy what prompted him to get into guiding. He had been a successful salesman in the pharma business after college – he said he’d never made so much money as he did in the 90’s – then ventured into his own sales business in electronic components and hardware where he also did well. He talked about some personal struggles during this time, which he overcame, but all along he was fishing and started guiding on a part-time basis on weekends. Clients kept returning and the word spread and eventually he decided, why not go full time, which is where he is now. “This is my office”, he said as we watched a beautiful sunrise.
Jimmy’s office…
There were a few anglers about on this section of the river. One older fly angler arrived above us – Jimmy seemed to know him and the angler described how he’d done well the previous day at the spot. But as you learn with salmon, every day is different. Despite repeated casts, I was not picking up anything nor were the anglers around me. Jimmy walked up a skinny river braid and after a while and called me over. He pointed to some fast water and said, “there’s one right there”, and had me cast to what I could not see. Somehow, we hooked up and the fight was on.
First fish of Day 2
As with the previous day, we soon moved to the private water at the Whiskey River Lodge. The salmon were there again, and the move proved to be a good one. Jimmy had me fish the same section of the river, chuck, duck, and mend style.
All told, the day yielded another 3 kings landed. We lost count of the hook-ups that were far greater in number than the previous day.
As it is with salmon fishing, there will always be incidental snagged fish, especially when the fish are in thick. Most of these would either break off or we’d intentionally break them off. A foul-hooked fish always fights much harder than a fair hooked fish and the action of the day between hundreds of casts with a 10-weight rod and fighting these big brutes in current began to take its toll.
We got past the noon hour, and my arms were feeling it, but the fishing was so good Jimmy kept me fishing another hour or so. I persisted into the early afternoon and then it was enough.
We waded back across the river and climbed up the bank and hill to the parking lot. Soon enough I was on my way home to Rochester, with that good and happy tired feeling that always accompanies the end of a great fishing trip, already planning another trip next fall.
““My biggest worry is that my wife, when I’m dead, will sell my fishing gear for what I said I paid for it.”
Koos Brandt
This past weekend son #2 and I took a trip to the great white north. I’m not talking Albany, Syracuse, or Rochester; I’m talking PULASKI, which, in Polish should translate to “the place where the snow flies” (the village was actually named after General Casimir Pulaski of revolutionary war fame). Son #2 is a hockey player, and his Bantam Travel “B” Team was to face off against the Salmon River Storm at 11:30 am that day. We met only mild weather resistance on the trip north, which is a rarity. In fact, once we passed snowy Syracuse, the skies cleared up but the bright sunshine did little to lift the frigid cold. Indeed, when we left the Southern Tier the temp was an invigorating -1-degree F.
The village of Pulaski is famous for two things; fishing and snowmobiling. Situated on the western edge of Lake Ontario, it receives an average of 175 inches (over 14 feet) of snow every winter, but of more interest is the village’s location on the Salmon River. This geographical blessing makes it one of the best places, arguably THE best place in the lower 48, to catch big steelhead, monster king and coho salmon, and huge lake-run browns.
We arrived in Pulaski, took the exit off Rt 81 North, and at the top of the exit ramp, ran smack dab into Fat Nancy’s on our way to the rink, and with just one look at the interesting name (followed by “tackle shop”), I knew I had to check it out after the game.
We drove through the sleepy village and immediately got a sense for how much snow this part of upstate New York receives. The roofs of houses and stores were steeped high with the stuff, and the icicles were enough to make one think twice about passing under any roof overhang. The rink in Pulaski was colder inside than it was outside, but it made for fast ice and a great game, as the Binghamton Senators filleted the Salmon River Storm 12-5.
After the game, we were to head south to Cortland for a 5:30 pm game and lunch en route, but I took a little detour to Fat Nancy’s under the fatherly auspices of picking up a candy bar for my exhausted hockey player and filling the car up with gas in case we ever got stuck in some abominable snow drift.
“Many of the women that have worked for us over the years got tired of people coming in the store and asking them if they were Nancy,” Rob said. “The fish is now called Fat Nancy.”
Upon first entering Fat Nancy’s, you’re greeted by one hell of a king salmon (87 lbs. to be exact), although legend has it that “Fat Nancy’ is not the mother of all king salmon, nor is she some gargantuan female tackle shop owner, burly and beard-growing, complete with camel cigarette hanging out of her yap, but instead, a huge sturgeon in Lake Ontario that has eluded anglers for years. Regardless, this big king, hanging in all its glory for all to dream wistfully of bent fly rods and backing on the reel, is just one of many Salmon River trophies mounted as testament to how truly great the fishing is on the Salmon River. For the record, none other than the Salmon River is home to New York state’s record King salmon – a 47 lb. 13-ounce brute caught in 1991. To catch one the size of Fat Nancy, you’d have to head west to Alaska, home of the US record of 97 lbs. 4 ounces.
There’s also an older piece of Pulaski lore: Fat Nancy Rock, a famous boulder on the Salmon River named after a local woman in the 1800s. It predates the tackle shop by more than a century. The shop’s name is a playful nod to that history.
I picked up a chocolate bar for my very patient hockey player and stood at the counter while a big upstate good-ole-boy sidled up behind the cash register. “Is that it?”, he bellowed, jowls swaying. “Yes”, I responded, “although I sure would like to add that Scott ARC you have on sale, but the wife wouldn’t take too kindly to that”. I chuckled a little, thinking some sympathetic comment would soon follow. Instead I got a brash and baritone “tough shit”, followed by a lambasting that chastised my manhood and, would have put my tail between my legs if I had one. “You work for that money, don’t you?”, he scowled, “you can do whatever the hell you want with it, that’s what I say”. I grimaced and shriveled in the face of this dress-down and soon felt like I was looking up at the counter. “If you want the rod, buy it, and if she don’t like it, tough shit”.Â
I slithered out of the store, my little hockey player in tow, and thought long and hard about “the philosophy” as we sped down Rt 81 to Cortland. And the more I thought, the more I realized this guy had a point. The counter-guy’s “pep” talk had truly given me a lift. Carpe diem, seize the day, strike while the iron’s hot, go for it – the “talk” had convinced me, if nothing else, that Fat Nancy’s was far more than a tackle shop. Later that week I had a new fly reel on order, with no apologies and nary a second thought, thank you very much.
My connection with Destin, Florida is now over 10 years in the making. My wife and I have owned a townhouse there ever since being introduced to the place while visiting our son, Chris, who worked as a PGA Pro at Regatta Bay Golf and Yacht Club. Chris has since moved on to a far different career but our connection to this Florida panhandle city and the beautiful “Emerald Coast” remains.
Destin sits on a long peninsula of land between the Gulf of Mexico and Choctawhatchee Bay – a large saltwater bay, 129 square miles in size, that is fed by the gulf tides to the south and estuary rivers to the north.
An aerial view of Destin. Picture courtesy of flyfishaddiction.blogspot.com.
In addition to an abundance of places to fish saltwater, the area is dotted with ponds and lakes that hold largemouth bass and panfish. Depending on the weather and sea conditions, an angler always has a choice of bay fishing, surf fishing, and pond/lake fishing. There’s rarely a time when a line has to sit dry for long.
Miles and miles of white sandy beach await the early morning fly fisher…
We are now waning out of August as I write this and memories of the terrific fall fly-fishing here in New York that awaits fills my fly-fishing mind with great anticipation, but maybe because of a spate of hot, humid, weather, I can’t help but think of a late summer visit to Destin years ago and a very special introduction to a “gamefish” of another sort.
August in Destin, oddly enough, is considered “off-season” in terms of tourism. By late July visitors from as far away as Michigan and the upper Midwest, but primarily from the southeast, are leaving. School starts early in the south and the heat and humidity in the panhandle turns downright oppressive. The beaches slowly turn quiet with the ebb of vacationers.
For most of this August visit I chose to fish the surf. I had previously fished Destin in the spring and fall, focusing on the bay. I’d heard summertime had a significant “trash fish” bite, but among that rubble was a gem of a fish that had a reputation as a great adversary on the long rod: the ladyfish…
The ladyfish is a ray-finned fish also referred to as skipjacks, jack-rashes, or tenpounders. They are coastal-dwelling and found throughout the tropical and subtropical regions of the world but occasionally venture into more temperate waters. Ladyfish prey on smaller fish and shrimp. They can grow to over 3 feet in length and may reach 20 pounds in weight. More commonly, they are found to range from 12″ to over 20″. The body of the ladyfish is a tapered spindle shape with an oval cross-section. Their eyes are very large as are their mouths. Their incredible aerial acrobatics in combination with a hard mouth allows them to throw a poorly set hook quite easily. They are largely silver and white in color, but their backs are a light olive to sand color with a beautiful band of light pink where their color transitions to silver.
After arriving at our place and settling in, I rigged my 9 weight fly rod with a full intermediate line and took a quick golf cart ride to the beach. I walked east beyond the swimming area and began casting a size 2 chartreuse and white clouser minnow. It wasn’t long before I was hooked up and witnessing first-hand, the incredible high-jumps of the ladyfish.
Ladyfish are known as the “poor man’s tarpon” due to their incessant aerobatics, as captured here in this picture courtesy of Doug Olander.
I fished the surf for several days and found varied fishing conditions for these surf-side torpedoes. One day the surf was flat as a mill-pond and I spent much of the day running up and down the beach chasing ladies crashing the beach. Their devastating attacks on glass minnows in the shallows reminded me of bluefish blitzes. On other days the surf was up and the ladies were still biting but were spread out and cruising resulting in a slow but steady bite. One hot afternoon I found them on almost every other cast, though they were not showing themselves as they were on the calmer days.
I’ll estimate I caught at least a hundred ladyfish over a 4 day period and probably lost another 50 in the process. Ladyfish are built for blitzing bait – a long sleek body, deeply forked tail, big eyes, and a big mouth all make for one terrific gamefish for the saltwater angler.
One group of Mississippi fly fishermen respectfully refer to the ladyfish as the Mississippi tarbone and point out that local anglers can experience much of the thrill of catching tarpon and bonefish without having to leave Mississippi waters.
I found the “ladies” to feed very aggressively and take almost any fly I threw at them. While I didn’t try topwater, I’m sure a large popper thrown into their blitzes would have resulted in regular hook-ups. At times they would feed actively in large schools and could be seen porpoising as they chased bait in the shallows. The most effective flies were shiny, silver, or white. A white clouser with some flash combined with a fast retrieve that imparts plenty of action to the fly is all that is needed to catch these lightening bolts of the salt.
While sometimes difficult to hook, ladyfish will strike again and again on the retrieve. Their mouth is hard and very abrasive; leaders should be checked frequently for fraying. On the advice of the local Orvis fly shop, I used a small bite guard of 30 lb. mono as ladyfish are not at all leader shy. And I’d also recommend not using expensive or intricate flies because they will get chewed up and stripped to a bare hook in no time! A 1/0 stainless hook tied with a lot of flash and some white hackle, or deer hair will do the trick. Don’t spare the glue or epoxy! Simple and bullet-proof will work well.
The fish I caught ranged in size from 12″ to over 24″. Any ladyfish will fight hard but when they get over 18″ you will quickly be grinning ear to ear with their blistering runs and spastic leaps. I caught several larger ones that put a serious bend in my 9 weight and made long reel-screaming runs followed by tarpon-like leaps.
I fished my 9 weight rod because one never knows what will show up in the surf, including redfish, jacks, and sharks, but I could have gone lighter. A 6 – 8 weight rod would work just as well and reduce arm fatigue from casting. A floating line can be used when the fish are in close but I prefer an intermediate or intermediate sink tip to get down in the water column. A simple 30 lb. mono leader transitioning to 20 lb. of 5 to 8 feet in length is all that is needed on the business end. Flies do not need to be big, but I found that a larger hook helps increase hook-ups.
Ladyfish are often cursed by anglers because they can aggressively interfere with fishing for other species. Redfish anglers, for example, will stalk a flat only to hook up with a ladyfish and spook every red on the flat. But I welcome the opportunity to waltz with the “ladies”. I can count on them to join me on the dance floor with every cast. Their high leaps from the emerald waters of the Gulf straight up to the bright blue Florida sky are a delight to behold and I hope to be back to ask for another dance with them come next summer.
You might have heard it as you worked your way up through high school, preparing for college, a profession, or work: “you should go out for track (or band, or the debating club, or…) to be more ‘well-rounded’. Whether that worked out for you or not, there is some merit to the strategy of being a “renaissance man”, so to speak – so much so that a version of the term even eked its way into fly fishing.
The Orvis Company, a giant in fly fishing, began a transition to graphite rods in the early 70’s, thanks to Howard Steere, the superintendent of the Orvis fly rod shop. Steere loved bamboo but had the vision to recognize the potential of graphite as a fly rod blank material. During this era, no company had built a satisfactory graphite fly rod. Orvis eventually came out with their own and these rods included the Orvis 8’3” All Rounder 7wt. The name of the rod recently caught my eye, especially in light of my parent’s well-meaning lectures to be ‘well-rounded’ in life…
The Orvis All-Rounder – 8’3″ of versatility…
While there is truly no all-around fly rod, the Orvis All-Rounder is considered by some to be a good attempt at a noteworthy objective in rod design. It is a full-flex rod with great butt strength and a soft tip and because of its design, it has the ability to cast a lot of line or cast short. The rod handles small flies fairly well yet due to its line rating, can throw streamers in the salt. Its short length allows its use in small streams that have close alder growth and cover.
A description of the All-Rounder found in an old Dan Bailey’s fly fishing catalog…
As I researched the All Rounder, I started to realize how specialized fly fishing product has become. These days one can buy a myriad of fly lines with tapers targeted to specific fish species, casting taper (WF, DT, Intermediate, Sink Tip, etc.,) and even fishing conditions. A recent scan of one online fly fishing store’s inventory showed a Mastery Redfish Warm and Mastery Redfish Cold fly line. Talk about niche fly lines! The same applies to fly rods where the choices must be absolutely bewildering and intimidating for beginners. Material choices have expanded and now include bamboo, fiberglass, and graphite, as well as composite blends. The lengths of fly rods range from diminutive 5-foot creek rods to 14-foot Spey rods, all offering different cork grip options, reel seats, guide types, ferrule types, and sections, including a return to one-piece rods. Actions vary from slow to ultra-fast and then there are rods built for specific species or types of fishing, switch rods and nymph rods being examples of recently marketed niches.
And yet, many of the old timers and the greats of fly fishing did just fine without the specialization. Lee Wulff, for example, spent a lifetime pursuing larger fish on lighter tackle and frequently used a one-piece, six foot bamboo rod to catch fish ranging from small stream trout to Atlantic salmon up to 26 lbs!
I happen to own a Scott G706/3 (7′ 6 weight 3 piece) that is a replica of the fly rod that Scott’s founder, Harry Wilson, first built for Lee Wulff. It supposedly became Lee’s favorite fly rod, and he used it to catch everything from trout to Atlantic salmon to permit.
None other than Lefty Kreh was once interviewed in an excellent video about his fly-fishing biography during which he bemoaned the fly-fishing industry’s over-pricing of product so that many people – particularly the working class – have not been able to afford to enter the sport of fly fishing. Lefty also discusses fly rods during this video and has an intriguing take on their classification. He breaks down fly rods into 3 categories as follows:
Presentation weight – up to 6 weight. These are generally used for trout fishing where tippet protection is of upmost importance.
Distance weight – 8 to 10 weight. These are used where distance casting and the use of large / heavy flies is common such as with smallmouth and largemouth bass, pike, and carp and lighter saltwater gamefish.
Lifting weight – 12 – 14+ weight. Lifting weight rods are almost exclusively used in saltwater fly fishing where the rod’s primary function is to fight and land big fish.
Lefty’s approach would definitely help any beginner angler slim down their choices to a few, rather than pursuing a stuffed quiver of specialized rods such as I now own, filling up an entire corner of my study. And while Lefty doesn’t see much use for transition weight rods (7 and 11 weight), it’s interesting that the All Rounder happens to fall squarely in the gap between presentation and distance categories.
My own start in fly fishing began with the purchase of a St Croix Pro-Ultra 9-foot 5/6 weight 2-piece fly rod. I bought it at a Dick’s Sporting Goods store for $99. This rod served me well until I began to read fly fishing magazines and then fell under the product trance they sometimes cast. It wasn’t long before I started purchasing higher end specialty rods under the auspices that they would somehow make me a better angler. It’s ironic that even now, with some very good, yet high-priced rods in my stable, I’ll pull out the St Croix.
I’ve often thought of the challenging goal of fly-fishing for a year with some sort of “All Rounder”. I’m certainly no Lee Wulff or Lefty Kreh but maybe fly fishing with one rod could be a good thing for me at one point in my fly-fishing life. It might force me to focus on improving my skills, rather than relying on new fly rod design and technology to bolster me up. And it just might halt my ever-expanding inventory of fly rods, putting a smile on my wife, reducing credit card debt, and even making for a seller’s presence on eBay. We’ve all heard of the one fly challenge – now introducing the one rod challenge, courtesy of the All-Rounder…
With a sag belly and the grin it was born with. And indeed they spare nobody. Two, six pounds each, over two foot long. High and dry in the willow-herb –
One jammed past its gills down the other’s gullet: The outside eye stared: as a vice locks – The same iron in his eye Though its film shrank in death.
From the poem, “Pike” by Ted Hughes
We were finally on the cusp of blissfully warm summer days, the severe winter of 2026 all but forgotten. The month of May was now behind us, though some cool nights still lingered in the wings. In this new land of mine I am much like a young boy hiking to unexplored fishing waters. There is nothing but delight in the savor of discovery.
While still in the throes of early spring I booked a fly-fishing trip with Jay Peck, a very fishy guide in my new home waters. Jay’s many YouTube fishing reports often offer up openings for future trips, and I learned that after spring steelhead, he guides for pike on the fly. I had not smelled their distinct slime odor, nor deftly admired their fanged grin in years, the last time being a rare encounter with a decent one that ambushed a crayfish fly in a side eddy on the Tioughnioga River. I very much longed for a date with a toothy critter.
Jay responded quickly to my request, suggesting I ping him in late May. He’d set something up after scouting and once water temps warmed. Sure enough, we set the trip for June 2nd. As the date approached, the weather gods were in a good mood and provided a perfect forecast – a cool morning, abundant sun, and warmth by mid-morning.
I had assumed all this time that this trip would be local. There are, after all, expansive weedy bays and ponds just minutes from my house, but no, we’d be fishing a place just north of Pulaski that Jay described as being “infested” with pike.
I met Jay at the Byrne Dairy right off 81 in Pulaski, then drove with him, drift boat in tow, to the Lakeview Wildlife Management Area (WMA). This WMA is part of the largest natural freshwater barrier beach system in New York State – a 3,461-acre expanse of diverse habitat including open fields, shrub lands, woodlands, wetlands, and a natural barrier beach. There are 5 ponds in the WMA, but we fished South Colwell Pond, farthest south.
South Colwell Pond has a maximum depth of 8 feet, with an average depth of 4.5 – 5 feet. It covers 102 acres and kisses over 2 miles of mostly marshy shoreline. At the time we fished it, the pond was clear and just starting to weed up. Jay indicated that come summer, it gets pretty weedy but can still be fished topwater. While I did see some small bass near the launch, Jay added that he rarely catches them – they are, besides the sunfish and yellow perch, on the pike’s dinner menu.
South Colwell Pond is accessed via a long gravel road that transitions from open pasture to deep deciduous woods, ending in a clearing overlooking the expanse of the pond. We pulled in and set up, Jay loading two 9 weight fly rods into their tubes in the boat, adding a gear bag, and finally adding two spinning outfits, “in case we need to go to the dark side”. Jay backed his drift boat down the ramp with precision and a few minutes later, was rowing us across the pond to a spot just inside a sandy break to Lake Ontario.
The boat launch on South Colwell pond.
It took a few casts for me to dial in my casting stroke using a fast action 9 weight and as Jay would say, throwing a chicken for a fly. He had me rigged with an intermediate sink tip, a 4-foot leader of equal sections of 40 and 30 lb. leader material and a foot of tie-able wire for a bite guard. On the business end was one of Jay’s articulated streamers in white with flash, a fly similar to Mike Schulz’s Swinging D or a Drunk and Disorderly. We would later switch up to the same fly in yellow perch colors. Both seemed to work equally well.
The pike, it turned out, were a no-show – Jay thought water temps may have still been a little cool for them – but pickerel were happy to play, and these were not the hammer-handle variety, but truly large. Steady strips produced with the pickerel inhaling the fly mid-retrieve – other times they followed right up to the boat and needed just a bit of teasing for an eat. Jay surmised that we were probably getting even more follows than we realized.
The bite was fairly steady all morning but began to fade by early afternoon, as did my casting arm. I hadn’t used a 9 weight since the fall, after all, and the casting was continuous. We called it a day before 2 pm.
On the drive home, I reflected on a great day of fly fishing. While I had wished the pike did show – Jay has caught some in South Colwell Pond that taped out over 40″ – I had never caught a pickerel on the fly. It’s always a good day with the long rod when a species is added to the “firsts” list.
This fishing was, dare I say, “simple”. The pickerel were virtually everywhere and eager to eat. They took on the first few strips, followed the fly and ate, and even hovered about the boat waiting for a tease that triggered their primordial instinct to kill. Even sloppy or errant casts would be just as likely to induce a take as perfect ones. Fly selection didn’t seem to matter – any streamer with movement would have worked – articulated streamers, clousers, deceivers, even big buggers – and color didn’t seem to make a difference.
There are plenty of times on the water when an angler must be on point, where tactics, location, and skill make or break the day. The pay-off can be huge but the cost is intense focus, constant attention to detail, and often times frustration with the ways of fish. As Jay would say, “I’ve never had any luck telling the fish what to eat”.
I think us anglers all need a day with pickerel – if only for a break from the hunt and a day on the water of pure enjoyment.
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.
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…
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.
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…
“It is foolish and wrong to mourn the men who died. Rather we should thank God that such men lived.”
George S. Patton
Most reading this are undoubtedly familiar with the movie, Saving Private Ryan. The movie’s blockbuster sales and ratings seemed to indicate how good it was, but the A minus grade given by one audience of American WWII veterans who participated in the D-Day invasion is even more telling as to its realism.
While there are several themes playing in the movie, a haunting line towards its end – perhaps the thesis of the movie – is what was on my mind as I nymphed a stretch of Balls Eddy on a beautiful Memorial Day.
The West Branch at Balls Eddy…
This tradition of fishing has been something I’ve been doing for a number of years. There’s an old cemetery adjacent to the Balls Eddy fishing access and it is at that cemetery where I first witnessed a solemn and heartbreaking tribute to those who paid the ultimate price. The place is a simple rectangle of fertile river bottom, walled in fieldstone. There are a few trees there and the graves are adorned with flags, the lawn neatly cut. It is a peaceful place. On that past Memorial Day, the sky was blue, the birds sang sweetly, and the river ran by in hues of blue.
Hallowed ground…
I was on the river and fishing by 8:30 a.m., and at exactly 9:05, heard the volley of shots that marked the day. They crackled through the river valley, then came round again in echo until the sound of the rushing water of the riffle finally silenced them. A few drifts of my nymph rig through the ‘rainbow’s den’, as I call it, resulted in my indicator plunging down in the fast water, the hook set, and a rainbow trout that leaped repeatedly and then made spastic runs in the heavy current. The flash of this fish, its strength, its athleticism made me feel good. After landing it and releasing it, I sat down, watched the river, and remembered the movie.
At the end of Saving Private Ryan, the now-elderly Ryan is seen visiting the grave of Captain Miller, the Army Ranger officer who led the mission to bring the young Private home after all of his brothers had been killed in combat. Ryan pays tribute to Captain Miller with the following:
“My family is with me today. They wanted to come with me. To be honest with you, I wasn’t sure how I’d feel coming back here. Every day I think about what you said to me that day on the bridge. And I’ve tried to live my life the best I could. I hope that was enough. I hope that at least in your eyes, I’ve earned what all of you have done for me.”
Earlier in the movie, with Captain Miller slowly dying from wounds received while defending a critical bridge crossing, Ryan hears Captain Miller’s last words:
James… earn this. Earn it.
“James, earn this, earn it”
As I listened to the rush of the river and the wind in the trees, I came to the realization that Memorial Day is more than just honoring the fallen – it’s about remembering the dead by celebrating life in a way that honors those words so simply spoken by Captain Miller. In this country, we are free to choose how to live our lives. That freedom was bought with blood, their blood. In getting up early and going fly fishing – in doing good things – in living life the best we can, we earn it, and by doing that we remember them for their great sacrifice.
“In the end, it’s not the years in your life that count. It’s the life in your years.”
Abraham Lincoln
The trip south from my first night’s stop in Columbus Ohio would entail a journey of over 500 miles through the cities of Cincinnati, Louisville, and Nashville, before a final overnight stop in Alabama. A deep front was sweeping eastward as I made my way south, bringing more heavy rains, high winds, thunder and lightning, and even tornado warning sirens south of Nashville. After my final overnight stop, I was up early, coffee and sausage egg McMuffin on the go, and on my way to Destin.
Destin welcomed me with warmth and sun, and after arriving at our place, I set about unloading, provisioning, setting up and settling in. Once that was done, I rigged up my 8-weight fly rod with a big wooly bugger on a floating line and scouted the Horseshoe Lake shoreline for largemouth bass.
Horseshoe Lake is one of several man-made freshwater ponds/lakes situated in the Sandestin resort in Miramar Beach, Florida. Horseshoe Lake is the biggest, the others like small golf course ponds but all home to abundant bluegill and largemouth bass, and both species can get quite large.
One can expect to catch largemouth, like this decent specimen, in the freshwater lakes and ponds of Sandestin.
Our place is just steps away from Horseshoe Lake – all the Beachwalk Villas border it, in some cases with a sloping bank, in others, like ours, with a bulkhead. In either case, one can sight fish to the largemouth as they prepare to spawn. Post-spawn is a different game as the spawn-weary females drop back into the depths and the smaller males guard the nest until the fry are about 2 weeks old. Then they too take refuge in the depths to recharge. The timing of this activity is dependent on water temperatures, which is dependent on the weather – colder springs delay it – warmer springs hasten it.
As is always the case, the vicissitudes of temperature and attendant gulf and bay water temperatures, wind, and rain, all make their mark, good or bad, on the fishing. Fortunately, as chronicled in this blog before, Destin offers diverse fishing options – freshwater lakes, saltwater bay and surf – so there are usually always options to keep one in the game.
From the start, the weather did not cooperate for fly fishing the surf. The winds prevailed from the south and east, making for a turbid and high surf and difficult sight fishing. For the first time since purchasing our property in 2016, I took my small fishing kayak along on this trip to better fish the bay. In all my previous outings, I waded the bay shore, which can still be effective but can be difficult depending on the bottom type. I had personally experienced a few cases where I sunk deep in marsh muck. The kayak removed that risk, while allowing me to explore a variety of bay habitat.
Neighbor Dale, a regular snowbird, would scoff at me and my fly rod. “Oh, forget that thing, get some bait, and fish the dock”, he’d say, claiming there were big redfish to be had. While I wasn’t going to go “bait-dunker”, I witnessed what he was talking about on the several occasions I ventured forth in my kayak. I saw no big redfish caught, but fishing within earshot of anglers on the dock indicated they were getting hook-ups only to be broken off when these big burly fish ran back under the dock.
On the bad surf days with winds prevailing from the south, I’d launch my kayak on the protected bay side at Baytowne Marina. There, from a sugary sandy beach adjacent to the marina, I’d paddle out to the waters off the marina and around the boat channel that leads out to the marine expanse known as Choctawhatchee Bay. The game here was all about fishing clousers and other weighted streamers on an intermediate line to spotted sea trout and redfish, as well as being ready for marauding jacks that could show up in an instant, brutish marauders busting bait.
I made three trips with my little kayak to the bay. I fished the edges of the channel off the marina the first time, picking up scores of “jacks” – juvenile spotted sea trout. Another kayak angler fished near me with spinning gear and did the same. I’ve always felt any time I can keep up with or even best the gear guys, I’m doing well. The fishing was great when you found these fish that tend to school when they are smaller, but they are also a moving target.
Bottlenose dolphins inhabit the gulf, the harbor, and Choctawhatchee Bay. They reach sizes of 6 to 13 feet and weigh between 300 and 650 pounds and consume as much as 4% to 6% of their body weight (12 to 40 lbs!) each day. And they love fish. On my first outing I spied a mother dolphin with her calf, hunting the water around Baytowne Marina. From a distance I had no issue with them, but when they got close, I suddenly felt intimidated by their size and power, especially considering I was in their element, at eye level, and in a 10′ kayak. In several cases I’d be fishing and catching, but as soon as they were around the fishing completely shut down, for obvious reasons.
My final trip in my kayak proved exceptional. On that fine day, I observed huge schools of baitfish close in to marina structure. I focused on casting clousers of different colors where I saw baitfish getting busted. I was using a full intermediate line on my 8 weight – I’d cast and allow the fly to sink, then strip back erratically, sometimes allowing the fly to pause on the retrieve. It wasn’t long before I was hooking up, and these were good sized spotted sea trout…
A spotted sea trout on the fly…
Spotted seatrout, also known as speckled trout or just “trout” in southern waters, are a great gamefish and good table fare. Their northern cousin is known as the weakfish. Though they have the name trout assigned to their order, they are actually a member of the drum family. They are typically found in bays and estuaries where they hunt crustaceans and baitfish.
While I did not hook any redfish, in two cases I saw two giant bull reds slowly pass just beneath my kayak. They, like the dolphins, made me feel downright diminutive in my little kayak, the Cape Breton fisherman’s prayer coming to mind – “Lord protect me – the sea is so large and my boat is so small…”
My brother-in-law, Jeff, was able to visit for a few days. He arrived one morning after having visited his daughter at college in Tampa. It wasn’t long after getting him settled that we were out the back door like young kids to fish for largemouth. Jeff is originally from Pennsylvania – Claysburg to be exact – and cut his fly-fishing teeth on the creeks and streams of the southcentral PA mountains. After high school, Jeff headed West to Southern California where his brother lived and worked. The rest of his formative fly-fishing years were spent plying the mountain streams of the Sierra with far-flung guided trips to Alaska and other fabled rivers like the Green, the Yellowstone, and the Bighorn. Bass are not in his blood.
As it was for me the first time I fished the lake, he was amazed at the size of some of the bass as they staged for spawning. The females were often twice the size of the males, the males doing all the work and waiting for the females to move up to them. They built nests close to shore, but favored sites near cover, such as tight to a bulkhead, around the pilings of the bridges, and under trees. In the early stages of the spawn, the males would aggressively chase streamers fished around the nest. Once on the nest, the males and females would continue to bite, but as the spawn progressed, the bite would slow. Even so, the stage of the spawn could be different across the lake, so it seemed there were always some willing players. As the spawn wound down with increasing water temps, the females left the child-rearing to the males and after roughly 2 weeks, both parents were gone, sulking in the depths to recharge, while their black needle-like fry held in loose schools around the nest, and then dispersed.
I fished one small pond adjacent to a golf course with Jeff. We cast big buggers to the deeper water as we saw no fish on beds. It was an intermittent bite, but we did hook up with some more nice bass. I believe these were post-spawn fish and back in an active feeding mode. It’s likely the smaller pond’s water temp was higher than Horseshoe Lake, and the spawn is all about water temperature.
A beautifully marked bugger bass… Golf cart fly fishing is fun!
Jeff and I also booked a guide for redfish by the name of Cleve Evans with Shallow Water Expeditions. Cleve met us a daybreak at a boat launch off St Andrew Bay in Panama City. It was a cool morning, and Jeff and I were a little underdressed for the high-speed cruise on Cleve’s flats boat. I shivered uncontrollably but suffered through it. The day would warm with the bright sun soon enough.
Cleve gave us excellent instruction on casting from the platform on the bow – Jeff and I would alternate all day long. Cleve would coach us in a low-key way, calling out fish we he poled us along expansive marsh and flats.
Guide Cleve Evans with a big redfish.
We started the morning with a promising sight – a big redfish was tailing right along a marsh bank, his back partially out of the water. Here and there baitfish would scatter as he worked his way along, seemingly ambivalent to our presence. Jeff was on point and the guide told him to cast. Jeff is an excellent caster, perhaps too excellent in this case as he bonked the big redfish on the head, sending him off to deeper water like a jetboat on nitrous oxide. Unfortunately, despite Cleve’s best efforts, this scene would repeat itself all day. We saw plenty of fish – I’d estimate up to 50 – and we had many shots, but the fish were extremely skittish and usually scooted with any cast that landed even remotely close to them. Cleve fished us hard and towards the end of the day Jeff and I had already resigned ourselves to a redfish beatdown. We were tired and bug-bitten by some type of tiny biting fly that was particularly fond of Jeff’s exposed ankles. Cleve expressed his own frustration with the day – “we had eight yesterday” – but he added that redfish on the panhandle can be that way.
Jeff departed the following day, and I enjoyed a few more days of fishing the lakes for bass…
and beautiful Choctawhatchee Bay for trout.
Soon enough it was my time to leave too. I took the same route home and arrived in the still cooler weather of Lake Ontario. Memories of warmth, white sandy beaches, dark green and gleaming silver fish now faded. But rather than being despondent leaving the great fishing of Destin, I had cause for happy days ahead – the smallmouth pre-spawn bite loomed in the offing.
You do not cease to fish because you get old, you get old because you cease to fish.
Anonymous
It would be a first trip to our little place in Destin where time didn’t really matter anymore. I was free of the corporate chains, retired, and living the “every day is a Saturday” life.
I sketched out my itinerary, travelling from our home on Lake Ontario, which, to my delight, meant a different route than when driving from Vestal. It would be one with some new fish-as-you-go possibilities. Tracing the fastest route on google maps, I found my path took me along “steelhead alley”, an area I had heard much about but never fished. These 400 miles of southern Lake Erie shoreline span three states–Buffalo, New York at its eastern end; Toledo, Ohio, on its western flank; and Pennsylvania’s shoreline in the middle.
After some internet searching, I found Captain Kurt Charters and contacted Captain Kurt himself, arranging for a guide as well as an overnight stay in one of his cabins. I’d be fishing with guide Dale Fogg on Elk Creek. Elk Creek is a 30-mile-long stream in the northwestern corner of Pennsylvania. This tributary, the largest of the streams in “Steelhead Alley”, is best known for its steelhead fishing. Each fall there is a run of fish from Lake Erie that draws anglers from all around, including Canada.
Guide Dale Fogg. Pic courtesy of Captain Kurt’s Charters.
I arrived in late afternoon at Crooked Creek Cottage, a quaint old cabin perched above, you guessed it, Crooked Creek.
Crooked Creek Lodge – all to myself. Pic courtesy of Captain Kurt’s Charters.
The place had authentic old-school fly-fishing charm, with a beautiful stone fireplace, comfy furnishings, and rooms adorned with fish and game.
After dinner out, and a few cold brews, I turned in, looking forward to one more day on northern waters, before plying the warm waters of the gulf.
I met Dale, waders on, at an access adjacent to Elk Creek. He was rigged up and ready to go and after a brief introduction we were ambling down a trail to the creek. Some of the area streams were running high at the time, but the Elk ran clear and at easy wading levels. The Elk runs over bedrock and gravel and features pools, deep runs along cuts in the bedrock, and riffles – very pretty water for sure.
Dale set me up with a 10-foot 7 weight rod and WF floating line, fishing a 2-fly indicator rig – an egg pattern on point with a white streamer as the tail fly. Lake Erie steelhead love eggs but also the emerald shiners that inhabit the creek.
An emerald shiner.
One of the great things about fishing with a guide is the little fly fishing “hacks” you can pick up from their experience on the water. One such hack I learned is to wet and then step on a streamer to get the air out, allowing it to sink faster.
Pennsylvania stocks Elk Creek and other PA tribs with steelhead smolts in the Spring. Dale expressed disappointment that they had been stocked earlier than normal because smallmouth bass run up the tribs in late Spring to spawn and are putting on the feedbag in anticipation of the energy needed for spawning. He feared a year class could be decimated. The steelhead smolts were certainly there – we picked them up frequently on the egg pattern to the point where they were borderline pests.
We started fishing upstream, working the dark cuts in the bedrock. It never ceases to amaze me how easily trib fish can hide in crystal clear and relatively shallow water. The uninitiated would look at these places and declare them fishless.
We moved up to a beautiful long run of some depth, and it was there that I shook the skunk, though I lost that first steelhead after a brief struggle. This would be a recurring theme throughout the day and one common to steelhead fishing. The hookups were often subtle – the slow dunk or even hesitation of the indicator – but each hookset surely set off headshakes that rose to the surface with violent thrashing.
This steelhead hen was likely post-spawn. Note the beat-up fins.
We worked up to a deep creek bend of complex currents and fished that without success. Above us was another gorgeous run but it was taken by a guide and two anglers, so we waded downstream and fished along the way, thoroughly working the seams and pockets.
We arrived at a very nice riffle and run, and it was there that the bite improved significantly, including a huge redhorse sucker that Dale estimated at 15 lbs!
An example of a redhorse sucker. These fish are dogged fighters and can get quite large. Pic courtesy of 365angler.com.
The egg flies were the big producers – I don’t recall picking up any fish on the streamer, although Dale said streamers can work very well at times.
This beautiful piece of water held many steelhead.
We waded down to another deep pool under a train trestle with a deep drop-off and more complex current and I hung a very good steelhead there but lost it. Given the current, the depths, and the limited safe wading adjacent to the pool, I doubt I’d ever have landed that fish anyhow.
Here I’m fishing the “trestle pool” where I lost a very nice steelhead.
All in all, it was a great day, with 3 beautiful steelhead landed and another 7 lost in the fight.
If you fish any Lake Erie trib, you’ll likely pick up quillbacks in the mix.
Redhorse and quillback suckers were also in the mix.
Dime bright and full of fight!
As predicted in the forecast, the skies deepened with overcast, the winds picked up, and the rain came, first in sprinkles, then in cloudbursts along with rumblings of thunder in the distance. Dale was nice enough to push the fishing as much as he dared, but even I started getting a little apprehensive as the thunder and lightning neared and intensified. Dale suggested we head in and I wasn’t objecting.
It was hard to leave fish like this one even with thunder cracking the air, flashes of lightning, and dousing rain…
We hiked back to the access, the only vehicles left, shrugged off our waders, squared up with tip, and went our separate ways in what now amounted to a downpour. I was soon heading southwest on Interstate 90, driving straight into even nastier weather. It took a while to dry out, but I didn’t care. I was tired and happy, and looking forward to my first stop, a cold beer, a steak dinner, a warm bed, and a replay of the day’s great fishing, with steelhead jumping in my dreams.
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