Category: Uncategorized (Page 4 of 6)

Eighteen Mile Creek

May 9, 2023 / stflyfisher

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!

Stockies

April 30, 2023 / stflyfisher

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.

Early Season Bronze

April 28, 2023 / stflyfisher

“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.

The Grinch that gave back Christmas

December 22, 2022 / stflyfisher

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.

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.

Captain Greg and the Montauk Monster

December 7, 2022 / stflyfisher

“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…

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.

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.

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…

A Southern Tier Fly Fisher Thanksgiving

November 23, 2022 / stflyfisher

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.

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…

Tight lines…

Connections

September 5, 2022 / stflyfisher

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.

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.

Fly fishing in Jerry’s front yard…

August 3, 2022 / stflyfisher

“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…

A broken stick…

August 23, 2021 / stflyfisher

I saw Gabe driving his truck towards me as I took a walk during lunch at work. He stopped when he saw me and after some small talk, asked, “Can you repair a broken fly rod”? I hesitated in responding, then said I had never repaired a rod but would look into it and get back to him.

I’ve built nine fly rods to date, each a better version of the last. With each build I’ve learned new techniques, new tricks of the trade, and more efficient methods. But rod repair was an entirely new frontier.

So I researched it. For one, this repair involved marrying together two broken rod pieces, or so I thought. I later learned, upon receipt of the broken rod, that it was two broken sections of the tip piece of a two piece rod. But YouTube is really a great learning resource. In no time I found very good instruction on the method for repairing a broken rod. The key is the use of a spigot ferrule to rebuild the break.

Mending a fly rod takes time, care, and ultimately a bit of love. Gabe made the mistake of trying to beach a steelhead – a 10 pounder – and he let his non-grip hand slide up the blank to do it – an often fatal error. The butt section of a fly rod is where the power is – increasing leverage up the blank just stresses the upper section of the rod blank.

So I took the broken tip section of the blank, shattered graphite – each section jagged and splintered – and thought, “this should be interesting”. I bought a Dremel to even out the bones of each broken section so they’d join as evenly as possible. The fractures in the graphite traveled up the blank with micro cracks, making it difficult to decide where to draw the line on the repair. Cut more of the blank away and you shorten the rod and subsequently alter the way the pieces fit in terms of diameter, and the action as well. Leave the fracture and wrap up to cover it to a reasonable extent and one is left with the nagging question about how far up the blank the fractures could propagate, and possibly fail again.

I did my best, remembering the pictures Gabe showed me of steelhead caught on that stick, pictures of his young boys gathered about the big fish, smiling and proud of Dad. Gabe explained he’d really like to pass the rod on to his boys while he used the new Aetos he got as a replacement from Fenwick.

Turns out this rod has had half as many lives as a cat supposedly does, it’s lineage starting with a 12 weight of all things with an extra fore grip for saltwater big game that Gabe used to slay big Kings on the Salmon River. Some big King broke that rod, and Fenwick replaced it, as it did time and again for failure on the water. The 12 was replaced with another 12, then an 11, and then the 10 that I had for surgery. Gabe’s last go-round with Fenwick for warranty replacement ended with an 8/9 weight Aetos. But as he said to me, “if I could repair the current rod, why not let it live another life”…

So surgery started with a plan. The surgery consisted of cutting back the damaged blank, fitting it with a spigot ferrule, gluing the sections together, wrapping them like a true ferrule, and sealing / coating the wrap with marine spar varnish.

Since I had nothing to use for a spigot ferrule (i.e., old blanks, broken rods, etc.,), I had to purchase a cheap blank. I chose a 9 foot 8 weight 4 piece fast action fly rod blank. Each spigot ferrule is actually composed of two ferrules; a primary that in this case extended 2″ either side of the break, and a secondary, that is inserted into the primary spigot ferrule and adds extra support to the fly rod’s stress point and helps taper the primary spigot ferrule.

Shown above at the top of this picture is the fly rod with the cleaned up break. Below the fly rod is the primary spigot ferrule that is inserted into the blank, extending roughly 2″ either side of the break when inserted into the blank. The bottom piece is the secondary spigot ferrule that is inserted into the primary spigot ferrule to eliminate the stress point at the fly rod break and help taper the action around the break point.

The secondary (smaller) spigot ferrule is coated with 2 part epoxy and inserted into the primary spigot ferrule. Once the epoxy is dry, the primary spigot ferrule is again coated with 2 part epoxy and inserted up the lower end of the broken blank and this forms the male spigot ferrule.

Shown here is the primary spigot ferrule epoxied in place in the butt section of the broken fly rod. The next step is to epoxy the female ferrule in place.

Once the male spigot ferrule is epoxied to the upper female end of the blank, the joint is allowed to cure. Alignment of guides from both pieces is obviously critical.

The joined rod is shown here – as nicely as the two broken ends can be aligned, there will always be a small gap. The two internal spigot ferrules will allow the joint to work and taper the action.

20+ years ago, fly rod designs didn’t allow for a continuous diameter or taper in the blank. The upper section had to flare dramatically to fit over the lower section and still have enough strength to withstand flexing, so there was often a significant difference in rod diameter from one inch below the ferrule to one inch above it. This led to some sloppy rod action and breakage problems.

The original tip over butt or sleeve ferrule. Note the increased thickness of the ferrule as compared to the blank. This added bulk was needed to prevent the ferrule from failing before the advancements in fly rod design and materials.

The internal ferrule, on the other hand, while more labor-intensive to build, allowed for a continuous diameter from below the ferrule to above because the upper section didn’t have to fit over the entire diameter of the section below it. With more consistent diameters and tapers, internal-ferrule rods provided smoother action. They are still used by some fly rod manufacturers. Scott fly rods, for one, still uses the internal or spigot ferrule on its classic “G” series of medium action fly rods.

Once both breaks were joined and cured, it was time to wrap over the break. As improved as fly rod design and materials are, wraps are still used to reinforce the female ferrule. In the case of this break, I needed to make sure the female and male ends were reinforced as microcracks at the original break point could migrate under the stress of flexing and eventually lead to failure.

Wrapping started roughly an inch below the break and ended an inch above the break. Once this was complete, I applied 7 coats of Epifanes Marine Spar Varnish to the wraps, beginning with the varnish cut 50% with mineral spirits so it could thoroughly penetrate the wrapping thread. Each coat was allowed to dry 24 hours before the next application. After the final coat, I allowed the rod to dry several days before testing the rod with lawn casting.

Repaired sections of the fly rod shown at roughly 10 o’clock and 2 o’clock in the upper portion of this picture…

Focused picture of one of the repairs, lower right glossy black. In retrospect, I should have used a lighter gray thread and a non-glossy varnish so the repair blended in with the blank better.

Casting the finished rod – the Fenwick HMX 9 foot 10 weight easily laid out 40+ feet of WF10 floating line. While I never cast the original, the repaired fly rod felt beautiful and buttery smooth in hand. My dog, Maddie seems to approve, giving a loud bark at the end!

And so with the rod complete, I handed it back to Gabe, but on one condition. I asked for pictures; smiling faces, huddled about a lake-run steelhead held up high and a 10 weight fly rod in the foreground, a mended soul, a family treasure returned…

Remembering Don…

August 5, 2021 / stflyfisher

In memory of Donald A. Calder
A great bass fisherman, an even better fisher of men…
9/5/29 – 8/3/15

I quartered my streamer up-current and let it sink, dead drift, in the river braid. As it swept past me, I pulled it back in short strips interspersed with a pause – letting the olive marabou and the silly legs of the fly do an enticing water dance. Midway back the fly stopped abruptly and I swept-set the hook. My fly rod took a deep bend with the pull of a solid fish. Nothing exploded skyward on the set, so I knew this was not a smallmouth bass. Whatever this was just throbbed in the current, moving powerfully upriver, then twisting back with random but decidedly heavy surges that tested my drag. The fight continued a time; a tug of war followed by heavy sullen plodding. I started to think I had a big channel catfish on the line.

The fish continued the fight even at my feet, then finally emerged, turning away once more with the slap of its tail. I saw in that boil of river water, green and gold and white and began to wonder about this “catfish.” Then I brought to hand the biggest walleye of my fly fishing life…

I pulled him up carefully, respectful of his canines and sharp gill plates, and laid him where the river lapped the bank. Standing back with camera in hand, I marveled at his length, the green mottling of his back against golden-hued flanks and his ivory-white underbelly. His river camouflage was that of a warplane – coloring that made him invisible against the sky from below and perfectly invisible against the river bottom when seen from above.

After a quick picture I returned the walleye to the river. With one hand beneath his broad pectoral fins and the other grasping the narrow of his tail, I held him head-up into the current. His gills flared and as I felt the life come back to him, I loosened my grip at the base of his tail. With a strong sway of his head he pulled away and slipped back to the river, swimming slowly across the braid, melting into the bottom. And that is when I remembered Don and smiled to myself at the thought of his disdain for walleyes: “they fight like a bag of rocks”, I’d heard him say on more than a few occasions.

“All Americans believe that they are born fishermen. For a man to admit a distaste for fishing would be like denouncing mother-love or hating moonlight.”
John Steinbeck

It was in August of 2015 that I got a call from Bill – Don’s son and a best high school friend – that Don had passed away from cancer. And so I made my way down to northern New Jersey on a hot humid day to attend his memorial service and to give the family my personal condolences. The service was light-hearted, as I am sure Don would have wanted it. Afterwards, there was a reception at “The Legion”, a place Don frequented to have a beer with old warriors.

Now, some 6 years since Don forever hung up his spinning rod, I continue to fly fish and I think of Don. I target the smallmouth bass, my favorite gamefish – and Don’s favorite as well. But us anglers cannot always choose the fish that respond to our offerings. And on that recent foggy summer morning, a walleye took my fly, and Don came down to earth…

A part of my personal philosophy is that fishermen are born but never really die. Those that eventually slip the grips of gravity end up hanging around us, the water-bound, and watch the casts we make. We are reminded of these old fishermen in odd ways. When I am lucky enough on my home water, a nice smallmouth will launch skyward after taking my streamer and will invariably bring a smile to my face just as it did for Don. I pass an angler at the fishing access, enjoying a cold can of Budweiser after a hot day on the river, and I am again reminded of him, a tall lanky guy who sported a ball of a beer belly later in life, and who was rarely seen when land-borne without a Bud in hand. The wind whips up on the river and there he is again – Don just hated the wind, though as a spin fisherman, I never completely understood why – us fly fishers have a bit more of a valid objection. Pike remind me of him too – that peculiar smell of their slime has never left me ever since first landing one on a big Mepps spinner fished from Don’s boat. And of course there are stories from times I did not fish with him – the time Don used a large spring-device to keep a pike’s toothy yap open while removing a hook. After removing the hook, Don released the pike, forgetting that he needed to remove the spring!

Don was more than a fisherman who could tell stories. He could engage one so very well that once he caught you, it was rare you’d ever want to be released from his sense of humor and maybe too, his wisdom. For memories of fish and fishermen have always been magical in their ability to grow larger than life. The smallmouth Don caught and released will always be bigger than my own. This is a fisherman’s right, just as it is to pick and choose the stories that we leave behind. And, as with Don, a fisherman but always first a fisher of men, some of them scorn walleyes…

Category: Uncategorized (Page 4 of 6)

Eighteen Mile Creek

Stockies

Early Season Bronze

The Grinch that gave back Christmas

Captain Greg and the Montauk Monster

A Southern Tier Fly Fisher Thanksgiving

Connections

Fly fishing in Jerry’s front yard…

A broken stick…

Remembering Don…

Recent Posts

Recent Comments

Archives

Categories

Meta