One angler's journey, fly fishing through life

Category: Warmwater Fly Fishing

Posts that cover fly fishing for all warmwater species.

Younger Next Year

The afternoon knows what the morning never suspected.

Robert Frost

We all go through at least a few life-changing moments during our winks on this good earth. For me there have been a dozen or so, most of them deeply philosophical, a few from the school of hard knocks, but two, detailed herewith, that are related to physical fitness. I can see the eyes rolling already; “yeah, yeah, yeah, another message about how important exercise is for good health and what the heck does that have to do with fly fishing anyhow”. Well, bear with me…

Step back in time some 36 years: the location is Camp Pendleton – a United States Marine Corps base in very arid southern California that stretches over 125,000 acres of coastal land made up of salt marsh, floodplain, oak woodlands, coastal dunes and bluffs, coastal sage scrub, and chaparral – basically a very inviting environment for long leisurely walks…

A leisurely walk, Marine Corps style…

While the weather was quite bright and warm, the greeting committee we NROTC midshipmen met was, well, less than sunny. And the accommodations – Quonset huts right out of Gomer Pyle, USMC, complete with a resident mascot bulldog that had the undershot jaw only an orthodontist could love and the attitude toward us newbies of a junkyard dog.  What stands out as most memorable about Camp Pendleton were the leaders we served with for that week – a Latino gunny sergeant whose name escapes me now but who talked about chevies (with a hard “ch”) and cleaning the rifle chamber (with a soft “ch”) – and a most charismatic “bully pulpit” major by the last name of Hatch who unabashedly took us “young guns” to task for being pathetically out of shape and then proceeded to lead us on runs through the hilly terrain complete with oh-so-colorful jodies. I recall one “speaking to” after a run through the hills when we were severely dressed down for not being able to keep up with a man twice our age. So taken was I by the esprit de corps of the place that I remember leaving Pendleton wanting to become a marine officer. A childhood asthma diagnosis ultimately prevented me from walking down that path. While that might not have set well with the mighty major, I think he would be pleased that I have tried to remain fit all the years since…

Fast forward to the summer of 2008: I’m fishing the Chenango River, late one summer afternoon. I round a bend in the river and see another fly fisherman – hunched a little, butt-deep in the river – he false-casts his fly two or three times with nice loops in an easy, almost effortless motion. It’s a rare sight: he is only the second fly fisherman I’d seen on the river in the course of 10 years. I slowly fish my way down to him.

I wade with the river, working my streamer down and across, then pull out just upstream of him.  He has a gentle manner about him, and is so soft spoken that I have to draw close and listen cup-eared just to understand his words above the river’s soft murmur.  He’s an older man, early to mid 70’s. His face is drawn, his eyes worried…

We talk fly fishing for a bit; he prefers fishing dry flies but laments the days of chasing trout in the faster rivers of the Catskills are largely over. As he says this, he glances down at the long wooden wading staff attached to his waist and wagging atop the water below him.

I wish him luck and wade downriver as evening sets in. A few times I turn upriver and observe him in the same spot, but eventually, imperceptibly, he removes himself from the river. As I finish fishing and hike back to the car, I double back on my promise to keep physically fit but this time the promise is targeted on fighting off aging so that I may actively fish well into my eighties, and even beyond, God-willing.

Sometime after my riverside re-awakening, I came across a book that would be that second life-changing moment related to physical fitness. The book was titled, “Younger Next Year” co-authored by Chris Crowley, a 70-something ball of energy, and Henry “Harry” Lodge, M.D., his internal medicine doctor. The two trade chapters: Chris providing the application and real-world experience side of the book and Harry, the medical facts and reason behind the advice. The book’s premise: if you can fight the biological clock by sticking to some basic rules, you’ll live like you’re 50 well into your 80’s and beyond. I read the book and was compelled to read it again with highlighter in hand.

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Harry’s Rules are so simple that one might question buying such a book. But it’s what’s behind the rules that fascinated me most. The medical detail behind each rule convinced me of the book’s worth and reminded me of a common criticism I have of the medical profession: that many doctors preach rules, order tests, but rarely take the time to explain “why”…

So, here are Harry’s Rules:

1. Exercise six days a week for the rest of your life.
2. Do serious aerobic exercise four days a week for the rest of your life
3. Do serious strength training, with weights, two days a week for the rest of your life.
4. Spend less than you make.
5. Quit eating crap.
6. Care.
7. Connect and commit.

Notice that the rules go beyond being just a gym rat, another thing I loved about the book. And even the importance of non-physical rules, such as “Connect and Commit” are backed by sound medical rationale.

The book is a delightful read, especially for us older guys. It’s written by a guy who can relate to age and by a doctor who sees daily, the results that lifestyle can have on one’s aging. Harry and Chris use the mantra, “grow or decay” throughout the book and it is a good one to remember as is their chart that depicts normal aging and what “old age” can be.

Here, according to the authors, is how we typically age…

slipperySlopeAging

And here is the aging process if we live by Harry’s Rules…

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According to Harry, over 70% of premature death and aging is lifestyle related and that through simple lifestyle changes, captured in Harry’s Rules, over half of all disease in men and women over 50 could be eliminated.

The choice is ours. We can look at aging and all the associated aches and pains and limitations as normal, or we can choose to delay the onset of the slippery slope, and continue to live well into our 80’s.

And so I’ll begin 2016 with another read of Younger Next Year. I’ll think of all the fishing left to do in my life and remember the old guy on the Chenango. I’ll re-commit to fighting the relentless tide of old age, with Harry’s Rules in hand, so that I can still venture out and wet a line well into my 80’s. And with a little luck, maybe I’ll hear the young bucks over the roar of the fast water say, “would you look at that old guy?”

More on Maddie – no better friend…

The following blog post was originally published on 12/5/2014, as an update on our adoption of Maddie. Her official “gotcha” day was February 23, 2013. We believe she was born in September 2013.

Those who follow this blog know a little about Maddie. I posted a piece on our adoption of her, or perhaps I should say her adoption of my family. She was a “return”. Previous owners had adopted her as a young puppy, but we believe may have found her too much to handle. So, she was lovingly taken back by her foster shelter, Every Dog’s Dream, in Greene, NY, and after we saw her photo, it was, as they say, love at first sight…

Most people know that Labs love the water. But Hound / Lab mixes like Maddie – well, I wasn’t so sure. Maddie is a Treeing Walker Coonhound and Labrador Retriever cross. She has the ears of a Lab, the head of a coonhound, the coat of a Lab and the tail and deeper chest of a coonhound.

The Treeing Walker Coonhound…

She’ll bay like a coonhound, even stand up to a tree if she’s chased a squirrel, yet she also has a deep bark that warns with authority. She’s goofy, playful, wicked fast, retrieves, and loves her toys…

A dog's gotta have toys...
A dog’s gotta have toys…

Maddie first met water not long after we adopted her in February of 2013. And beautiful Jones Park in Vestal was the site of our first forays in field and stream. Maddie loved the snow and the woods, but ice and water took some getting used to. The first time I crossed the brook there, she paced back and forth on the other side, whining aloud before finally being coaxed across the frozen surface of the brook. From there on though, she started liking water, and these days that little brook is a favorite of hers.

Beautiful Jones Park - this little brook was Maddie's intro to the wonderful world of woods and water...
Beautiful Jones Park – Maddie’s intro to the wonderful world of woods and water…

But that was generally shallow wading with the exception of a few plunge pools. It took most of the following summer before the Susquehanna River dropped low enough for easy wading and the perfect opportunity to introduce Maddie to real swimming and maybe even some river fishing. My first trial would be a “no pressure” jaunt to an area above the Campville fishing access where there was a lot of water with a gradual transition and areas shielded from river current. We took a ride there one Sunday summer afternoon. While I had my fly rod, the goal was to wet wade and fish casually, inviting Maddie to join the water and “fish” with me.

It’s never an issue getting Maddie to take a ride in the car. Open any door and she’s eager to climb in and take up position in the back seat. She’ll then plant both front feet on the center console and look forward, or roam across the back bench seat, poking her head out either open window, ears flapping in the wind. It’s a sight to see in a little Subaru Outback and reminds me that one day I really do need to get a pick-up truck…

Cruising and scoping out the countryside, Maddie style...
Cruising and scoping out the countryside, Maddie style…

So after we arrived at the large DEC access, I took a few minutes to rig up, and then set off up-river, through the woods. Maddie was all over the place in her usual land rover style; sniffing, marking, chasing chipmunks and squirrels – all good doggie stuff. We walked out to a large rocky bar on the river and there we did a little wading as I cast my line. Maddie never strays afar – possibly an attachment issue from her past. She was right by me the whole time. I waded into the river until she almost moon-walked the bottom – and that was good enough for our first adventure. I didn’t want to push it.

Maddie wades the Susquehanna shallows...
An intro – Maddie wades the Susquehanna shallows…

The following week we repeated the same exercise. Maddie was a lot friskier, chasing plovers, wading in where I fished while watching the fly line where it entered the water. We waded deeper this time but I wasn’t having much luck with the bass. Eventually we headed to a feeder creek with a very deep hole. I spied a bass in the hole and cast my olive soft hackle bugger across the pool. It was like ringing a dinner bell as 4 bass quickly emerged from the green depths. These fish had most likely been trapped in this hole all summer – the feeder creek tailed out to a slight trickle before entering the river – and as the saying goes, beggars can’t be choosers in a spot like that. The biggest of the bass struck my fly aggressively, not wanting to let such a meal get by, and a good tussle began. The fish darted towards the security of a downfall and root ball. I put the brakes on while hollering for Maddie. I lipped the bass, removed the hook, gave Maddie a chance to say hello, and then released the bass. Maddie literally dove right into the hole in pursuit and soon experienced water without bottom. She came dog-paddling back, no worse for wear, and a certified swimmer!

Scoping out the faster water....
Surveying the faster water and making Dad a little nervous from afar…

I was thrilled, but never doubted she could do it. So we returned to the river the following week with a plan to explore a little more. I wondered, would she travel down to the honey hole – the one where the bass could be big – the one I loved to fish?

We got to the access and this time took a wooded path downriver. The path paralleled the river for a bit and then veered off along a river braid. As we hiked, Maddie would dash down to the river braid and then charge back up to find me, flying up 6 foot banks like they were nothing. Soon we came out where the river braid re-entered the river at a beautiful bay that I love to fish…

This is sweet water for fly fishing and fishing this spot gave Maddie the opportunity to explore the river-side and take a swim.

Loving the river...
Loving the river…

Soon after arriving, I cast and swung my olive soft hackle bugger through a chute of water from the river braid and that proved to be a little too much for one nice bass. The fish took the fly solidly and went airborne with the hook-set. Maddie rushed in deep where the bass zigged and zagged, trying to intercept it. At one point it darted between her legs!

A nice smallmouth landed with aid of a water dog - note the paw in the upper left...
A nice smallmouth landed with aid of a water dog – note the paw in the upper left…

Soon enough I had the bass lipped, then removed the fly and put it down for a picture – Maddie’s paw included. Maddie began pawing the bass as I put my camera away and that was enough to send it off in a big swag of its tail.

Soon after hook removal, an errant "pat on the back" sent this bass fleeing...
Soon after hook removal, an errant “pat on the back” sent this bass fleeing…

But as the saying goes, all good things must end. So it was for our river sojourns. Not long after enjoying these visits to the Susquehanna, the rains came, the river rose, and then the cold swept in. Summer faded to fall and then to “see you next year”. No matter, it was great to have a fishing buddy on the river with me…

Relaxing on the deck with a glass of wine after a good day on the river...
Relaxing on the deck with a glass of wine after a good day on the river…

And borrowing a prophecy picture from my original post on Maddie, I’d say she’s turned out to be quite a friend for a fly fisher…

Oh the places we'll go...
Oh the places we’ll go…

Say Hello to Maddie

The following blog post was originally published soon after my family adopted our wonderful dog, Maddie. Her official “gotcha” day was February 23, 2013. We believe she was born in September, 2013.


If there are no dogs in Heaven, then when I die I want to go where they went.

Will Rogers

Will Rogers said it best: dogs are good. They live their short lives on this earth looking up to whomever walks into their lives and this goes back to early man who was looking for a guardian, hunting companion, and beast of burden.

Dogs have come a long way, all in service to man...
Dogs have come a long way, all in service to man…

Dogs don’t judge; they are the very essence of unconditional love. Come home from after a bad day, depressed, tired, even angry, and though they’ve been home all alone, they come to you, tail wagging, as if Jesus Christ had just come back to earth.

Long are the tales of a dog’s absolute devotion and loyalty. Hidesamuro Ueno brought his dog, an Akita named Hachiko, to Tokyo in 1924 and every day when he left for his teaching job, Hachiko would stand by the door and watch him go. The Akita would then arrive at the local train station at 4 p.m. to meet his owner when he returned from work. Ueno later died of a stroke at work, but Hachiko continued to return to the train station every single day for the next 10 years until his death in 1935. A bronze statue stands at Shibuya Station in honor of Hachiko.

Hachiko: loyal to the end...
Hachiko: loyal to the end…

Then there’s Hawkeye, the Labrador retriever, that showed dogs too suffer from heartbreak. During Navy SEAL John Tumilson’s funeral, Hawkeye was seen ambling up to his owner’s coffin and then dropping to the ground with a heaving sigh.

Hawkeye, a chocolate lab, grieves for his fallen owner...
Hawkeye grieves for his fallen owner. No greater love…

Indeed, I remember my grandmother once saying she never trusted any person who didn’t like dogs…

Up until very recently, I’d been dog-less for too long. I grew up with dogs, after all, starting with Cocker Spaniels, thanks to my grandparents who bred and showed them. Blue Bay was their kennel – home to many champions of conformation and obedience. Years later my wife and I owned Basenjis, a unique hound breed out of Africa, known to many as the ‘barkless dog’. We showed Kephas (our male) and Yodie (our female), and after finishing them as AKC Champions, they had a litter of 5 puppies. The litter pick, Blue Bay’s Violet Memory, was named in honor of my grandmother and was my way of thanking her for bringing dogs into my life. ‘Violet’ produced many champions. One of her descendents was the first black and white Basenji to win the breed at Westminster.

Kephas and Yodie passed on, as all dogs do, and we took a break from dogs. It was nice at first not having to walk a dog in the pouring rain or frigid cold, shouting under one’s breath every expletive known to man in front of ‘just go…!’, and yes, the house seemed a lot cleaner, dirty laundry left undisturbed, cherry cheesecakes not yanked off tables, etc., etc., but after a few years without panting and yodeling and all those dog antics – comic and touching – well, something was missing. My wife stood fast for a while, claiming she wanted to enjoy the house ‘chew-free’, until out of the blue, she noticed this picture in the news…

Those eyes...
Those eyes…

The rest, as they say, is history. A week after noticing this Lab / Hound mix, we all went to see her. The bond was immediate and magical. It wasn’t another week before she was brought to us, courtesy of Every Dog’s Dream, a pet shelter in Greene, NY. Maddie wagged her way into our lives and where my wife saw a good walking companion, I immediately dreamed of a fly-fishing friend.

Maddy...
Maddy…

It turns out that Maddy was one of a litter of 4 puppies born somewhere in South Carolina. The litter had been left to a high-kill shelter, where dogs are put down if not adopted in 90 days. Fortunately, Maddie and her littermates were sent north. Audrey at Every Dog’s Dream referred to Maddie as an adorable, big-hearted girl who had good manners and liked being close to her humans. Our adoption proved she was more than right.

While pure-bred dogs have their place in life and certainly serve a purpose, the sheer number of homeless dogs continues to sky-rocket. Many of these dogs are real gems, such as we have found in Maddie, and all they’re looking for is a chance to warm a heart.

My plans for Maddie include lots of love and play, obedience training, and ultimately, a seat beside me on the way to flowing waters.

LetsGoFishing600px

I know the Lab part of her breeding will win her over to water and I’ll promise her this…

“Oh the places you’ll go! There is fun to be done! There are points to be scored. There are games to be won. And the magical things you can do with that ball will make you the winning-est winner of all.”
― Dr. Seuss, Oh, the Places You’ll Go!

The Cobbler

“Remember, cobbler, to keep to your leather.”

Michel de Montaigne, French philosopher, on staying true to one’s craft.


By all accounts, it had been a great year of fishing. My logbook listed just shy of 50 trips the previous year, excluding many half hour jaunts on my backyard pond to unwind after work. So, during my early spring gear tune-up and overhaul, it didn’t surprise me that my boots were in pretty sad shape.

I contemplated, dare I say, putting them out to pasture. After all, I’d owned them since I started fly fishing some 10 years earlier. I bought them mainly for bass fishing in the rivers – a relatively inexpensive but classic design – and Hodgeman’s no less – still made in America back then. They’d served their master well, and the mantra of this throw-away society hummed away in my head as I looked them over. Those glossy catalogs of the big brand fly fishing purveyors sell a compelling story – faster, lighter, better, tougher…

Oh, the places they took me…

The fly rod may be the heart and soul of a fly fisherman, but its his boots – the workhorse – that get him where he needs to be. They take the most abuse – the lion’s share of wear and tear of all a fly fisher carries. They are rarely in the picture of the beaming fisherman holding up the bounty of the day’s trip. And at the end of the day the weary fisherman unceremoniously sheds them, and stows them out of the light, beneath his waders, the Rodney Dangerfield’s of the angler’s gear – not getting a whole lot of respect. But like the weathered hands of a farmer, a well-used pair of boots has a story. To anyone who sees them, they speak experience astream. And they get better with age – fit better and somehow feel better. So, for these reasons, and the outright economic prudishness these times demand, I reconsidered the death sentence I was about to hand down…

There’s an old shoe repair store on the mostly bypassed main street of my town. The stores that surround it are largely what you’d call mom and pop businesses. Some storefronts are shuttered looking for new owners, the victims of the big box retailers that now line the parkway to the east. This little place sits among them – a classic sign marking its existence. It is busier than one may think.

You won’t find Gucci here, but he could repair them…

So, I went there one day on lunch break, boots in one hand, new Hodgeman’s felts in the other. Inside, the place breathed leather, shoe polish, and glue. Behind the counter was a doorway, a window into the lonely world of the cobbler. In the back of the shop was a long workbench, shoe anvils, all types of tools – awls, picks, and mallets – and racks of laces, shoemakers stitching, and leather. To the left of the counter were the fruits of true craftsmanship – neatly set in racks, tags hanging with names of owners. Every shoe, boot, belt, and handbag was polished. I began to feel good.

Inside that door waits a true cobbler…

The cobbler soon emerged from the back, clad in a heavy leather apron, workshirt, and brimmed hat. His whole appearance, including the neatly trimmed beard covering his jaw, seemed Amish, though I couldn’t be sure, and his hands testified to his work ethic – rough, calloused, and black with polish. His demeanor was pleasant. He studied my boots, turning them in his big hands – pulling the tongue back, examining the sides.

That my boots needed to be re-soled was apparent. The felt was worn thin and, in some places, de-laminated from the boot bottoms. But it’s what I didn’t tell him that he seemed to focus on. “I can re-glue the inside sole”, he said. He continued examining my boots, noting how the stitching on the outer sides was frayed and, in some cases, parted. “I’ll re-stitch these here”, he added. We settled the particulars – I could pick them up in a week. He marked a tag with my name and phone number and set them in a rack of accumulating work. He asked where I fished. The Susquehanna he was not too familiar with – he had canoed a few local lakes, but not the rivers of the Southern Tier. So, for the next half hour I told him about the fishing – the big smallmouth bass, walleyes, channel cats, carp, and musky that could be caught, and then about the wildlife that could be seen – mergansers that flew like sea-skimming missiles up the river and the osprey that dove straight into the river like a rock dropped from the clouds and the eagles that cast big shadows where they flew, and the great blue herons that at a distance in the early morning mist looked like hunched old fisherman working a pool. All these things I had seen because of my boots.

A week later I returned – a sunny spring day full of promise. I picked up my boots, newly clad with bright white felts, neater in appearance, restitched, all put together, and ready for work. The fee was so nominal I can’t recall it now, but for the memories they’d bring me, I should have paid a hell of a lot more.

Coming to a river near you, the Flathead…

Mama always said, life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re going to get.

Forrest Gump

While perusing Facebook one morning, I came across a picture that rather startled me in both a good and bad way. I’m a Facebook friend of long-time fishing guide, Lance Dunham, and in my feed was a report from a recent outing he made with clients. Typical of Lance were pictures of some very nice smallmouth bass, but there is always a smattering of other species mixed in. This is one reason I have always enjoyed fishing the Susquehanna and its tributaries: the diversity of species the river offers up. On any given day, one can tie into smallmouth bass, fallfish, northern pike, carp, channel catfish, walleye, rock bass, and musky. And Lance’s post proved you can now add another species: the flathead catfish. But whether this is a good or bad species to add to the list is up for speculation over the longer term.

A client of Lance Dunham, fishing guide, shows a flathead catfish caught in the Susquehanna, south of Towanda PA

The flathead catfish has been grabbing news headlines over the years in towns and cities around the lower Susquehanna River. In 2020, a 56 lb. fish was caught, establishing a Pennsylvania state record. 3 years later, the state record was broken again by a 66 lb. flathead caught in the Susquehanna near Conestoga, PA, roughly 30 miles southeast of Harrisburg.

The record-setting angler was fishing with a friend in a very deep channel of the river known as Lake Aldred. He had baited a live rainbow trout onto a large circle hook with a 1.5-ounce sinker. The pair had four lines in the water at once and it wasn’t long before they had 3 hook-ups – landing a 30 pounder, a 45 pounder, and finally the new state record fish.

The current Pennsylvania state record flathead catfish

The huge flathead catfish officially weighed 66 pounds and 6 ounces, exceeding the previous state record by more than 10 pounds and measured 50.25 inches long with a girth of 35 inches. To show just how large flatheads can grow, Pennsylvania’s record is just half the world record, set by a 123 lb. fish caught out of a reservoir in Kansas!

The fish was released alive by the Pennsylvania game warden certifying the record. I found it odd that the angler was using a gamefish for bait, but Pennsylvania allows the use of gamefish for bait as long as they are fished whole. More interesting was the fact that such a fish with a record of being “invasive” was released alive.

Turns out the topic of “invasive” is in itself confusing. The flathead catfish (Pylodictis olivaris) is native to the Mississippi River basin, which includes parts of western Pennsylvania—specifically the Ohio River drainage. So, while it’s native to the greater state of Pennsylvania, it’s only truly native to that western sliver of the state, and certainly not native to the Susquehanna River basin, where it was first detected in 1991. It has since spread rapidly.

Flathead catfish are apex predators, sitting at the top of the food chain. Once introduced to the Susquehanna River, they’ve begun reshaping the ecosystem in dramatic ways that include predation of native species such as smallmouth bass, channel catfish, baitfish, and even crayfish. Their presence also forces other species to change their diets and habitats to avoid competition or predation. Channel catfish, for example, feed lower on the food chain in areas where flatheads are present. And because of this broad dietary overlap, ecological balance can be affected. Smallmouth bass, channel catfish, and carp all feed on crayfish, making the flathead just one more “consumer” of that resource.

Pennsylvania is taking steps to manage this invasive species. There is no creel limit for flatheads, for example, and catfish is a good eating fish. While there is a creel limit for channel cats in Pennsylvania – 50 per day – New York has no creel limit. One has to wonder if at some point these limits will be adjusted due to the flathead’s predilection for eating anything that swims.

In addition to the absence of a creel limit, there is also no mandate that flatheads be killed, such as is the case for snakeheads in Pennsylvania, which must be both killed and reported. In waters like the Delaware and Susquehanna River basins, anglers are only encouraged not to release Flatheads, regardless of size.

The concern of the flathead’s opportunistic predation and its potential to decimate native and recreational fisheries has led a team of researchers from Penn State, the U.S. Geological Survey (USGS), and the Pennsylvania Fish and Boat Commission to assess how flatheads are affecting the food web and energy flow in the Susquehanna River in Pennsylvania.

Their research found that flatheads had the highest trophic position – the level an organism occupies in a food web, based on its feeding relationships – even higher than resident top predators such as smallmouth bass and channel catfish. Channel catfish had a lower trophic position in areas populated with flathead catfish. This means they had to eat lower in the food chain, likely because they are being outcompeted by flatheads or avoiding them. In areas with flathead catfish, they also found all species showed broader and overlapping diets.

The research suggests that resident species are changing what they eat to avoid competing with or being eaten by the invader. The research also supports the ‘trophic disruption hypothesis,’ that says when a new predator enters an ecosystem, it forces existing species to alter their behavior, diets and roles in the food web. This can destabilize ecosystems over time. The study highlights how an invasive species can do more than just reduce native populations – it can reshape entire food webs and change how energy moves through ecosystems.

In addition to evaluating trophic position, the researchers also analyzed the isotopic niche occupied by the fish species – the range of carbon and nitrogen markers found within the tissues of an organism, reflecting its diet and habitat, providing insights into its ecological role.

To reach their conclusions, the researchers employed stable isotope analysis, a widely used tool that can explain patterns within a food web, highlighting links between trophic positions, as well as the breadth and overlap of trophic niches.

When fish eat, their bodies incorporate the isotopic signature of their food. By sampling their tissues, scientists can measure nitrogen isotopes and determine their diet, carbon isotopes to determine habitat use, and compare isotopic signatures across regions to deduce fish migration or habitat shifts. For this study, channel catfish, smallmouth bass, minnows and crayfish were selected as focal species because a previous diet analysis conducted in collaboration with Penn State, USGS, and Pennsylvania Fish and Boat Commission researchers within the Susquehanna River, showed that these species are important prey for flathead catfish.

“Flatheads grow fast in this river system, attain large body sizes and can eat a variety of prey,” said study author Olivia Hodgson, a master’s degree student at Penn State University. “Because adult flatheads have few natural predators, flathead catfish can exert strong control over the ecosystem.”

But invasives are nothing new. Zebra mussels, carp, Didymo, hydrilla, rusty crayfish, gobies – our waters have weathered all manner of invasives with different results. The St. Lawrence is one system hugely impacted by zebra mussels. I can recall fishing there in the 90’s when pike were plentiful in vast aquatic weed beds. Zebra mussels changed all of that – the water is now crystal clear, favoring smallmouth bass and diminishing northern pike populations.

I had the opportunity to discuss the invasion of the flathead during an outing with guide local guide Jimmy Kirtland of Row Jimmy’s guide service. Kirtland guides on the Susquehanna and other local rivers for smallmouth bass, channel catfish, and musky. His response to whether flatheads will truly change the fishing was muted, saying there is often a lot of anxiety to the news of invasives, but things tend to work themselves out in the long run and not become the environmental disasters that were originally feared.

The primary method of catching flathead on rod and reel is using live or cut bait. Flatheads are very different from channel catfish. They have relatively small eyes whereas channel catfish have large eyes.

The beady eyes of a flathead…

And flatheads, especially the large ones, prefer live bait, and less so dead or even the stinky kinds of baits used for channel catfish. They prefer to feed at night but can be caught during the day around submerged structure, especially wood snags. The larger fish tend to be loners and will be very aggressive towards any fish, including their own.

But can they be caught on a lure or better yet, the fly? The fact that Lance Dunham’s clients are catching them is evidence of their taking a lure. But the fly? The answer is yes and I didn’t have to look far on the internet to find that answer. Flylords Mag featured an account of an outing by two anglers in eastern North Carolina. While sight fishing for longnose gar on a local river in low, clearwater conditions, these anglers stumbled upon a group of flatheads…

My buddy was in front of me and reached the pool we had in mind first, and yelled that there were 4 or 5 GIANT CATFISH. I didn’t realize how big he meant until I caught up with him and looked where he was pointing. These absolute giants were congregated and slowly cruising around at the top of the hole, and we both started freaking out. I had broken my 9wt earlier in the week and was using my 8wt with a slightly sinking tip. I tied on an EP brush fiber & deer hair gamechanger fly I tied the night before. I cast to the closest fish and just hovered it in front of its face, with a few short and abrupt strips. I immediately froze for a moment as I saw its mouth open and engulf the fly. The fish kind of turned in confusion for a slight second and shot downstream as it realized it was hooked.

Fly angler Andy Howard cradling a river monster…

I held on to my rod and barreled downstream after it, tearing my legs up in the process. I knew this was the biggest catfish I’d ever hooked and my mind was just racing. The pools are closely connected and are very deep so I had to plan on where to step accordingly. This didn’t really work out as I fell many times just to keep up with this fish, but I didn’t care. It seriously felt like I had hooked into a truck, and I was the one being controlled. I get crap constantly from my buddy’s because I use straight 35-pound mono as my short leader (for toothy gar and bowfin) but I was glad I didn’t have anything less than it on. I truly did not think I was going to land this fish because for every inch I got on him, he took back two feet or more. At the bottom of the third or fourth massive pool, the catfish realized it couldn’t go any further downstream as the river started to shallow up, and decided it was heading back upstream. I obliged. After a fight close to 45 minutes, and when fish was finally growing tired I managed to guide it into one of the open rock crevice areas where I felt I could most safely unhook it and admire it.

To pursue these fish on the fly, think very large flies with lots of movement, fished deep in snaggy structure by day and in shallower areas adjacent to holding water at night. Gear would need to be of the salty type – a 9 – 11 weight fly rod, big reels spooled with lots of backing and depending on the depth fished, intermediate to sinking fly line and a heavy, 30 pound-plus, short leader.

It’s likely that guide Lance Dunham’s future fishing reports will include more flatheads being caught, but will the smallmouth bass make less of an appearance going forward? As a long-term fly angler of the Susquehanna and its smaller tributary rivers, I’m never disappointed when I run into channel catfish. While I’d hate to see the balance that exists now shift largely in favor of “the invader”, the thought of hooking up with one of these river monsters on the fly sings a siren’s song…

Learning from Andrew

Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery that mediocrity can pay to greatness.

Oscar Wilde

On a daily walk in my new environs – Lake Ontario, its tributaries, ponds and wetlands – I stopped to watch a man as he fished the shoreline of Long Pond. He was fishing with a micro spinning rod; it’s length a bit more than the micro spinning rods used for ice fishing. On his second cast and retrieve, his little rod bent over with the pull of a nice fish. After a brief but vigorous tussle, he brought to hand a substantive white perch – thick and stout in body. Subsequent casts produced a few more of similar size. After witnessing his success, I felt compelled to talk to him about his unique fishing method.

Long Pond looking south from Edgemere Drive. Photo credits: Dick Halsey.

His name was Andrew, and his heavy accent hinted at Eastern European origins (he later revealed that he was from Belarus). He was of medium stature, fit, slightly balding, and he stood with an interesting stance as he fished, a fencer with his spinning rod extended like a foil.

A large white perch. Picture courtesy of wired2fish.com

I watched intently as he cast his tiny rig and then worked his bait to shore. His casts were 20 to 30 feet and ended with an open bail and upward lift of the rod to put more slack in the line. Then he’d stand in that fencing pose, rod held straight out to the side as he slowly retrieved his rig. The retrieve started with a series of rapid jigs of the rod tip, followed by a very slow retrieve and a pause. He repeated this all the way to the shoreline, then cast again at a completely different angle.

An example of the type of micro spinning rod used by Andrew.

Closer inspection of his lure revealed that it was nothing more than a small split shot above a size 6 – 8 hook, on which was threaded a ruby-colored, segmented, and very thin, soft plastic worm. The little worm seemed to imitate a bloodworm.

A soft plastic bait similar to what Andrew used.

I continued to talk to Andrew as he fished. It was not that he wasn’t forthcoming with answers to my questions, but he struggled with each sentence, bearing down with a grimace that looked like he just drank a very strong shot of whiskey, followed by stuttering and then finally the words that he wanted to speak. It was painful to watch, and I almost regretted asking him anything for the effort it required to respond, but he was enthusiastic and it was obvious he loved angling as much as he wanted to share his secrets from “his country”.

Among Andrew’s many “laws” on fishing were the following:

  1. Fish when the wind is out of north or calm – this was purely to facilitate casting his ultralight rig. The line he was using was likely 2 lb. test and if casting from the shore of Long Pond, a south wind would have made it near impossible.
  2. He claimed the fishing was “never good in summer”. I think this was more of a statement on the types of fish he was after, primarily perch. Yellow and white perch come into Long Pond to spawn each spring via an outlet that joins the pond with Lake Ontario.
  3. Keep moving and cast in various angles – Andrew could not understand anglers who “camp” in one spot and fish that spot all day long. He emphasized that he would thoroughly cast the half mile shoreline up and down many times in the course of each outing.
  4. Have confidence in your rig and method and perfect it like fine art. Andrew claimed he was a professional angler back in Belarus. I’m assuming this meant he competed in tournaments and based on what I witnessed, he was very effective at his craft.

Andrew showed me pictures of some of the fish he had been taken in the course of a week. Among the many big perch were truly sizeable walleye and sheepshead (freshwater drum).

I finally left Andrew to his fishing, not wanting to delay him from enjoying his morning trip. As I continued my walk, I reflected on my infancy with the long rod and the hubris I developed regarding what I considered “lower” means of fishing. But over time, I changed my perspective, realizing there was a lot I could learn by watching conventional anglers, like Andrew. Their tactics clued me in on better ways to fish the fly, fly choice to imitate their own baits, color or action choice, and the amount of weight to use to fish the water column effectively. Even when I could not exactly match their tactics, watching them gave me better insight into the bite and made me a better fisherman. Indeed, these days I find myself often watching anglers around me as much as the water, the hatch, or signs of fish feeding. Andrew was just another good chapter in the book of imitation. And after watching him, I was soon envisioning adapting his technique with a one or two-weight fly rod, fine light leader and 6X tippet, and a fly all of my own to imitate a bloodworm…

Early Season Bronze

“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.

Connections

Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.

John 15:13

One of the great themes in fly fishing is that of connection. We hold a fly rod in hand, to which a reel, our line and a fly of choice are all connected, and we send that fly to the water to ultimately connect with a living thing.

We are also connected to place as fly fishermen. As such, a favorite of mine has always been the Chenango River, a place I’ve enjoyed wet wading in early September when the smallmouth bass are sensing the turn of the river. Their metabolism, then, holds its summer-high and the bass instinctively heed nature’s call and feed aggressively knowing that fall and a long winter of starvation approaches. It’s still early though – the green of the surrounding old hills hemming in the river hasn’t faded just yet, though an errant maple may have decided otherwise with a faint flash of autumn hues.

Seasons play a tug of war this time of year. The nights, cooling with the dwindling daylight, still yield daily to the lingering warmth of late summer. You’re caught casting the river with big streamers to match the baitfish that have been growing since spring, and hoping the fishing holds on a little longer than last year…

Wading slowly downriver, one makes casts to undercut and shaded banks, across soft ripples, and into the deeper pools, and if on a good day the bass are in play. There can be some good tugs from a few dandies with fallfish mixed in, and in one deep hole, a big channel cat may just decide to crush a size 2 wooly bugger swept deep across its hold.

The wade continues and in the dying of the day, I’ll leave the river and return to my truck, not knowing until recently that the river provided a far deeper connection than the tug of fish pursued, and one that represented the highest calling in life.

My parents and much of my family on both sides, grew up in Staten Island, NY, one of the five boroughs of New York City. Back in their day, it was a good place to grow up, and very much a melting pot. They both advanced through the NYC Public School system, ending with Curtiss High School and a sound education. Among their classmates was a good-looking and very well-dressed kid named “Vinnie” – Vincent Robert Capodanno Jr. Both of my parents knew him fairly well apparently, my father in particular, but neither mentioned him until one day, when my mother told me that she and my father graduated high school with a Marine who died in Viet Nam and received the Medal of Honor. I don’t recall the reason this came up or whether she stated his name, but she claimed he had jumped on a grenade to save the lives of other Marines in his company.

Vincent Capodanno went on after high school to become a Navy Chaplain after first being ordained a Catholic priest and serving time as a Maryknoll Missionary. Intrigued by his story in the military and the connection to my family, I searched for this hero over the years but to no avail as my parents had never told me his name. And then one day I hit it right while googling the internet, and up he came with his story of true sacrifice.

Father Capodanno was known as the “Grunt Padre” because of his devotion to “his Marines.” He was unique in that he would intentionally go on operations where risks were the greatest and in complete disregard to policy for chaplain conduct in the field. Even under direct orders to stay back, he would sneak off and hop on a Huey to be where the action was hot and where he could do, in his own words, the most good. It was said he would carry extra supplies, give his poncho to a needy Marine, provide smokes, candy, and Saint Christopher medals. He carried a pack like all the other Marines, slept in the mud, endured the sweltering heat, the insects and the toil of long marches. He said Mass in the field, heard confessions, and offered an ear to listen to the concerns and fears of young soldiers in a foreign, far-away land.

Father Capodanno, saying Mass in the field…

After reading several books about him, I soon learned that Father Capodanno’s sacrifice was a bit different than what my mother had told me, but nonetheless, one that earned him, posthumously, the Medal of Honor and a path to sainthood in the Catholic Church.

Although he served in several combat operations during his tour, some in which he was wounded, his participation in Operation Swift would turn out to be the end for him and many other Marines. At 4:30 am, on September 4, 1967, company-sized elements of the 1st Battalion 5th Marines encountered a large North Vietnamese unit of approximately 2,500 men near the village of Dong Son in the Thang Bin District of the Que Son Valley. Outnumbered by over 5 to 1, Companies B and D were badly in need of reinforcements as the fighting intensified. By 9:14 am, 26 Marines were confirmed dead. At 9:25 am, the commander of 1st Battalion 5th Marines requested further reinforcements. M and K companies were whisked into action by helicopter that morning, and among them was Father Capodanno.

The ground fire in the vicinity of the proposed landing zone (LZ) just east of Hill 63 and the Dong Son village where B and D companies were fighting was so great that the choppers were forced to set down a distance away. This required both companies to march roughly 2.5 miles to the action under extremely hot and humid conditions.

A command post (CP) and aid station were set up on a small knoll, the other side of which raged the battle. Father Capodanno could hear the gunfire and PFC Stephen A. Lovejoy, M company radio operator, calling back to the command post: “We’ve been overrun. We can’t hold out.”

The CP on the knoll, after action. Note the captured rocket-propelled grenades and automatic weapons used in the battle by the PAVN.

Operation Swift

Father Capodanno dashed over the hill, found PFC Lovejoy, grabbed him by the shoulder and brought him back to the relative safety of the CP. Time and again throughout that late morning and early afternoon Father Capodanno would do the same thing with the wounded and dying. His first wound of the day was a shot through his right hand disabling his fingers. He was bandaged but refused to leave the battlefield on the next medevac. “I need to be where my Marines need me most,” he said. Choking in the midst of tear gas deployed to make the North Vietnamese disperse, Father Capodanno—who had given his gas mask to a young Marine who was without one—got his second wound from a mortar shell, disabling his whole right arm and shoulder. He was bandaged up but again refused to leave the battlefield.

A short time later, Father Capodanno ran to aid another wounded Marine, Seargent Lawrence David Peters, Squad Leader of the 2nd Platoon. Though mortally wounded in the chest, Peters had propped himself up against a tree stump, exposing himself to enemy fire in order to direct weapons fire on enemy machine gun positions on the adjacent ridge. No one dared go near Sergeant Peters, except Father Capodanno, who ran to the dying man’s side despite the intense weapons fire and his own wounds, to pray with the Marine and to care for him in his last minutes of life.

Seargent Lawrence D. Peters, Binghamton son…

The last moments of Father Capodanno’s own life took place near an enemy machine gun nest that three Marines were trying to take out. All three men were cut down, two killed instantly and a third, Ray Harton, shot through his left shoulder. A corpsman went to Harton’s aid but was quickly shot through both legs. As both men lay bleeding on the battlefield, Father Capodanno ran to them. He first went to Harton, who had served the priest’s Mass the day before, anointed him and said, “Stay calm, Marine, God is with us all today and you’re going to be OK.” Then he ran to the side of the corpsman, with his legs shot up—who was also a Catholic—and prayed over him, while shielding him. As he prayed, Father Capodanno was shot 27 times in the back.

Father Vincent Capodanno, Navy Chaplain, LT USNR

It was only after reading several books on Father Capodanno that I found yet another serendipitous connection in this story. Seargent Peters, it turns out, was Binghamton born and raised, and was also awarded the Medal of Honor posthumously for his heroic actions that fateful day. And even more ironic, I learned he was buried in Chenango Valley Cemetery, not far from the Chenango River.

Call it serendipity, chance, or destiny, that my parents brought me into this world and that through them I found a connection to their classmate and friend who would become a priest, Navy chaplain, Medal of Honor winner, and Servant of God on his way to sainthood. That chaplain came to the aid of a young Marine who grew up just down the road from where I’ve lived these last 30 years. On that hot humid day in a part of the world so unlike home, Father Capodanno gave Seargent Lawrence Peters last rites amidst the cacophony of battle before he himself succumbed shielding another mortally wounded Marine.

And so, I’ll never fish the Chenango River the same, as I’ve fished it in years past in search of smallmouth bass on the feed. I’ll fish it reverently on these early fall days and wade it as if walking on sacred ground, knowing the deep and heroic connections that lie just off the river’s banks.