This is 40

Yesterday, I turned 40.  This is no great feat, mind you, as it is inevitably what comes after 39 and all the rest.  Still I can't help but say to myself in quiet moments, "Wow.  I made it."  Whatever the hell that means.

My wife, amazing as she is, threw me a surprise party a couple of Saturdays ago in which about 100 of my closest friends and family attended.  There was a band and bbq food and booze and cigars and a whole lot of laughter and love.  A whole lot.  So began the celebration coupled with a lot of reflection.  "Wow.  I made it."

I've never been much for new things.  I don't know if this is a by-product of being one of nine children (number 8 to be exact) or if I'm just not all too amused by shiny, out of the package...stuff.  Might be a bit of both.  As you know if you've read this blog before, I have been using my late father's (can one still use the term "late" if the person they are referring to is gone well over 20 years? How about very late?) fly fishing setups since he passed.  The waders have leaks in more places than did the Nixon administration and the 5 weight rod is just about finished.  It's not yet, but just about.  So, a party, some friends and family, and a whole lot of Orvis gift cards.  Who am I kidding?  I love shiny new stuff.  

I am so happy to report that I have, thanks to said friends and family, acquired a whole new outfit for the fly side of this little fishing hobby of mine.  I went down to Orvis yesterday and picked up a nine foot, five weight, mid flex Access fly fishing rod coupled with the Access mid-arbor reel with backing and line and all of the fine fixins.  I also acquired Orvis' new line of waders called the Silver Sonic Waders.  Talk about snazzy.  The name says it all.  Not only do they keep you dry but you can hover over the water in them by pressing a button on the suspenders that vents a force field of air through the sole of the boots.  Not really.  But the name sure sounds like they would.

Not only did I attain this fantastic new gear, I actually got to use it today. 

It was a fine day on the East Branch of the Croton River.  I spent quite a bit of time there this afternoon and into the evening.  I fished nymphs and dries, emergers and streamers.  I even had a bit of luck.  The new rod yielded me a nice 12 inch Brown within the first five minutes of my arrival.  Soon after I hooked and lost another decent fish.  Upon moving downstream, I decided to "play" with the small Bluegills for a good half an hour as they were having fun pretending to be trout while rising to my Elk Hair Caddis fly.  At one point I had the dry caddis on and fished two dropper nymphs below that.  A Prince Nymph and a tiny Hare's Ear.  Oddly enough I managed a trout on all three of these flies within the next hour.  I lost a solid 14 inch or so Rainbow and then swiftly netted his little brother.  It was a day full of action and fun.  There was a nice break at Trestle Pool with two Captain Lawrence Pale Ales and a decent cigar while the sun sleeked its way through the solid green cloak of leaves.  "Wow, " I thought, "I made it."

Not that those who made it happen for me necessarily read this blog but I would like to say a heartfelt thanks to you all for sharing in the passage of another decade with me.  And thanks for my shiny new fantastic toys.

This is 40 and I like it very much.

Tight lines.

Mike   

Days Like These

I don't have many words to describe this morning's outing.  I was still coming off of a high of catching that gem of a Brown just a few days ago.  I kept promising myself that my next trip would be stream side with a beer and a fly rod for an evening hatch but the reservoir lured me once again.  "Didn't you like that Brown I rewarded you with?  How would you like to double that?"  Let's face it.  I couldn't resist.  I'm very good at keeping promises.  Just not to myself.  I am so grateful to have days like these...

Rivers and Reservoirs

I am a fortunate guy.

Within a twenty mile radius of my home I have what I consider to be world class fishing.  I can be at the fabled Kensico Reservoir (fabled due to it's damming of water up over the old town of Kensico back in 1915) within 5 minutes depending on the excitement in my legs as forced through the accelerator.  I can also be on a stream within twenty minutes should I use the same method of trumping the speed limit.  For the record, I rarely do but that's not to say I don't.

About a week or so ago, I stopped into the Bedford Sportsman (www.bedfordsportsman.com) and picked up a couple of leaders and replenished a couple of flies.  Early in the spring I had lost a monster on the East Branch of the Croton Reservoir on a nymph that looked like a cross between a Copper John and a Prince Nymph.  I lost two of those flies that day and had been thinking about them ever since.  We have had a tremendous amount of rain here in NY recently, so I figured it wouldn't hurt to arm myself with a couple of these unique bottom bouncers.  I had a small chance for another "Tweener" in which I had the occasion to cross Route 35 on my way back to work which, in turn, meant I had to cross the Amawalk River.  My car made a sharp left onto Wood Street and my waders and rod were in hand in what felt like seconds.  I had a half an hour and I made a b-line to a spot that I thought might produce in higher water.  It had produced for me before in the way of some small wild Brown Trout back in the spring.  I hoped for a repeat.

I did get a repeat in the "wild" department but not so much in the "small" department.  I fished a tight pocket and swung said nymph in front of a slab of boulder (I mean, I might have even bounced the damn thing off the rock and into the water) and just as it was about to hit a swirl into the next run, the indicator sucked down into the depths.  Fish on!  What came to hand after an awesome up-current battle was one of the most beautiful trout I have ever seen.  

This speckled sensation with it's golden hue put a big grin on my mug.  I released it safely as she darted off and I darted back up Wood Street and back to work with time to spare.  A rarity on so many levels.

With a fortunate thunderstorm on Monday evening, I woke Tuesday morning with a clear decision to fish the Kensico.  I say fortunate because anytime a fishing decision is made for me due to weather it is just that; fortunate.  Otherwise, I spend time on one body of water wondering how the other body of water is fishing.  A disease I know full well that I share with at least some of you.

My pursuit of a generous sized reservoir Brown Trout has been the fodder of many late night meanderings of the mind.  I have read, talked, asked, read some more, talked and asked some more about these elusive fish for more hours than I can equate.  Not to mention the time I have actually put in on my bony rearend on the seat of a jon boat.  That is not to say that I haven't enjoyed those hours.  I most certainly have.  I have even caught a bunch of fish in those hours...just not the spotted, big bellied beauties that I have seen and heard so much about.

Armed with Baitfeeder reels and a busted up old plastic bucket of Sawbellies, I hit the water at about 6:30 AM.  After hooking and releasing a smallish Laker, I decided that I would row about a half an hour away to a spot that always seems to produce for me and that I now know holds some Browns.  Well, you all know how those half an hour rows go, don't you?  Within the first five minutes the wind picked up and attempted to blow me back from whence I came.  Now I was born with an Irish temper and a bit of Italian stubbornness to boot.  Both of those wonderful genetic features kept me at it.  I'll be damned if I don't get there.

About forty five minutes to an hour later, I was precisely where I wanted to be.  The wind disappeared as if it were rewarding me for my efforts.  Nature, as you know, has a way of rewarding us at times.  This feature of the unknown temperaments of the Great Mother is another reason that we find ourselves doing what we do.  It adds a bit more glow to the rewards.

24' to be exact is where I dropped the Belly to.  I was fishing over water that was around 70 feet deep.  I had only one line out as I was replacing the leader on the other line from the Lake Trout who had compromised it's integrity.  I was deep in thought regarding the placement of the downed Belly, what to do and what depth to fish the next line once I re-rigged it, how will the wind behave if...wait a second...a slow tic, tic, tic of the baitfeeder.  Freeze.  Quiet.  Shhhh...tic, tic, tic again.  Now slowly it peels and stops.  Don't touch it.  Shut up, Mike, it's not a Brown....or is it?  Slowly, another peeling of the line.  I wonder if the fish knows it's me up here in this stupid tin boat...peel, peel, peel.  Stop.  Wait.  Nothing.  Shit.  Gone.

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!   There she goes!  Pick up the rod, dummy!!

FISH ON!!!

After all the tell tale takes and all of the running "side to side" as all the great fisherman I know have foretold, she flashed a beautiful streak about fifteen feet down and I knew she was what I had hoped for.  I got her close, maybe five feet down and ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! this time on the first drag system.  Boy, did she dive down.  Now she's turning the boat!  How big is this thing??  Up again and shaking her head...diving down again.  Can I breath yet??  

Finally, after the longest five minutes of my life, she was in the boat.  If the stream trout made me grin then this thing made me smile like a big dopey puppy.  I let out a "YEEHOOOOO!" or three as loud as one might imagine but probably louder than that.  And then I let out a couple more as I gave thanks for the catch.

This trout, mind you, is by no means a monster but she is my monster at the moment.  I have fished for most of my life with times of many years between trips and times of exciting fishing and plenty of skunks.  

This is my most exciting catch.  My "fish of a lifetime".

Until the next one.  Boy, I'll tell you...these rivers and reservoirs...

I am a fortunate guy.

  

Two Mikes...

The alarm blipped at 4 a.m. this past Saturday and I was happy to hear it sing.  I rose and left the house quietly as to not wake the three pre-teen girls who slept in the living room as a post birthday party celebration of my daughter's 10th.  They had been fairly loud the evening and into the depth of the night before so I am going to estimate that I had gotten, at most, 3 hours of shuteye.  I wasn't bothered much by this as I was headed out to fish with a friend that I've been acquainted with for some time but whom I've never had the opportunity to fish with.  In fact, we had never met in person.  I should also note that he is a hell of a fisherman.  Now being a "hell of a fisherman" is by no means a prerequisite for me to want to fish with someone but it certainly doesn't hurt things.  I was looking forward to it to say the least.

After I had slurped down a cup of Mobil's finest sludge and a granola bar, I met Mike on the reservoir at about 5.  The sun was still just barely out of hibernation as we loaded a dry land bobsled of sorts of my partners finest gear; a few 10 and 12 foot noodle rods with bait feeder reels attached, a couple of jigging outfits for Lake trout and a curious collection of lead core setups.  The loading of the gear was coupled with pleasant conversation but I knew that I was now a part of a tactical operation.  We were catching fish.

We decided to row for a bit to an area that both of us had previous success at.  Once we were satisfied with our location, we dropped a couple of sawbellies down.  We chatted about our families and shared some pictures of them on the cell phones.  A warmth appeared in the boatman's words when he spoke of his.  I appreciated that.  So often when men talk about marriage and raising kids with each other there are too many of a couple of things; complaints or bad jokes.  With Mike, I got neither.  I got the sense that this guy was a hell of a husband and father.  Again, not a prerequisite but it don't hurt.

Bang, the first hit came and it came on hard.  The baitfeeder ripped and Mike asked me to handle it.  We both hoped for a Brown.  I wasn't sure.  It bounced down a few times on the run and then raked sideways just like the finicky speckled Trout.  After a short battle and a long hold of my breath it was a nice fat...Small Mouth Bass.  Ok, I thought, I'll take it to wash off the skunk from the last two outings.  We both agreed it was a good omen that a fish was on within minutes of dropping.

Boom, another hit, another Bass.  And again soon after.  That was three Smallies in a row.

You've got to handle the next hit, I told him.  Enough is enough.

It should be understood that Mike is somewhat of a Brown Trout magnet these past couple of seasons.  Don't get me wrong, he works his tail off for his success and has his butt on a boat seat for more hours than you and I combined but the man can catch some Trout.  He is very humble about his success and I give him a lot of credit for that.  I'd be writing books. (Says the guy who writes lengthy blog posts about NOT catching fish!)

It surprised me to learn that with all of my cohorts success, he has yet to net a Brown out of Kensico.  Mike has a few boats on a few different reservoirs and Kensico is a good 45 minute trek for him so I believe it to be his least fished body of water.

Anyhow, after asking him to handle the next hit, he did.  And he boated his first Brown Trout.  Now, I don't call myself a mathematician but if we got 4 hits and 4 fish and I took three Bass out of the four hits into the boat and Mike took the Brown, wouldn't that equate to me being a lousy Trout fisherman?   But I digress...

Soon after, I hit a nice Laker on the jig which, in itself, is bounds of fun.  We would mark a fish at a certain depth and then send the jig down while we watched it on the fish finder.  Right at the same depth we'd close the bail and start the jig.  Bounce, bounce, reel.  Bounce, bounce, reel.  WHAM!  It was both invigorating and hilarious at once.  Two grown men giggling like the girls at the previous nights slumber party as we watched and waited while the Trout played cat and mouse with the jigs.  This is an exciting way to fish, folks.  You need to get out there and do it.  You won't be disappointed.  At one point I was awarded the assist for jigging a Laker off of a 90 foot floor as I got him to chase the jig up to 20 feet where it found Mike's bait hanging on the bait feeder.  He nailed it from there and we giggled some more.

For the last leg of our morning trip we decided to pull up the bait and focus on the jigging.  While singing some "Travelling Wilbury" tunes, we each boated a few more Lake Trout and I decided to keep one for the table which I ate for a late night Father's Day dinner.  We never did get to the lead core setups so my curiosity will have to hold for now...

In the end the "Two Mikes" didn't catch any monsters out there but we did manage a heck of a lot of action.  I will say that I had a great day of fishing with a new friend who I admire for more reasons than just being a hell of a fisherman.  But let's face it folks, that certainly doesn't hurt things.

And, if you care to know, I had an amazing Father's Day...

I hope you all did as well...

Tight lines,

Mike

Pepe Le Pew!

For those of you who may remember Pepe Le Pew, you will know immediately what I am referring to; the charming, ever romantic, cartoon skunk who mistook a black female cat with an accidental white stripe painted down her back for his target of affection.  Well, I am pretty sure that I am presently playing the role of said female cat.  Yup, I've been skunked.

Two outings in a row to be exact.  12 hours of seat time on the Jon Boat but, hey, who's counting?

I've been focusing on the reservoir, and Brown Trout in particular, these past two outings both out of desire as well as necessity.  The streams have been inundated with three torrential and long lasting rainstorms in the past two weeks alone.  It is a substantial blessing for these waters but it does take the fly rod out of one's hands.  I am thankful for the rain as well as the easily made decisions as to what waters to fish when my feet hit the floor at the ungodly hour that they do on a fishing day.  Usually it is a torturous and long decision for me that has been lately swiftly and thoughtlessly made.

With Bait at the ready each of the past two outings and armed with three Okuma baitfeeder fishing reels as well as my Pflueger spinning rod for casting, I felt pretty confident that I would find the elusive Kensico Browns that I have been hoping for. 

I have been fishing, generally speaking, over 60 to 90 feet of water and I've had Sawbellies set up at depths of anywhere between 15 and 30 feet as well as one on the top water on a long line out and away from the boat.  The first skunking came on a rainy morning and one that felt like a "fishy" morning.  That day I marked almost zero fish anywhere in the water column and I did not get any strikes at all.  It was an odd experience to say the least but I do realize that these things happen.  The day was a "wash" in more ways than one.  "No big deal", I thought.  "I'll get 'em next time." 

"Next time" happened to be yesterday; a perfectly calm Sunday morning with no wind gusts and warm temps.  There were schools of Sawbellies swarming the top of the golden sun swept water as I launched at 5:30 or so.  I rowed at a nice even pace to the deeper waters, having had my setups all ready to go.  I marked fish almost immediately this trip and I marked them fairly consistently. 

I had only three hits in 6 hours and each of the three were on and off too quickly for me to figure out why.  Well, I do know that I rushed the first one at 20 feet down and the second one ripped at the bait on the top water so quickly that I was left with a "birds nest" on the reel and the fish was off.  I don't recall the third hit but I do recall that 0 for 3 feeling I'd had at times as a kid playing ball.  Just wished I had one more at bat but the innings had been spent and it was time to go home.  The Browns had "no hit" me twice in a row.  In June.  I can't recall getting shut down in June once before, let alone on two consecutive outings.  Oof.

My new pal Pepe sat on the bow of the boat singing to me in a cartoon French accent as I took the long, arduous row back yesterday. I've got to get this white stripe off of my back soon so that  he realizes I'm no skunk, damn it!  Go spread your love somewhere else Monsieur Looney Toon!

Until next time, tight lines to all.  



'Tweener

All in a tweener's eve.

The 'tweener' is the fishing trip one takes in between this and that and the other thing on the long list of things that one has to do to survive.  Yesterday I had just such occasion to hit up a local stream to get in an hour and a half of fly fishing.

It was the first outing of the year where the heat and good old "suck the soul out of you" humidity had reared it's ugly head here in NY.  I rigged up at the car and felt the suffocation of my thickly woven 30 year old busted up and torn Hodgman waders.  Man, I really need a new pair.  That's for another day, though.

With beads of sweat rolling down my back I stepped into the stream.  Sweet relief.  The coolness of the stream with a slight upstream breeze was just what I needed.  I was in heaven.  This brought me immediately into the present moment, my day's tasks, whether before or after, were now non-existent.  This is why I fish.  All else disappears.  It does help that I like to catch fish I suppose but that's the bonus, right?

The Good Lord's AC cranking, I began to scout.  I didn't fish, didn't strip the line out just yet.  Yeah, I only had a limited fishing opening but I've got to mature at some point, right?  I looked and then I looked some more as the water slogged into a newly formed tear in said waders.  There it was, just upstream.  Pocket water.  They must be there.

I quietly made my way upstream and across the riffles to a good run between a couple of decent sized boulders.  If one can tiptoe across rocks then that was what I was doing.  I had a hunch.  I was right.

My first four casts produced three trout.  All Rainbows.  All beautiful.  One I won't soon forget.

I've heard and read about this type of action out of a particular hole and I've even caught a couple of fish out of the same run but this felt a little ridiculous to me.  How did they not see it coming?  How did they not get spooked?  Where was the hidden camera?

Satisfied immediately and still plenty of time to linger in this 'tweener', I walked upstream to fish a run that I've had a hunch about for quite some time but has never produced.  That was also turned on it's ear as I managed two smallish feisty Browns within just a few casts along the outside seam of the run.  If there is a hog heaven then call me a pig.

I probably could have fished more but I didn't.  I'm maturing, you see.  I can look at the water before dropping a line in and I can leave in time these days to get to my next "this or that or the other thing."

Of course, I was late to my next thing.  By about ten minutes.  Maybe fifteen.

Darn traffic.

This was one of the toughest fighting Rainbow's that I've had the pleasure to tango with.

Rain Date

They say that the best time to go fishing is "when you can" and I agree.  This morning was my only chance at an outing in the past couple of weeks so, rain be darned, I set the alarm for a bit after 5 and off I went.

I put the fly rods down as I have been overdue for an early morning reservoir trip so today was the day for the Kensico.

A quick stop for a hot 'cup 'o joe' and a granola bar and up the Saw Mill River Parkway I went, singing along to the sounds of this great tune here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QzZnsfe1MFY.  I got some Sawbellies and was excited to use them this morning with my new Okuma baitfeeder reels.  I have had one of these reels since my birthday last July and just acquired two more used outfits for a great price from a friend over at www.westchesterfishing.com.  Today was the first time that I fished with them and I was hoping to hear them "sing" louder than I was singing Springsteen.

The window was short, from about 7 to 9:30 of actual fishing time as I had to rig up three rods and get the boat launched, but it was productive.  The baitfeeders started to sing at about 7:30 and were fairly consistent for the next couple of hours.  In all I had 5 hits.  Two of them I missed but with the other three I was able to bring some trout to net.  I am pretty sure that the first hit that I missed was a Brown Trout as, it seems to me, these finicky fish like to "play with their food".  He tapped at it a few times and then ran as I counted down from 10.  On 11 I flipped the switch and heaved up the rod to set the hook and "poof", he was gone.  So was my Sawbelly.  Call me prejudice but I just don't think a Lake Trout is smart enough to steal bait after running with it for 10 seconds (or two seconds for that matter).  When Lake Trout hit, they hit hard and aggressive.  I had two of the hard hitters come up early in the outing.  One at 18" and the other at 20", both released to gorge and grow.  The third was just before my row in, a nice 24" and 4 and quarter pounder who put up a nice diving fight as Lakers will do.  I kept him for the table.  A nice treat to end a rainy A.M. and another example of the why, no matter what, "when you can" is always the best time to go fishing.