Sporting Travel
Everyone loved Nottman’s house, and it is one that I will remember forever.
His house was traditionally tasteful but classically understated so that it wouldn’t raise an eyebrow. The appointments and accouterments were comfortable instead of lavish, and the setting on the river estuary near the ocean was wild and natural. It stood several miles from the quaint downtown and was civilized, to boot. The house was big, maybe close to l0,000 square feet, but no one cared in the least about the size.
Nottman was a sportsman, and the modest 1200 square-foot cottage across the Belgian block driveway from his house was his castle. The single-floor dwelling had weather-beaten cedar shakes and a hunter green tin roof. In the carport garage sat a fully restored 1981 Jeep Scrambler. A five-station sporting clays course lay off the path that connected the cottage to its deep water dock. Here, Nottman had a choice between a 23-foot Sea Craft, a slew of kayaks and a cat boat for gunk-holing around. The boats blocked the duck blind, but when the birds arrived in the late fall the hulls would be put up on blocks. The main house may have been his wife’s, but the cottage and the grounds were most certainly his.
While everyone was in awe of the exterior and the grounds, it was hard to separate that from the cottage’s exquisite interior. A mahogany gun cabinet stood in a corner next to the fly-tying table, and both of those areas were next to the rod racks. There were dozens of fly rods, fall-run surf rods, offshore standup rods, and some thick, trolling meat sticks. Leather couches and chairs stood en garde in front of a big-screen television which was next to the bar. A wood-burning fireplace took the chill off the air that inevitably leaked through the leaded-glass windows.
The writer John Ed Pearce once said, “Home is a place you grow up wanting to leave and grow old wanting to get back to.” When they’re young, sportsmen want to travel the world and see all that their sport has to offer. After a while they miss home, that simple place of being surrounded by favorite gear and like-minded souls.
Nottman created his own oasis, and if you’re industrious, you can, too. And while you’re looking for that perfect place, consider that some may already exist. Some version of a sporting community or fractional opportunity may be just the ticket. Walking out your front door to go fishing, riding, or shooting is what it’s all about, isn’t it?
South Carolina Sporting Life at Brays Island Plantation
The Brays Island homeowners are living what would seem to be a bygone reality–the pastoral pleasures of a leisure class of Southern plantation owners. The 5,500-acre private residential community features 3,500 acres set aside as a nature and hunting preserve. Remarkably, the land is virtually unchanged from its earlier days when Brays Island functioned as a working plantation.
Whenever they like, the 325 co-owners of Brays Island Plantation can walk from their front porches into a private sporting playground to hunt and fish, ride horses, paddle kayaks, play golf and swing through a round of sporting clays. A spirited match of tennis or a workout in the fitness center is set in the quiet scenery of oak trees and camellia gardens, early 1900s farm buildings of whitewashed brick, bluff-edged river views, and native woodlands of pine and palmetto. When you’re refreshed, stop by the elegant owner’s Inn for lunch.
The mix of natural beauty and diversity of activities creates Brays rare and strong appeal. Situated in the South Carolina Lowcountry between Charleston and Savannah, this combination of amenities and location makes Brays Island Plantation more than a gated sporting community. Brays is a haven for those who appreciate both nature and a host of outdoor sporting pursuits. In fact, it’s a way of life (www.QuailAtBrays.com, 866-320-1201).
Tropical Paradise at the East End of Grand Bahama: Deep Water Cay
Island life in the Tropics revolves around the tides, and at Deep Water Cay it has never been better. Since 1958, Deep Water Cay has played host to some of the most famous names in angling history. A multimillion dollar renovation has poised the Granddaddy of Bonefish Clubs for a bright and vibrant future.
The 2.1-square-mile land is home to a mixed-use club where homeowners, club members, and visiting anglers become reacquainted with life’s simplicity. Activities range from sight casting to bonefish and permit on 250-square miles of flats; offshore fishing for wahoo, tuna, and mahi-mahi; and reef fishing for a wide variety of species. Scuba dive the blue holes, hookah dive or snorkel the reefs. Spend the afternoon paddling the turquoise water in a kayak, or come about in one of the club Hobie Cats.
Once on the island, everything is a walk or a golf cart ride away. The executive chef prepares a variety of day-boat seafood in the breezy ambiance of the Member’s Lodge. The Welcome Center the epicenter of activities, perched next to the marina, the Tiki Bar, and the floating docks. Play a match of doubles tennis or a workout in the Fitness Center. An afternoon perched in a teak steamer chair by the Infinity Pool or on the private beach is a great idea, too. An outdoor massage while you listen only to the waves lapping against the shore is a terrific way to end the day.
There are a limited number of lots where homeowners can build cottages to suit as well as turn-key properties. Members and guests select from two- and four-bedroom houses, complete with all the amenities of home. Seven cottages are available for smaller groups, and all buildings are waterfront and offer spectacular sunrise and majestic sunset views.
Deep Water Cay is 100 miles east of West Palm Beach (www.deepwatercay.com, info@deepwatercay.com, 888-420-6202).
Belt, Montana’s The Ranches at Belt Creek
The Ranches at Belt Creek is an 800-acre residential ranch community that is the vision of Mark E. Hawn and his son, developer Mark Christopher Hawn. Ranch lots are available for purchase, and 200 acres are maintained for outdoor recreation by members, their families, and guests.
A full-time ranch manager and club concierge oversee all facets of the club. The heart of The Ranches at Belt Creek is the Sportsmen’s Club. Members, their families, and guests choose between various activities. Fly fishing, horseback riding, kayaking, big-game and bird hunting, sporting clays, golf, ATV excursions, and a range of winter activities.
What makes The Ranches at Belt Creek appealing for many is the complete freedom that the club offers. Fly fishing equipment, shotguns, horses, kayaks, ATVs, snowmobiles and associated gear is available for use. There is zero upkeep, insurance, and maintenance to be handled by members. Pick your activity, grab your gear, and go.
In addition to the seemingly endless adventures to be shared on site, homeowners and members are provided with exclusive access to the Hawn’s family ranch. The 6,500 acres are located some ten minutes up the road from the residential ranch community. Big-game hunters particularly like the ranch because of its large populations of deer, elk, bear, turkey, and mountain lion. Bird hunters favor Montana for the pheasant, sharp-tail grouse, Hungarian partridge, sage grouse, ruffed grouse, blue grouse, and chukar partridge. Flyrodders like the nearly eight miles of Belt Creek that winds through the land and offers outstanding trout fishing. For more information contact The Ranches at Belt Creek at www.ranchesatbeltcreek.com.
Montana’s Bitteroot River: A Fractional Ownership Opportunity
Rather than buy and appoint a home onMontana’s Bitterroot River, why not buy in to an existing, fully appointed home? Windermere Real Estate is offering two of three shares in a turn-key, 2,300-square-foot ranch-style home. An opportunity like this is oriented for serious fly fishermen or for folks who are looking for a family retreat. The three-bedroom, two-bathroom home was completely remodeled and landscaped in 2009. Two of the bedrooms are master suites with private baths. A gazebo and hot tub are on the property, and the house won the 2009 Parade of Homes Award.
The main draw is walking out your back door to access 150 feet of private river frontage. For anglers who want to cover more water or to head to some of the other famous trout rivers in Montana there are two different boats parked on a trailer in the yard. The first is a Clacka-Craft Low Profile Drift Boat, and for streams with rocks and strainers there is an NRS Rubber Raft. Two vehicles are available for use: a Ford Excursion and a 450 GL Mercedes.
For someone who loves the Missoula area and wants to be done with the hassles and get on with the fishing, a fractional opportunity may be the very best bet. Anne Jablonski at Windermere Real Estate (www.movemontana.com, 406-546-5816) can make it happen.
Fishing
It was as perfect a September as ever.
The temperature at night was cold enough to ice the deck of my boat, and hot enough during the day to make me sweat. Indian Summer as it’s known here in the Pilgrim State of Bassachusetts. Before the sun was up I walked into my driveway and stared at the ice on the boat. Instead of slip-sliding my way around the deck until the frost melted, I decided to grab a pair of boots and head for the beach.
Lots of fish were around because it was fall and time for them to migrate. The coves and bowls were full of silversides, sand eels, and small menhaden, and several species of predators took their seat at the table. The striped bass ranged from schoolies to 35-pounders, there were pods of late-run shad, and a mix of bluefish, bonito, Spanish mackerel, and false albacore. Anywhere you looked there were fish. They were on the flats, on the beaches, in the rips, at the mouths of the salt ponds, and on the reefs. Labor Day was well behind us and the crowds were thin. I tossed my kit in my truck, fishtailed out of the driveway, and headed up Cape.
I turned left down an overgrown dirt road to the back of a salt pond. The brush slapped the truck, and somewhere not far away a covey of quail sang whoooo–whit, whoooo–whit. I tucked into a small opening, pulled on my waders, grabbed my rod, and trudged toward the cove, flushing several mallards from a nearby mosquito ditch. I marked the quail and the ducks, and in a few weeks when hunting season opened I would return with my setter and my 20-gauge. And if at that time I were lucky with the birds I might also pick ripe beach plums and rose hips for chutney and see if I could swap a mallard for a bag of cranberries freshly harvested from the bogs.
I chose a salt pond that would have bass and blues inside, and bonito, shad, and albies at the mouth. It was a large pond, the kind that would take an entire day to walk around, and it was protected from the wind. I would start fishing at the mouth, and as the tide flooded I would work my way back to the truck.
I first saw him from a distance. He was a tall, thin kid standing on the jetty. The rocks had shifted from decades of pounding storms and L?-foot tides, and they were slick with kelp, mussels, and barnacles.
The jetty terrain is second nature for most fishermen, I thought, but he moved awkwardly. I chalked it up to his youth. He wore a tattered T-shirt, a pair of swim trunks, and Tevas. Why anyone would walk on a jetty without Korkers was beyond me. In his hands was a rod about three times his height. It looked like a fall-run surf stick, the kind long enough to toss a Goo Goo Eyes Big Daddy with a trio of trebles all the way into next week. Most of the kids on the jetty had shorter sticks, usually around 7 or 8 feet long.
It was odd. It was odd that this kid had such a long rod before the fall run had even begun. Odder still when I scanned the water and saw a long yellow floating fly line on the water.
He must have heard my cleats crunching the shells at the waters edge, because he turned, and I saw a large fly reel mounted on the grip. I looked back at his fly line and it extended to just about the other side of the channel. This wasn’t a particularly large breachway, but it had to be all of about 250 feet wide. If he had a nine or ten-foot leader it would have meant that this kid cranked out a 235-foot cast. I watched him knurl his line slowly, and when a big school of false albacore blew up near my feet, I didn’t cast.
Instead, I studied the sand. There were cracked quahog shells mixed in with some razor clams and bay scallops. They were colorful shards of calcium with bright reds, lavenders, yellows, and oranges all mixed together. I don’t think I ever noticed the beauty and texture of these ordinary shells. The scallops had their rippled surfaces, the razors were sharp and shiny, and the quahogs were blunt with their purple and black trim. I thought I would remember this moment for the rest of my life; I was about to meet the first kid who could cast farther than me, and a lot farther at that.
When I surf, I prefer a following tide. I look for a wave’s steadiness and its consistency. I like the wave to grow, crest, roll, and run hard. I like it to roll over an offshore bar and go way up onto the sand. As I looked at that long line on the water, I bore witness to a rite of passage. This next generation, like the water, was passing through my previous one. It never much mattered to me before. Then again, the generation surpassed was never mine.
The water was flat, the sun grew increasingly warmer, the tide was running, and a pod of albies shredded anchovies and sand eels a rod’s length away. I did not dare cast. Instead, I thought about the first trout I caught on a Squirrel Tail I tied when I was ten. And the first 20-pound Atlantic salmon I landed. The first bonefish that inhaled my Gotcha. Having my butt kicked by a kid would be just another memory that I would store in a closet with my sweatshirts, fly rods, and shotguns.
Perhaps I should learn from this master? He strip-struck twice, and raised his rod for the fight. The amount of line in the air resembled a tightrope in a circus act. I sat back down.
I thought about a fishing trip with my father decades ago off of Napatree Point. There weren’t many bass in those days, and when the tide turned. an enormous school of bluefish moved in. I caught a fish and my dad didn’t. Then I caught another and he still didn’t. It went on like that all afternoon. We had a quiet ride back to the dock and a quiet time hauling the boat. We drove home in silence. Now, I just scratched my head.
I stood up, brushed the sand off my waders and walked out on the jetty. The kid’s fly line was tangled in the rocks, and there was a small striper flopping at the water’s edge. “Need a hand?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said. His hook pulled before I got down to the fish, and the schoolie dropped in the water. “I like it when that happens,” he said. “It’s hard to release the fish with all this line out.”
“Yeah,” I said, “You’re casting halfway to Falmouth.” “It’s not hard,” he said. “Sometimes it’s tough dealing with the line, but the casting is a cinch.”
I never suffered the woes of having 235 feet of fly line bunged up. I was happy with a 100 feet, and this kid more than doubled my best. He sought empathy from me, not sympathy, because his miles of fly line had tangled in the rocks.
I surveyed his outfit. “That’s an expensive rig you’ve got,” I said. “It’s not mine,” he said. “It’s my dad’s. He never uses it. He bought it a few years ago but he can’t figure out how to cast it so it just hangs in the basement. This reel is sweet, but it’s expensive, too.”
“That’s nice that he let’s you use it,” I said.
“Let me use it? If he knew I had this rod out here, he’d kill me. It’d be easier to land fish if I could set it down, but I don’t want to get a scratch on it. This is my lucky rod. I catch all my fish on it.”
“I don’t know how to cast a Spey rod that well,” I said.
“A what?”
“The rod you are using.”
“What did you call it?”
“A Spey rod. They’re used for salmon fishing. Named after the River Spey in Scotland.”
“Oh. I didn’t know that’s what it was called. Why don’t you use one?”
“I don’t cast them well. Anyway, not like you. Why don’t you show me how to do it?” I asked.
“Sure. It’s really simple. I see that you keep waving your rod back and forth, but I just cast once. Just pull it back, wait for a minute, and let it rip.”
“Let it rip,” I said. “Please.”
The kid pulled the rod back over his head and paused for a few seconds until the line quieted down and then he pushed the rod forward as hard as he could and stopped when the tip-top was at eye level. The entire line and much of his backing whizzed out through the guides and kerplunked nearly on the other side of the bank.
“That’s all there is to it,” he said.
“That was my best cast today.”
“Why is it splashing so much at the end?” I asked. “A piled leader doesn’t make that much of a splash.”
“It’s the sinker. I can’t go any lighter than a three-ounce pyramid with the current. The clam belly adds weight, too. Besides, the fish don’t care about the splash.”
A pyramid sinker and a clam belly.
“That’s great,” I said. “That’s really great. Your dad would be proud of you.”
“Thanks,” he said. “I just have to be careful how much I tell him.”
“Well, if I see you guys on the beach together some time I’ll make sure I don’t bring it up.”
“That’d be awesome,” he said. “l don’t want to get in trouble.”
Fishing
Over the years I’ve found brilliance in events that don’t go according to plan.
That was the case last fall when I visited the Farmington River and saw anglers in every spot I wanted to fish. I had to laugh; Indian Summer was in full swing with its warm days and cool nights, the maples were turning scarlet and orange, the white birch were a colorful yellow, and trout were on the feed. Why wouldn’t the river be crowded?
At the bottom of a pool below a feeder stream was a gravel bar that allowed safe passage across the river and my only chance for some solitude. Safely across, I could wade upriver and fish the back side of an overlooked mid-river island.
About halfway up the island was some pocket water. It necked down into a small, shallow riffle that turned into a pool. The pool bent toward shore and cut under a bank. It bounced off some big rocks at the bottom and was a beautiful piece of water, all rolled into a 30-yard stretch.
Shortly, I saw a good brown perform a splashy rise near one of those rocks. Then another, and another. I inspected those rocks, and saw the shucks that explained those rises. Isonychia!
The first time I encountered these rich, eggplant-colored bugs, which are commonly called mahogany duns or slate-wing duns, I spent an entirely frustrating day changing from emergers to a wide variety of dries to a slew of nymphs with no luck. It was only during the final minutes of the day, when I botched a cast that put a lot of drag in my drift and fast motion to the fly, that a big brown whacked that speeding nymph. Since that time I’ve always used a fast swing when fishing this hatch, and it’s served well.
Here’s why that tactic works: Isonychia swim almost as fast as a dace and they climb on structure like a stonefly to shed their nymphal shucks–basically Isonychia duns are unavailable to trout and, therefore, it’s almost futile to fish a dry fly when an emergence occurs. But trout do chase down those fast-swimming nymphs, which I match with a size 12 or 14 Didas’ Swimming Isonychia Nymph.
While those duns aren’t important to trout, the Isonychia spinner is. It occurs most often in riffled water and can be matched by several noted patterns, including the White-Gloved Howdy, an lsonychia Comparadun, or a Beck’s Emerger-lsonychia. In contrast to fishing an Isonychia nymph, when fishing a spinner you’ll want to employ a dead drift.
There are two versions of Isonychia in the fall, the larger bicolor and the smaller sadleri. The hatch occurs on many Eastern, Midwestern and some Southern tailwaters and freestone streams, including emergences on such noted waters as Connecticut’s Housatonic River and Michigan’s Ausable. Wherever it occurs, the hatch typically comes off in early afternoon and lasts into dark-graciously, there’s no need to set the alarm clock earlv for this one.
Because Isonychia nymphs swim quickly you can forgo some of the extreme technical fishing required to match other fall hatches; you know, those painful experiences that require magnifying glasses and 8X tippet. Instead, you can throw a variety of classic patterns, such as the Leadwing Coachman, a Zug Bug or even a Pheasant Tail Nymph. My favorite pattern is Tim Didas’ aforementioned Swimming Isonychia Nymph. Didas spins the bug on a swimming nymph hook, adding a component that lights up the fish.
Looking back, it wasn’t so bad getting displaced by those other anglers on the Farmington. Browns and a few rainbows rose for hours, I had a quiet stretch of river to myself, and I was in the middle of a hatch that didn’t require much precision or stealth. I waited until the sun was long gone before I quit the stream, knowing I’d be back the next day.
Best Bets
Delaware and Beaverkill rivers, NY Connecticut River, NH Deerfield River, MA Penn’s Creek and the Little Juniata, PA Davidson River, NC Manistee and Ausable rivers, MI Hiwassee and Little rivers, TN
Didas’ Swimming Isonychia
Hook: Tiemco TMC400T, size 12 to 14 Thread: Burgundy 8/0 Tail: Three partridge after shafts Body: Burgundy dubbing Rib: Fine gold wire Thorax: Peacock herl Dorsal stripe: White Flexi Floss Wing case: Gray hen hackle Legs: Partridge
Fishing
Among saltwater anglers you’ll never hear a peep about Rhode Island’s diminutive size.
The smaller, the better, they say, and anglers in Little Rhody are used to outstanding and diverse fishing opportunities without driving from pillar to post.
South County is one of the prettiest parts of the Ocean State, but you won’t find it on a map. It’s a colloquial reference that has been argued about for more than a century. The official name of the southwestern part of Rhode Island is Washington County, and it includes the towns of Charlestown, Exeter, Hopkinton, Narragansett, North Kingstown, Richmond, South Kingstown, Westerly, and West Greenwich. In general terms, it stretches from the Connecticut border east to Greenwich Bay.
If you drive along U.S. Highway 1, South County spans only 27 miles from Westerly to East Greenwich. Condensed into this short area are reefs, river estuaries, beaches, salt ponds, rock gardens, and rocks and ledges. As if that terrain weren’t enough, anglers can consistently catch five species of fish from shore. Striped bass, bluefish, bonito, false albacore, and squeteague are common targets, and shad, skipjack, mahimahi, and school tuna come close enough inshore that boat anglers can rejoice. Deep Hole in Matunuck is typically the first area to host striped bass in the spring, and the South County beaches are where the final migrating fish are caught. South County is tough to beat.
One of the best parts of fishing South County is that the fishing is equally good by boots, by kayak, and by boat. Because of the open ocean exposure the water is very clear and clean, save for the occasional offshore weeds blown in after a storm. Be sure to wear a pair of cleated soles or boots, such as Korkers, if you fish the rocks; if you fish the salt ponds, be sure to account for the tide variations as the tide comes in quickly on the beach but takes a while to fill up the ponds. The same holds true on the ebb.
On the west side of the state, in Westerly, are Napatree Point and Watch Hill. Napatree Point is a peninsula that is connected to Watch Hill and the mainland by Napatree Beach. Just north of the point are Little Narragansett Bay and the Pawcatuck River. In this tiny little area is a highly concentrated amount of very different water—an estuary system, a bay, a beach, and a point—all of which rolls around to a rock garden. The area is productive all year long for a broad variety of fish. In the spring striped bass chase the herring, alewives, and silversides that move into the bay and then into the river. When squid move onto the Watch Hill Reef, the bass push out and the entire area fills up with bluefish. In the summer and early fall, bonito and false albacore run all around the area. Anglers commonly hook all four species in one day. Napatree Point is close to Connecticut waters, so if you fish from a boat, be sure to comply with Connecticut rules and regulations for all fish caught.
Around the corner is Watch Hill, arguably one of Rhode Island’s most recognized fishing locations. Watch Hill is about as pretty a place to fish as exists on the Eastern Seaboard. Wading anglers follow the path off Bluff Avenue and find a mix of beach, rocks, and ledges. Water moves very quickly here, and there is so much structure for bass to run down bait that when the fish are in you never know if you’re going to hook a 15-inch fish or a 15-pounder. The rocks are slippery and Korkers are a must, but Watch Hill is worth the effort.
The Watch Hill Reef has a tremendous amount of texture, derived from depth changes, rocks, and reefs. When the squid are in and the tide is running, striped bass and bluefish are seemingly everywhere at once. They are low in the water column, on the surface, and in all points in between. Boaters get above the tide line and stem the tide, with the best presentations resembling an up-and-across trout cast with an up-current series of mends. Hold on to your rod grip, because when your fly swings down below your boat and a fish hits you’ll have the current working against you. Many anglers like extra-fast-sinking lines for this area, and use very stout tippets—30- or 40-pound-text—so they can land more bass in the rugged hydraulics. Later in the season, bonito and albies show up to feast on glass minnows that drop out of the Pawcatuck River, and on silversides, bay anchovies, and other juvenile baitfish. The reef is a good place to catch multiple species of fish in one day.
If you like beaches, salts ponds, and break walls, you can enjoy fishing three popular haunts between Watch Hill and point Judith. Running from west to east, Weekapaug, Quonochontaug, and Ninigret each offer such features and get the most attention from fly fishers. The beauty of these three venues is that you can fish them from shore, from a kayak, or from a boat. They are productive from the early season when the first bass of the year arrive, through the summer bluefish and shad blitzes, on to the bonito and albacore mayhem, and finishing with the final fall striper run. Early- and late-season fishing is excellent during the day, and midseason night fishing is ideal. The spring full moons are a great time to fish in Ninigret Pond because of the outstanding cinder worm hatch. And if you’d like to run the beach in a 4X4, you can. At the east end of East Beach Road is 3-mile-long East Beach.
The outer beach is open from April 15 through October 31, from 7am until 11pm. Over-sand permits cost $50 for residents and $100 for non-residents, and can be obtained din person at Burlingame State Park or through the state park website, www.riparks.com/eastbeach.htm.
The ponds are virtual baitfish factories, which is what primes the beaches and the break walls at their mouths. In these ponds are nearly every type of bait imaginable, from early-season herring and alewives to silversides, sand eels, shrimp, cinder worms, bay anchovies, eels, mullet, and crabs.
On the east side of the breachway, off Charlestown Beach Rod in Charlestown, is a beach that is owned by the town and open to the public. In the early and late season you can park fro free, but during the day in the rest of the season you have to pay. Fly casting this beach can be tricky because it attracts so many families for summer fun on the sand, but the night fishing can be good. There is an easterly current swing as the tide drops, and you’ll find bonito and albies running along the drop-off. Around the stand of 5 Cottages is an ocean hole and a rocky point that is a productive area to prospect.
While most people know of Point Judith as the spot to catch the Block Island ferry, it’s a working harbor that has some great fishing. In-season boat traffic can be heavy, largely because of the public ramp that is located off the Galilee Escape Road. Kayaks are good for early- and late-season fishing, but leave ‘em home when the boats are running. Point Judith Pond is big and runs far upriver. Aside from the main channel, the ponds are soft and shallow. With so much bait around there is usually some species of fish to catch.
There are four walls in front of the pond that get a lot of attention: the West Wall, the Short Wall, the Center Wall, and the East Wall. The West Wall is well known for early striped bass, and for being a great place to catch bonito and albies from shore. A tremendous current line runs close to the West Wall, and the bottom drops off very quickly, creating a hard edge perfect for pelagic species, particularly with copious amounts of bait dropping out of the harbor. It’s an easy jetty to walk out on, and there is ample room for anglers using any and all methods.
Be advised, though, that the West Wall has a lot of obstructions, including numerous lobster pots and lines, and commercial fish traps (false albacore are used commercially for pet food and fertilizer). Hooking a fish isn’t necessarily the hard part, but landing it with all of the buoys, lines, and cages is challenging. Increase tippet size so you can lean on the fish during that first run and steer your catch away from all the obstructions.
The Short Wall is adjacent to Sand Hill Cove. In the spring and fall enormous numbers of mullet, silversides, sand eels, bay anchovies, and peanut bunker fill the area. To the east are Seaweed Beach and some rocky areas, ideal for bait. The rocks create a perfect place for spring and fall bass and summer and fall bluefish. Floating and intermediate lines are best.
The Center Wall is nearly a perfect barrier. All species of fish filter in and out between the walls, and when the bait is in it attracts all kinds of predators. One year, while looking for bass, bonito, and bluefish, I caught none. But I had a heyday with shad to about 4 pounds.
Finally, the East Wall fishes best early or late in the season. Some of the first bluefish arrive here in the late spring and early summer and it’s a quiet spot for night fishing. Of particular note is the fall fishing, as the area between Point Judith and the East Wall is the southern corner for fish heading from Rhode Island to points south. The wall runs on a southwest line from shore, so odds are you’ll get seas and wind in your face. Look for bonito and false albacore.
If you like rocky points, offshore bars, big boulders, and a sweeping current, head to the Point Judith Lighthouse. This is the point where South County makes a turn to the north, resulting in a complex mix of current. Exposure is significant, and all winds except those from the northwest affect the seas. That chaos makes for really good fishing, and when the bait is in you’ll see some of the biggest fish of the year come off this point. Watch the rocks—they’re slippery when wet.
Just north of the point Judith Lighthouse are a few miles of rocks and ledges that define classic striper water, with an access point at Bass Rock Road. The boulders and ledge just offshore and the erratic coastline offer plenty of holding water and areas for stripers to pin baitfish. The best places are those that offer moving water. Any break in the terrain is an opportunity for a bass. With the exception of the weeds associated with summer or following a storm, the water clarity is good. That means you can see fish swimming past or coming up to your fly. (One time while I was sharpening a hook point, I watched a tremendous bass approach and grab the tail of a small bass that my friend was fighting.) A stripping basket is really helpful to keep your line organized, and you’ll need to routinely check your tippets and hook points to make sure they’re in good working order. In June you may find stripers right up in the rocks trying to root out the lobsters that have shed their exoskeletons.
In the fall, albies run the current seams. They’re easiest to reach by boat, but shore anglers occasionally hook up. They move in against the current, usually on the dropping tide, and you’ll notice them because of the water they kick up and displace.
Once you’ve gotten an adrenaline rush from fishing the rocks and need a little quiet time, head north to the Narrow River, aka the Pettaquamscutt. Spring draws an excellent run of herring and alewives looking to get into the freshwater pond at the upstream end.
In addition to striped bass, shad, squeteague, and bluefish cruise the river. Albies show up in the fall, particularly where the river meets Narragansett Beach. At the mouth you can expect substantial turbulence on a dropping tide and wind from the south. All of that turbulence is good because it concentrates the silversides, sand eels, bay anchovies, crabs, and worms-and in turn the game fish that eat them.
You’ll see lots of folks from many different regions fishing in South County. Charles George, owner of The Bedford Sportsman, in Bedford, New York, just outside Manhattan, is a South County regular. “Being a stone’s throw from the city, I have a pick between urban New York Harbor, Long Island, New Jersey, or the Connecticut coast,” he explains. “Whenever I have the opportunity I head to South County, Rhode Island, because it’s not only a beautiful place to fish but there are so many different conditions and a lot of different fish to catch. In my opinion it’s a hard place to beat.”
South County is a good place to eat fish and seafood, but there are two local favorites you should try. The first is Rhode Island clear chowder. Many Yankees argue that this is the true chowder, made from salt pork, onions, potatoes, ground clams, and clam juice only; unlike traditional New England clam chowder, it has no cream or butter, and unlike Manhattan clam chowder, it has no tomato sauce. The second is a stack of cornmeal johnnycakes for breakfast. You will enjoy their crispness with a cup of coffee after a long night of fishing for big striped bass.
Abrames’s Razzle Dazzle (Originated by Kenney Abrames)
Hook: Eagle Claw 254 NA 1X short, size 5/0-2/0
Thread: WhiteDanville 3/0
Tail: 2 strands of blue Mylar, 1 olive saddle hackle, 2 strands of light-green Mylar, 1 long white saddle hackle, 1 long silver-doctor-blue saddle hackle, 2 strands of red Mylar, 1 yellow saddle hackle, 2 strands of gold Mylar, 3 long white saddle hackles, and white bucktail, respectively
Body: Silver Mylar piping
Throat: Long white bucktail on the bottom and on both sides
Wing: Silver doctor blue saddle hackle tied flat over an olive saddle hackle
Topping: 7 to 14 strands of peacock herl, just beyond the wing
Hunting
Of all the activities I do in the outdoors, be it dog training, shooting, trout fishing, turkey hunting, waterfowling, striper fishing, horseback riding, or anything else, grouse and woodcock hunting ranks first. I count down every day until the season begins like a kid counts down days until summer vacation. I anticipate opening days, and cannot wait to get into the field.
Still, every year around the third week in October I begin to get mixed emotions about pursuing my favorite game birds in my coverts. Around that time I experience a profound change that slows me down. I don’t spring out of bed in the pre-dawn darkness. I walk through the alders and white birch runs more leisurely. Sometimes I take a break and just stop and sit a while.
At about that time my dogs wonder just what the heck is wrong with me. When I pull out a collar with a bell they claw at their kennel doors like caged lions, and to them my lack-luster condition is unbecoming. It’s really a simple thing that is my cross to bear: I’m sad.
I’m sad because I know that the end of the season is near. Think about it. A 45-day woodcock season is about 12% of the year. That means I have another 88% to go until opening day. To me that’s a long time. Don’t get me wrong, I totally enjoy my other sporting activities and the folks I share them with. But compared to grouse and woodcock hunting which occupies my top slot, the rest are sort of a consolation prize. I still enjoy an ice cream sundae even though I really want a piece of double-chocolate cake.
Initially I thought that I would follow the woodcock flights and hunt them along their southern route. For a while I hunted grouse in the winter but then decided they were having a hard enough time finding food in the snowy uplands. Upon closer reflection I felt that I had harassed the birds enough during October and November and that I would leave them alone. Instead, I’d pursue a species native to my home hunting grounds in coastal Massachusetts, the bobwhite quail.
Trading my beloved alder runs and poplar stands is something that is not done very easily. When we get used to bull briars, raspberry thickets, and thick cover with narrow shooting windows we can sometimes get lost in the wide open fields and the softness found in wiregrass, lovegrass, and broom sedge. Pines like loblollys, slash, and longleaf grow tall and majestically.
Most dyed-in-the-wool grouse and woodcock hunters need a few flights to adjust to the open space. At least I do. A snap shot in thick covert on a grouse contrasts sharply with the openness of the quail terrain. At first blush I count them all as gimmees. After a few easy misses I sharpen my focus and bear down to give the dogs a few feathers in their mouths.
I stumbled upon Southern quail hunting naturally. My Tennessee-born and North Carolina-raised wife has a family large enough to fill 15 long tables at an after-church bar-be-que. At the last gathering the count was about 100. Visiting family always made for a few easy sorties to the quail fields, and most of her family helped with introductions to landowners.
In recent history, populations of wild bobwhites have been impacted like many other of our favorite game birds. Southern quail hunting is an incredibly strong tradition no different than Northern ruffed grouse hunting. Long-time quail hunters remember the days that Robert Ruark chronicled in The Old Man and the Boy. Ruark believed that hunting bobs between Christmas and New Year’s was the ideal time. “By this time the birds are steadied down and the dogs have had a lot of practice and they’ve steadied down, too.”
When his New England uplands and lowlands were frozen solid, Corey Ford headed to North Carolina, and he gave pause to running his grouse dogs on quail. “Take a northern-trained setter out of his native alder coverts and put him down in a southern environment of sand and sedge and honeysuckle tangle, I wondered what would happen?” So, too was the fact that most grouse hunters run one dog at a time while quail dogs are run as a pack. Add to the mix the lack of bells on a Southern dog and you’ve got some more differences. Ford goes on to talk about a dog’s thick, winter coat being a handicap with the heat, and combined with pulling a wad of hitchhikers from a long-haired setter you’ll know why pointers are so well received.
My easy acceptance of hunting quail in the winter was unique to me, but it wasn’t new to the world. The Red Hills region in South Georgia and North Florida has attracted New Englanders and Midwesterners for over a century. I wasn’t creating a new movement by any stretch of the imagination. Instead, I was just falling into line with the great ideas that were set forth ahead of me.
I no longer get sad in the third week of October. As I’ve had a goal of hunting grouse and woodcock in all of their reaches, I’ve now added a goal of hunting bobwhites in all of their native lands. Their terrain is expansive and the environments diverse. For now I’ll focus on Virginia, North and South Carolina, Georgia, and Florida. Once I get a flavor for those areas I’ll gradually head further west. Nowadays I look forward to the winter. And my wait until grouse and woodcock season reopens at home is far shorter because of it.
This article originally appeared in the Winter 2012 edition of Ruffed Grouse Society.
