Fishing
Fall beach fishing is like a good short story you can’t put down. There is the rising action, the climax, the falling action and the end. Some times it’s fast, other times it’s measured, but at all times it’s a page-turner.
When fall actually starts depends on who you ask. My calendar tells me that fall begins on the Autumnal Equinox, the 22d of September. The significance of that day is that the day and the night photo periods are nearly identical in length. Yet for most, Labor Day triggers the beginning of fall. During this pivotal weekend, summer beach shacks get boarded up, Tevas get traded in for textbooks, and vacationers reluctantly return home. Seasonal hotels and restaurants respond by shortening their work week and their hours. It gets progressively harder to get a cup of coffee, but I take comfort in my quiet town without bumper-to-bumper traffic.
I am a fisherman and for me fall begins with the Striper Moon, the first full moon in September. It’s the first major push of the striped bass migration. Some front-runners trickle south sooner, but the first big body of bass moves on the Striper Moon. Some years it is early, some years it is late. Regardless, one thing is for sure: the biggest shore-caught bass of the year are landed around the Striper Moon. I used to think that there were three phases of fall: early, middle and late.
I used to think that the early phase was warm, the middle phase was cooler, and the late phase was the coldest. I no longer think that way because there are too many nuances to keep track of.
On some days the winds blows WSW. Winds from that direction are summer winds, warm and welcoming, a little Southern hospitality coming from far below the Mason-Dixon line. The cloud ceiling is high, and the eggshell-blue sky is dappled with puffy, white cotton balls. Sometimes when the winds shift around you’ll see mares tails splashed around the blue like a painter gone mad. On other days the wind blows WNW. Winds from that direction bring the Canadian chill. They’re the winds that move ducks and geese and woodcock down the Eastern Flyway, and they are the culprits that change the color of the sea from green to gray. On a few days, northerly winds make swells and flotsam clutters the beaches. I never know what the day will hold until it is upon me and I look out my window.
Somewhere in the middle of the ever changing winds is an oasis known many centuries ago in Europe as Saint Luke’s Summer. In our modern day we call it Indian Summer, the time in October when the fall feels like summer. History alleges that this two-week warm spell was the time when American Indians harvested the bulk of their crops. The first person to coin the phrase Indian Summer was a Frenchman writing in 1778 in rural New York named St. John de Crevecoeur. As I walk around the beaches once inhabited by Wampanoags, I wonder when the tribe marked the beginning of fall?
Fishing a beach in the fall is as much a part of fishing as catching a fish itself, I like how hazy, hot and humid becomes clear, cool and dry. I like the sand under my feet. I like the solace of the beach, my only companion being the birds. And I watch them; big flocks spread out for what seems like miles. I watch the terns repeatedly dive on small bait, the gulls shriek and pick up scraps, and the gannets plunge-dive 50 feet from the sky to grab a herring. When I learned that gannets have air sacks to cushion them from the impact with the surface I lost respect for them. I regained it when I considered that they swim with their long wings to catch a meal. They’re tough birds, even with air bags.
Fall on a beach means lots of bait that stages and gathers on the various moons. Silversides, sandeels, glass minnows, herring, peanut bunker, anchovies, mullet and butterfish pack up their bags and start heading south for the winter. Their cycle predicts good fishing. I follow the advice of anglers who came before me: “Fish the points on full and new moons, and fish coves on the quarters.” Bait stages in coves during half moons and moves on full moons. Bass and blues lie in wait to corral them against structure, on the surface, or wherever they can. Every living thing needs to store fat for the winter and the fish are no exception. Plus they need some gas for the long swim home.
A beach serves as a corridor for migratory fish, and so I love fishing the bars the best. My favorites are the offshore bars that run parallel to the beach. Offshore bars are not connected to land, and have hard-running currents blowing through on both sides. They are like small islands, with fish on both sides. Sometimes I find that the stretch between the beach and the bar is chock-a-block full of bass. Other times the fish are on the outside edge of the bar. Regardless, there is something wild about standing on a bar with water all around and the promise of big schools of stripers at my feet. On a calm day I’ll paddle a kayak out to the bar and get out and wade. On a rough day I’ll pass. Swimming back to shore in the fall isn’t too appealing.
I like onshore bars, but they are more civilized. Onshore bars connect with the beach and wading out is easy. They typically run at an angle based on the dominant current. I start to work my way out to the point an hour or two before low tide and keep going as far as I can. The fish may be up current from the bar, they may be at the point of the bar, or they may be down current from it. I never know until I fish them. Once the tide turns, I’ll work my way back toward shore. I’m comforted knowing that Land Ho isn’t faraway, but I always out longer than I should . . . just because.
Bull-nose bars are rounded and look like an upside-down letter U. I find them easy to fish, as they typically don’t go very far out into the ocean. Sometimes the fish hold in the lee, other times they feast on the windward side. I smile when I see the trough where the rounded edge of the bar connects with the beach. I always make my first cast onto the bar and let my fly sweep over the edge into the hole. I catch enough fish there to make it worth a cast, but I really like the sweep of the fly over the sand and into the deeper water. And when the fish are tight to the beach, I don’t have to cast much further than my feet.
I find it incredibly frustrating when a large school offish is a few hundred yards offshore. I feel stranded on my beach. I lose my mind when they are ten feet beyond my furthest cast. On those days the sparkling water or having the beach to myself isn’t much of a consolation prize. All that is left for me to do is wait for the wind to blow the fish closer or to look for washed up lobster buoys and nail them to a tree in my front yard.
With the bad comes the good, and some anglers are fortunate enough to encounter pelagic species on the beach in the fall. Anywhere the Gulf Stream pushes close to shore, fast fish like bonito, false albacore, bluefish and Spanish mackerel appear. When I see a school of blues or albies racing down a beach spraying silversides all around I feel like I’m in Vegas. And when I land a fish with my feet planted on terra firma, I feel like I hit the jackpot.
An oddity happened on a Massachusetts South Shore beach a few years ago when the water was warm and there were lots of school bluefin tuna around. A fellow was casting when he got a tug on his 1ine. A fish made a long-as in 300 yard or more-run down the beach, past rocks, kelp and mussel beds before it tired. After the fight he rolled the fish on its side, moved it into a cresting wave and walked backward up the beach. As he surfed it onto the sand, he saw a tuna laying at his feet. I’d have hoped it were an 80-pound bass on steroids.
In the fall it’s easy to get caught up in the action as the fishing heats up. And then suddenly, like the good short story it ends. The ice that formed overnight on my boat deck no longer melts in minutes after the sun clears the horizon, and the fish have moved on.
Fishing
Migratory fish get under your skin. They follow a lot of rules, but they break almost as many as they follow.
That makes them a lot like an outstanding novel, with a beginning, a peak and an end. The story line comes together on a beach in the fall. Fishing conditions improve considerably, peak and then gradually wind down. Anglers study tides, lunar cycles, wind and water temperatures to determine patterns. When something doesn’t add up, they play hunches and take educated guesses.
In the Northeast, the fall usually means striped bass and blues on the beach. But from Chatham, Massachusetts, and westward, the Gulf Stream pushes close to land. From July through October, you’ll find false albacore, green bonito and skipjack. The fall run is addictive. Sometimes you’ll find peace in your fishing. Other times the fish will drive you just plain nuts.
Weather and Moon
The fall run has been the subject of fishing lore for decades. From the 1940s to 1960s, the Cape Cod beaches were the places to be, period. From Nauset Beach in Orleans through Race Point in Provincetown, 40-pound bass were considered rats. Four-by-four campers with tin skiffs strapped atop them brought anglers who fished around the clock from shore or from beach launched skiffs.
This continues today, and hard-core anglers from Maine through New Jersey head to the beaches to get in their last licks of the season. Technically, the autumnal equinox, around Sept. 21, is when daytime and nighttime are nearly identical in length. In the fall, days grow steadily shorter, whereas they grow steadily longer in the spring. Sunsets come earlier, and fall winds shift from southerly to Canadian Maritime northerly. Cool, dry air with high cloud ceilings and mare’s-tail formations reflect the strong winds, and there is a greater difference between daytime and nighttime temperatures. Sunrise and sunset colors change too, from oranges and yellows to more purples, greens and blues.
Figuratively, fall begins with the “Striper moon,” or the first full moon in September. Kenny Abrames dubbed this time frame, as it represents the first major push of the striped bass migration. During some years, the striper moon is early in the month; other years, it is later. Regardless it is a great time to get out and fish. In New England, the biggest shore-caught bass of the year are landed around the striper moon.
October’s Indian summer, though, is a pleasant respite from September’s initial cold weather. It’s when the fall feels like summer. History alleges that the two-week warm spell was when American Indians harvested the bulk of their crops, hence the name. Most of the pelagic fish will follow the retracting Gulf Stream south at this time, so the end of Indian summer usually marks their departure.
Learn to Read the Birds
As in so many other fisheries, birds are hugely important to the fall run. But they don’t just indicate the presence of fish and angling opportunity—rather, they can tell an angler what kind of bait is in the water.
Terns hit small baits, mostly silversides, bay anchovies and sand eels. When they hover close to the water’s surface, they’re on a big pod of bait with predators underneath. If they’re winging it high, they’re looking for food. If they fly fast right above the surface, albies or bonito are probably in the mix (as opposed to the slower striped bass and bluefish).
Most gulls are scavengers, but they too can tell you what kind of bait is around. Herring gulls feed on herring, but they also love mackerel. When a flock of herring gulls works together, there is probably a school of big bass underneath the bait. Black-backed gulls are the most aggressive and basically eat anything smaller than them. Their value to anglers is similar to that of black-headed laughing gulls, as they love crustaceans, particularly crabs.
Shearwaters feast on squid but also follow schools of mackerel and menhaden. The Cory’s and the sooty are two popular shearwaters in the Northeast. Storm petrels, meanwhile, are skimmer birds that tiptoe their way across the water’s surface in search of plankton. Petrels follow bigger bait like the squid and mackerel that feed on the silversides and the anchovies that feed on the plankton. Petrels and stripers love shrimp.
Gannets are plunge divers that soar 50 to 70 feet high. When they get a clear view of their favorite food, herring, they crash into the water, with air sacs cushioning their impact. Gannets use their wings to swim to bait, which they either inhale or impale with their long, pointed beaks. When you see a flock of them diving along a beach, you’re in for a treat.
Sea ducks are common in the fall. Mergansers feed on small baitfish like silversides, sand eels and shrimp. Common eiders like small bait as well, and king eiders like squid. The oldsquaw feast on shrimp, while surf scoters target crabs. Diver ducks like tide lines and frequent Oceanside beaches with good current and tide seams, but they’ll move into the bays and estuaries with the bass and blues.
Belly Up to the Bar
Northeast beaches in the fall are ripe with bait that stages and then pushes on the various moons. If you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time, you’ll miss the silversides, sand eels, glass minnows, herrings, peanut bunker, anchovies, mullets and butterfish that head south for the winter.
Find the bait, and you’ll find the fish. Bait stages in coves during half-moons and moves on full moons, so you’ll want to fish points of bars on the full and new moons and coves on the quarter moons. If you go to an area and see a lot of bait but no fish, then switch spots. I guarantee that the fish found more bait somewhere else! The schools of fish move into either the wind or the tide, whichever is stronger, so you should pick your next spot with that in mind.
When you arrive at a beach at low tide, preferably at a negative tide, you’ll be able to see the terrain that will set you up for the moving water and an approach.
Onshore bars connect to shore. They typically run at an angle based on the dominant current. Start fishing at the drop, and work your way out to the point. As the tide begins to flood, fish your way back to shore. Fish the point and both sides, and watch the bowl along the leeward side, where the bar joins land. Bait and fish will gather in that bowl and move over the bar when the water is high enough.
Bull-nose bars are rounded and look like an upside-down letter U. Sometimes fish hold in the lee; other times they feast on the windward side. Watch the way the current moves over the bar, and cast your fly up and across, letting it swing into the adjoining deeper water. When the fish are tight to the beach, you won’t have to cast very far.
Parallel offshore bars are not connected to land and have hard-running currents blowing through on all sides. At low tide, they may be exposed or just slightly underwater. An easy way to find a parallel offshore bar is to look for a “tribe.” Surfers love a good beach break! Sometimes the back bowl between the beach and the bar is chockablock with bass. Other times the fish are on the outside edge. And still other times they’re working the currents on either end. You can wade to some offshore bars on the low tide, but wear a Farmer John wetsuit. As the tide comes up, you can float back to shore.
Points are spits of sand that jut out into the ocean, while bowls, or holes, are basins that have deeper water and lots of current.
Use ranges to mark mother lodes. Take a longitudinal point and match it with a latitudinal point, and X marks the spot. The right end of a cottage porch and a lobster buoy could be a coordinate in its simplest form. Other common structures are water towers, buoys, breakwaters, channel markers, rock piles and trees.
Northern New England and Massachusetts Bay
From August to mid-October, Dave Gibson, of Great Bay Rod Co., fishes beaches in the fall from Maine through northern Massachusetts. He doesn’t see lots of birds marking fish in Maine and New Hampshire, but instead he drives along Route 1A looking for beachfronts that are sandwiched between the rocky coastline.
He typically searches for those spots around low tide and returns to fish them during the last few hours of the food through the first few hours of the drop. Because of the cold water, he likes Monic intermediate lines and adds a variety of lengths of lead-core lines for additional depth.
Running the beach at Plum Island,Massachusetts, is the easiest way to find fish. Because of the usually present sand eels, Gibson sees more bird activity there. Still, he’ll tie longer flies because of the diverse baitfish that dump out of the river systems.
In Massachusetts Bay from September to October, schools of striped bass split, with some migrating on the inside of the bay. With all of the river systems from the North Shore down through the South Shore, there is never a shortage of baitfish dropping out. The last beach on the South Shore is White Horse Beach, and it is just north of Cape Cod Canal, where all the bayside fish push through.
Cape God and Rhode lsland
In September and November, other fish follow the Labrador Current, which runs from Plum Island to Cape Cod’s Race Point. According to Capt. Dave Steeves, of Fishing the Cape, the fish seem to split.
“Race Point, in Provincetown, has historically been an exceptional spot,” he says. “Some of the fish will move along the bay side, and Sandy Point, on the outside of Barnstable Harbor, is excellent. We also find bass and blues along the outer beaches in Truro, Wellfeet, Eastham andOrleans. Reverse the spring patterns, and you’ll find them.”
Fishing the Cape owner Bruce Zeller reports that the number of bass on the Oceanside beaches is smaller, but the quality is outstanding. “This past year we saw a tremendous amount of bait right up on shore, and long casts weren’t necessary,” he says. ” As the water cools down, we change fly lines and favor the Cortland PE+ Crystal and the Airflo Cold Saltwater fly lines because they don’t kink up.”
Anglers consider Rhode Island, the Ocean State, the smallest state with the longest run. “As the migration starts, you’ll find fish dropping down from Upper Narragansett Bay,” says Peter Jenkins, owner of the Saltwater Edge in Middletown. “While most anglers think of fishing the beaches of South County, the Upper Bay beaches are great places to start to fish.”
As the fish drop down from Upper Narragansett Bay, the Saltwater Edge’s general manager, Arden Gardell, says he “finds fish spreading throughout Newport’s First, Second and Third beaches, from the cobble beaches around Narragansett down through the rocky and sandy Scarborough Beach and throughout South County. From the sandy Matunuck to the rocky Carpenters Bar to the expansive Charlestown Beach, Weekapaug and Napatree Point, you’ll find the bass and blues throughout all of the stages of the run.”
There’s always something to be found during the Northeast’s fall run. While the addictive quest can indeed drive you nuts at times, there’s plenty of peace to be found in this fishing.
Fishing
Hey, I found the deep spot. During the short window for wadefishing the bayside flats near Wellfleet, Mass., one cloudy June afternoon, Tom Keer chased a striped bass off the edge of a sandbar into a neck-deep channel. “The 12-foot tides drop to less than 2 feet for just a few hours,:” Keer says. He had been sight-fishing a spot where stripers often go after sand eels when he hooked one on the fly. “It ran into deeper water where the current started to drag it, and I had to follow or risk losing all my backing.” Eventually the striper broke off.
Keer adds that there are ways to pass the time between wading opportunities on the Cape. “At slack tide, it’s all sand and we amuse ourselves digging for littleneck clams until the tide comes back up.”
Photographer: Barry and Cathy Beck
Location: Cape Cod, Massachusetts
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
