Striper Fishing in Old Saybrook (May 2018)

No one fishes harder for stripers, or earlier, than my good buddy Alan.  Whenever I'm home in Connecticut, he's one of my first calls.  More often than not, this leads to waking up at 4:45am the next morning to meet at the water. 

Sunrise in Old Saybrook, Connecticut 

This early in the summer, kayak fishing is in order.  Alan has two pedal kayaks, stable enough to stand on, and decked out with gear.  Arriving at the put-in, a Dunkin Donuts ice coffee and a hot sausage-egg-and-cheese greeted me on my kayak seat.  How's that for a fishing buddy!

As we coasted through a small creek into North Cove, stripers swirled the glassy water around us. 

 Kayaking at sunrise through the streams

 Armed to the teeth, coffee holder and all 

A few hours of sluggo hucking yielded five or six fish each.  As the sun grew hotter, we headed back to the dock...what a way to begin the day. 

 Striper in the morning light

Striper Season Begins (May 2018)

Last summer, I fell in love with striper fishing thanks to a good buddy in Old Saybrook, Connecticut, and an open invitation to prime waters.  We kayak-fished sluggos in the spring, and live-lined bunker by boat as the summer wore on.  As this spring's Potomac shad run wrapped up in late April, my fishy thoughts once again drifted to stripers.

My goal was to catch my first striper on a flyrod.  And who better to give me a chance at it than Mr. Anywaterwilldo,  who has become my informal guide to saltwater flyfishing. Check out his excellent fishing blog here: anywaterwilldo.com

We set out on a beautiful Sunday for the boat, a sleek Parker sized perfectly for the Chesapeake Bay.

 Our striper chariot for the day

After fueling up near Solomons, we headed across the Bay to the Honga River,  in search of wind-protected water.  Along the way, we stopped at a rock pile, and began casting homemade clousers toward the break, stripping back quickly.  On my second cast, I hooked into my first striper, an 18-inch beauty.

My first striper on the fly, from the rocks behind me

After catching three more schoolies, we cruised into the Honga, and began fishing the flats and banks.  Through the quiet, clear water, we watched aggressive schoolies smack our plastic lures and clousers.  Woops and fist-pounds followed each fish, and we lost count after 20.

As the day began melting into early evening, we casted into a small creek feeding into the Honga.  Matt's line quivered...something heavy began taking line.  "It's a ray...I know it's a ray" was Matt's initial, somewhat-disappointed call.  Schools of rays were around throughout the day, and snagging one apparently wasn't rare.  Soon, though, the telltale head-shake of a large striper rattled Matt's rod.  After a good fight, he landed the fish of the day.

 Casting into a small creek, a large striper in wait

Fish of the day

Dock-bound an hour later, we stopped to cast poppers as the sun set.  Despite some aggressive strikes, we came up empty handed.  A reminder of what an epic day we'd just lived...stripers don't always come easily.

Still giddy, we decided to celebrate with an outrageously large order of Taco Bell. 

Matt and I decide to Live Mas...last time for awhile

The Legend of Rex

To the "purist" flyfisherman, largemouth bass are a far cry from native trout.  David James Duncan, in The River Why, writes the following subtle characterization:

Although admired in the deep south, where the fetid, yellow-brown lukewarm waters make it impossible for the noble salmonoids to eke out an existence, the largemouth bass is an outlander, a devouring pestilence, a freakish invader to the salubrious waters of the North and Northwest.  Of indelicate appetite, sluggish disposition, negligible intelligence, paltry stamina, and possessing a head, mouth and stomach of ludicrous bulk in comparison with its stultified body, the largemouth bass is easily America's most overrated, overstocked fish.  If it possesses any exceptional quality whatsoever, it is its suicidal viciousness: these demented creatures have been known to attack alligators, outboard-motor propellors, and even small yachts; they frequently inhale live ducks, muskrats, water moccasins and swimming house pets, only to die of the effects.  Largemouth bass have even attacked children, some of whom have been terribly mu-- 

You get the idea.

Although ordinary largemouths aren't known for their intelligence, the true giants do grow wise.  You can't grow to be king of the lake without a few tricks.

Later in his novel, Duncan recalls an encounter with one such infamous creature: Garbage Gut.  Legend has it that that Garbage Gut grew enormous on the scraps of weekend picnickers.  To trick the beast, angler Gus Orviston dressed in his Sunday best, sat down to eat lunch at a picnic table bordering the pond, and began throwing scraps over his back into the water.  Sure enough, 'Ol Gut began to feed.  The fish would spook at the sight of a rod, so Gus fished a hotdog from the trash and hooked it to a hand line.  When he finally landed the record fish, its belly contained a candy bar, two cigarette butts, two minnows and a carrot.

Now the legend of Rex.

Rex is a largemouth bass in Paradox Lake, in the Adirondack Park.  Like Garbage Gut, Rex has learned to improvise on nature's idea of healthy eating habits.  Specifically, Rex hides under a dock where children learn to fish by throwing worms to bluegill.  Imagine the look on a child's face as they happily reel in their beloved bluegill, just to witness a massive, dark form launch itself from under the dock, devour their fish whole, snap their line, and disappear before the kid can speak.

Jake E. and I have tried all manner of lures, flies, plugs, jigs, doodads, wiggles and dills to catch Rex.  No luck.  This fish wanted one thing: live bluegill.  So we developed a plan.

Using my fly rod, I would snag a bluegill.  We'd then transfer the bluegill to a hook on Jake's stronger spin rod, and let the bait swim around the dock.  Catching bluegill on a flyrod was easy...reeling them in before Rex ate them was hard.  I lost three before finally handing Jake E. the bait.

Having hooked the bluegill to his line, Jake let the fish swim.

Jake fishing with his bluegill...I was scared to watch

Sure enough, the water exploded like someone had tossed a grenade.  Jake waited a moment to make sure Rex has eaten the bait completely before setting the hook.  Angered, Rex made a run for the safety of the dock, surely hoping to wrap Jake's line around the anchor ropes.  Jake's rod bent to its limit, bowed low over the side of the dock.

As quickly as it began, it was over.  Jake E. landed the legend.  We'd caught Rex.

 The Legend: Rex

 Rehabbing the Monster

St. Regis Canoe Wildneress (June 2017)

In June, my parents and I set out for a two-day, one-night paddling adventure in the St. Regis Canoe Wilderness, in New York's Adirondack Park.  The Canoe Area is a uniquely remote treasure within the larger Adirondack system.  It includes 1,600 acres of wilderness and 50+ backcountry ponds, accessible only by "canoe carry"...the act of hiking your canoe through the mountains and between ponds.  The effort it takes to access this area means very few ever make the trip.  I've never seen such a wild place on the East Coast. 

Saturday morning, we arrived early at the Floodwood location of the St. Regis Canoe Outfitters.  If you're going into the Canoe Area, talk to these helpful folks.  Backpacks on, we hoisted the canoe and set out on a narrow mountain trail for the first pond.  

 Arriving at the edge of wilderness

Carrying a canoe through the forest is an odd feeling.  I wouldn't suggest it unless you have to.  To cut down on hiking, we put in at a small no-name beaver pond.  The water was calm and dotted with spring lillies.  It was gorgeous.

 Mom navigating us through the beaver pond

After some additional hiking, we reached Long Pond.  One of the largest ponds in the Canoe Area, we spent some time exploring before finding a spot to set up camp.

Putting in at Long Pond

 A mansion of a tent! 

Our next adventure was to summit St. Regis Mountain (2,874 ft.), with a trailhead off Long Pond.  The mountain provides an excellent view of the Canoe Area.  For us, it was a way to confirm the next three ponds we'd be hopping across on Sunday. 

View from St. Regis Mountain

Well-earned dinner

Sunday morning, we packed and began paddling to the far side of Long Pond.  With surprising success, we navigated between three ponds throughout the day: Slang Pond, Turtle Pond, and Hoel Pond.  Each was more remote than the last.  Loons dove, reappeared, and dove again as we paddled.  

 Family problem-solving

Slang Pond

 Canoe carries involve a lot of packing the boat, unpacking the boat, and repacking.

 Up until the last pond, our trip had gone smoothly.  But with an hour left to paddle, the winds picked up, and we found ourselves struggling to keep our heavy-laden boat upright amid whitecaps and a darkening sky.  As my mom worked to tie our gear to the boat (that's how close we came to tipping), Dad and I worked the boat toward the takeout on the far shore.  We quickly gave up on an accurate landing, and were happy to wash ashore along a campground.  Some helpful folks rescued us and pulled our gear to safety. 

Exhausted but happy, we began the drive back to our cabin on Paradox Lake, stopping for a deli lunch along the way.

Adirondack Hiking and Pickerel (May 2018)

For Mother's Day, I visited my parent's cabin in the Adirondacks.  I'm convinced my Mom (a serious outdoorswoman) enjoys out-hiking my sister and I a few times each year. 

Despite United Airlines' best efforts to keep me in DC, I arrived at the cabin early Saturday morning.  I had a blast catching up with my folks, hearing about my sister's upcoming wedding, and of course...eating dust behind my Mom on the way up a pine-covered Adirondack peak. 

Paradox Lake - my Mecca

For Jake E. and me, spring in the Adirondacks also means pike/pickerel fishing.  These aggressive, sharp-toothed fish take to shallow weeds for the spring spawn.  Kayaking deep into grassy, flooded shorelines and throwing topwater flies (frogs, poppers) evokes explosive, angry hits.

While much larger Northern Pike do prowl the shallows this time of year, our action came from Southern Pike (also known as Chain Pickerel).  Identify a Chainy by its square pattern and black teardrop below the eye.

We used kayaks to sneak up on grassy shallows.

Locally tied in DC -- devoured in NY

 A medium-sized chain pickerel (note pattern and teardrop)

 A larger fellow

 Despite the occasional reading break, Hannah is a badass fisherwomen...known to land large stripers with light rods. 

 Getting a tow home at sunset

Kayak Camping Janes Island (April 2018)

As April approached, A and I were stir-crazy from the surprisingly cold DC winter.  I obsessively checked the long-term forecast every morning, hoping for a break.  In mid-April, warmer weather moved in, and we decided to check out Janes Island State Park.  

Located on the eastern shore of Maryland, Janes Island features a state campground bordering an expansive salt marsh.  The marsh, ideal estuary habitat for birds, sea trout and stripers, has 30+ miles of kayak "water trails" to explore.  Our plan: escape the District Friday afternoon, stay at the campground Friday night, and then kayak-camp at a backcountry campsite (in the marsh) Saturday night.  

Friday night, we arrived at the campground after dark, setting up our tent by headlamp.  We went to sleep with the sounds of light rain on the tent and Great Horned Owls in the pine trees above. 

 Waking up at the campground -- first views of the salt marsh

Saturday morning, we awoke to blue skies and warm weather.  We rented kayaks from a local outfitter, somehow made our backpacking gear fit, and paddled out for our backcountry campsite.

 Adrienne stoked  -- winter begone

Our backcountry site was located on a tiny island in the middle of the salt marsh.  There was a platform for a tent, a tree for shade, and that's about it.  Excited to have found a remote spot on a beautiful weekend, we got to work unpacking.  Tent was set up again, air mattresses filled again.  Spirits were high.  What could go wrong. 

 With some wind forecasted, we opted to set up our tent under a tree. 

After setting up camp, we paddled out to the beach separating the salt marsh from the Chesapeake Bay.  It was beautiful.  We found white sand, and not a single other person.  It almost felt Caribbean.

Chesapeake Bay

 Our own beach for the day

 Biologist in her element

Walking the beach, I casually checked the NOAA forecast.  Yikes!  Small craft advisory for the Bay.  Forecasted winds for Saturday night of 25-40 mph, with gusts to 55.  Scary weather to be on a tiny, exposed island bordering the Bay.

We considered our plight.  One option was to tough it out at our backcountry site.  We could double-stake the tent.  However, kayaking back to the mainland the next morning in high winds (with loaded boats) didn't sound fun.  Another option was to abandon the backcountry site, and head back to the mainland campground.  Feeling a bit defeated, we decided to take down our tent for the second time that day and head for solid land.

And good thing we did.  That night, bruising winds descended.  We awoke to the sounds of wind ripping through our tent.  The night was chaotic.  A combination of trying to ignore the windstorm, worrying about falling tree limbs, racing to save gear from flying off, and ultimately sleeping in the backseat of our rental car.

But we survived.  And looking back, it was an awesome adventure to start the season.

Exploring the salt march "water trails"...the calm before the storm