Standing where you should be fishing.

None other than smallmouth bass guru, Harry Murray, has echoed these words regarding the reaction many anglers have upon seeing stream or river; that being to head straight to fishy looking spots, spooking good fish in the process. The complete saying – that most anglers stand where they should be fishing and fish where they should be standing – is always hovering over me like some divine angling angel, waiting to alight on my shoulder when I am bank-side and way too exuberant to get in the water.

And so it was that an angling angel hovered above me as I fished a streamer down a river braid of the Tioughnioga River a few weeks ago. I was approaching the junction where the braid creek joined back with the river. The angel showed itself, not in some whisper above my shoulder, but in the form of a fish. As I approached the junction, my eyes were on a broad riffle that looked oh-so-fishy. What my gaze missed, was the seam, where the fast current of the main river pushed against the deeper slow water of the river braid. At the point of the junction was a downfall  – beyond the downfall, the river current had built up a long thin bar of sand, silt, and cobblestone. Looking downstream to the right of the seam, the water was pure riffle; to the left of the seam, the water deepened and slowed. Along the ridge of the seam, long aquatic grass swayed in the current. It was a perfect ambush site, an area of about 20 to 30 feet in length, 10 feet in width and 2 feet in depth. There’s no doubt baitfish would congregate in the aquatic grass. It’s also not a surprise that bass would find the broken water of the riffle as good cover from above and the adjacent still water as a great place to hunt when the time was right.

The current seam that I almost waded through, saved by my angling angel.

As I closed on the seam, my angling angel appeared in the form of a solitary bass blitzing baitfish, sending them leaping for their lives. The blitz ended as quickly as it started, but awakened me to the fact that I was about to violate one of Harry’s cardinal rules had I continued wading right through the seam. I stopped and cast upstream towards the downfall, then stripped my “Murray’s Wounded Minnow” streamer through the seam. On my second such retrieve, my line pulled tight and got nice and heavy. In the current I could see the golden-brown broad-side flash of a large smallmouth as it tried to head to the safety of the riffle water. The fight ended in a long-distance release, but I was pleased to start the morning off with a good fish on the hook.

Thinking this was an isolated case, I violated a second rule – to never leave fish – and waded carefully upriver and then worked a streamer down and across the riffle. As good as that water looked, I picked up plump and feisty bass, several fallfish, and in the deeper pool beyond, a small walleye, but no more quality fish like the one I had encountered at the current seam.

Eventually I crossed the river and slowly worked back upstream to the seam. I was ready to head back to my car when I saw another blitz in the same spot. I quickly moved into position and cast my streamer. I was soon tight to another quality bass, but lost this one too after a brief brawl. Could there be more? I answered that question after a few casts and this time, tied into an even larger bass, dark in color, that shook its head in the current and then proceeded to skip across the water like a flying fish on takeoff. We tussled back and forth, but soon this bass was mine. I lipped the bass and felt the solid bite-down that only truly large bass give when first brought to hand. This fish had weight and wildness in it…

On the way back to the car I stopped at a deep hole in the river braid. As I waded the shallow side of this elbow pool, I spooked what I thought might be two bass. I let the spot rest a bit and carefully walked the bank back to where I had seen the fish. Sure enough, two very nice bass swam in small circles in the shallows, but I quickly recognized these fish were on the nest. I let them alone and headed back to the car. I’d be back in time, hopefully with my angling angel in tow.

Early season bronze…

I had an inkling, way back in January, that this might be a bad year for trout and a great year for smallmouth bass fly fishing. Last year was quite the opposite…

The epic flood of 2011: the Susquehanna River ravages bank-side trees.

…plenty of cold water all year for trout, and way too much water for smallmouth bass fishing, causing an almost non-existent fall bass blitz. Anglers, especially the troutey types, have long suspected that without our typical snow-pack, the early season would be sweet-then-bitter; that is, relatively low flows and clear water, abnormally great early season fishing with phenomenal bug activity, followed by VERY low water, high temps, and trout-threatening conditions – and not bittersweet as it normally should be with mostly unfishable high water, followed by great late spring and summer flows, cool water, and normal hatches.

So it’s no surprise that, until most recently, I’ve been witnessing the East Branch of Owego Creek dwindle to what appears now to be early summer flows. Likewise, until recently, I’d cross the Main Street bridge from Endicott into Vestal and look for the telltale riffles that are my indicator that the river is ready for fly fishing. Normally I don’t wet a line in the Susky until July, at the earliest.

I’ll credit local fly angler Dave Pelachik for giving me the nudge to do something about what turned out to be the smallmouth bass fly fishing perfect storm. After reading of Dave’s success with early season smallmouth, I couldn’t help but think that the same thing could be happening on my beloved Susquehanna. The trib that Dave fished and the Susquehanna River are two completely differently acting bodies of water, but I started wondering if Dave’s trib success could be a leading indicator for my own on the Susquehanna.

A drive by my favorite spot on the Susquehanna on Saturday, April 14th, was the impetus to action. Driving north with my wife for a bit of wine tasting in the Finger Lakes, I did an “eyes right” on the spot as we sped by on Route 17 and boy, did it look good. As a result, I was up very early the following morning. I questioned whether I might be better off fishing the smaller rivers like the Tioughnioga or Chenango, but in the end, the pull of the big river and the possibility of big fish was too great. I succumbed to it and arrived at the DEC access at 7 a.m., and by 7:30, had the great pool in sight.

I focused my efforts on a long riffle that sweeps down into a deep chute of water. This riffle water borders a large pool that is fed by two river braids. I fished a conehead olive wooly bugger on a sink tip line, casting across and upstream in the riffle and letting my streamer swing. On my second cast I was rewarded with a heavy surge on the line followed by very solid thumps as a smallmouth turned broadside to the current. The bass fought like every bass does – dogged, determined, and never-giving in, all the way to hand…

Early season bronze...

That first bass, as with all first-of-the-year bronze, reminded me why I come back and fish our great rivers. Not long after releasing this heavy-bellied bass, I was into another quality bass with a totally different camo scheme…

Another fine bass with very different underwater camo...

Over the next few hours, the fishing just got better. I was in the zone, in tune with the fish it seemed, or just lottery-lucky to have found the right day, the right hour, and the right place.

Some of the bass were jumpers; others slugged it out beneath and on the surface. Colors varied just as much, but all were obviously on the feed. At one point, I hooked a nice bass and long distance released it, resulting in my fly rocketing back behind me. I promptly picked up the fly with a forward cast, only to feel resistance as if I’d snagged something. Spinning around, I found myself fast to another bass, but only briefly because of an obviously flawed hook-set!

After thoroughly fishing the riffle, I moved on to fish the adjacent pool. I worked the still water and the deep run from the bigger of the river braids and picked up a few more bass on an olive and gold zonker. I crossed the entry of the braid, worked it from the other side of the river, and the fishing really turned on. One of the bass I caught had a large minnow in its gut – another had the tips of two crayfish claws protruding from its  gullet. Every fish was beer-bellied, some almost grotesquely so. I could only assume the bigger ones were female bass ripe with eggs.

An olive conehead wooly bugger rang the dinner bell for this smallmouth...

In the midst of it all, I picked up two small walleyes and two nice-sized fallfish. Fallfish are feisty and readily take a streamer or nymph and what they lose in terms of jumping ability they make up for in flashy fighting. One of them came to hand with two others following it – something I’ve seen smallies do, but never fallfish. In several parts of this fishery I had found their huge “pebble pile” nests.

Of all the days I’ve spent on the river, this one was the best. I lost count of the bass, but had to have landed at least 20 – all quality fish – and lost half as many again. The hours I fished seemed to scream by, and soon the bewitching hour of 11 a.m was close at hand. I packed up, steeped in regret, and walked upriver to the DEC access. All the while, an imaginary angler taunted me with sage words of wisdom: “never leave fish”…

Serendipity on Cayuta Creek

I’m a believer in serendipity, which I quote, as follows, from Wikipedia:

Serendipity means a “happy accident” or “pleasant surprise”; specifically, the accident of finding something good or useful without looking for it. The word has been voted one of the ten English words hardest to translate in June 2004 by a British translation company.

Just so happens I found it along Cayuta Creek, a favorite trout fishery of mine and one that has been profiled here before. I had stopped by on a recent Friday evening for a bit of after-work fly fishing and as usual, the “little gem” did not disappoint…

One of many Cayuta browns that couldn't resist a picket pin streamer...

Fishing one particular stretch that evening, I quickly got into quite a few brown trout – a mix of stocked fish and holdovers. My peaceful 2 hour interlude was interrupted only once by a spin fisherman whose pick-up came to an abrupt stop, with a roar of its exhaust, near where I was fishing. He climbed out of his burly red truck, rappelled down the creek bank, simply outfitted with spinning rod, sunglasses and cigarette, and briefly stopped to ask how I’d done. He then walked downstream, casting his spinner from the bank in rapid-fire fashion. After just a half-dozen casts, he dashed upstream and out of sight.

I found the trout willing to dance with a Picket Pin streamer that had been sent a few weeks earlier, gratis, courtesy of Dave Pelachik of JJ’s Jigs. All it took to produce that magical buttery brown flash of a trout from the greenish depths of the pool was a cast across and upstream followed by a mend to get the fly deep and a few short strips on the swing. There were more short takes than I could count, but for a good while, this tactic produced a number of stockies along with several nice fish. Later, clouds of midges or tiny olives – I’m not sure which -  started hatching, with a few caddis interspersed, and the game changed. On went a Picket Pin wet and Godfather (pheasant tail) emerger. One out of every three or four casts was followed by classic staccato grabs on the swing that every wet fly fisherman dreams of in the depths of winter.

The fishing that evening was so enjoyable, I couldn’t resist another shot the following day. With my wife up in Rochester tending to my collegiate daughter, I figure I’d enjoy another day of the relative solitude that pre-opener fishing brings. I drove west from my home that Saturday and then north in the mid-morning overcast, belly full with the contents of the oh-so-good / oh-so-unhealthy Sausage Egg McMuffin I’d picked up along the way. It was another cool and damp day with spritzes of rain thrown in for good measure.

Driving along the length of Cayuta Creek, I saw only a few cars parked bank-side. But once I reached the special regs section above Van Etten, I noticed a somewhat familiar car in the exact spot I had parked the evening before. The tall gangly figure walking upstream along the road quickly confirmed my suspicions; it was none other than my long-lost fishing pal and former coworker, Dan…

I caught up to him in my car, practically squeezed him off the road, and extended a hearty hello. After parking, Dan patiently waited while I strung up – something I pointed out to him with emphasis since most times he’d be thigh deep in the creek before I’d barely donned my waders.

We fished the same run I’d fished the night before, then walked upstream to a favorite riffle below the bridge pool and fished the creek back down to where we parked, all the while catching up on goings on, re-telling old war stories, and enjoying the willing participation of the creek’s enthusiastic browns. I asked Dan why he hadn’t sent more flies to me, good tyer that he is, and he countered back about not getting him a ticket to the Al Hazzard TU banquet. Through it all, we both seemed at a loss to pinpoint exactly how long it had been since we last shared a day on the water.

Looking downstream on the "Little Gem".

I came that day not looking for anything but some quiet time fly fishing a special little creek, but as happens every once in a while in life, I found something else. As we worked one particularly deep hole, Dan mentioned the sudden passing of some former coworkers, and I could tell it was really bothering him. Interestingly, I too had just gotten word of a colleague from my past who had died at a still relatively young age. We talked about it and continued to fish, but maybe in the silence of each cast, we pondered our own tentative place on this good earth. Our banter picked up after that, as did the sharing of more good memories and the promise of more time on the water in each others company.

We fished every part of the creek on our way to where we parked. After climbing out of the creek and breaking down my gear at the car, all I could think of was a passage from T.S. Elliot’s poem, Little Gidding:

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.

It’s one thing to call up a friend and arrange a day of fly fishing, but quite another to arrive at the same place and pick up as if it had been thoroughly planned in advance. Serendipity is a good friend, indeed, and one I will cherish as long as I can wade a beautiful piece of water and cast a fly…

Short Casts: Could be a soggy opener for PA

NY trout fishing has been open just shy of two weeks. Reports have been mixed – from really good fishing to “not-a-thing”. The variation can at least partially be attributed to the whipsaw weather we’ve enjoyed – and most around these parts know what I’m talking about.

This past Wednesday and Thursday are a classic example – an all day soaking rain and chilly temps on Wednesday, just in time for bluebird skies, a warm 60 degree day-time high, and…

The lower section of Nanticoke Creek on Thusday, 4/14 - robins singing, the sun is out - what more could one want...?

high water with a distinctive muddy stain to it on Thursday. The picture above was taken by yours truly while on lunch break. I hate to admit it, but on beautiful days when I have to work, and could be enjoying the inspiring environs of trout, I’m selfishly glad for high water.

Thanks to two days of drying out, local creeks and streams are settling back down to decent levels, as evidenced by this pic of the Owego Creek gauge…

Owego Creek is back to good fishing levels - just in time for more rain...

and just in time for Mother Nature to throw more slack in that drift with a forecast of steady rain and cool temps for Saturday, which just happens to be the opener to the south of us in Pennsylvania.

Dark green is not good for anglers...

Early bird anglers will be cold, but best off, as the rain isn’t really supposed to kick in until noon. Water levels could be back up by late afternoon with the ground as saturated as it is, so if you plan on hitting the opener in pee-aayy, or some of our local re-stocked creeks in NY, don’t sleep in.

Tight lines…

Short Casts: Big Weekend for Fly Fishing Events

Local creeks and streams are still high but that oh-so-nice green snow melt color is showing in some of them and that, to most fly anglers, is like seeing the first robin of spring. Looking back over pictures from last year, however, it’s pretty apparent that this winter was a stronger bloke than 2010′s contender…

Nanticoke Creek, in great fishing shape, a year ago to the day...

We may, in fact, still be a few weeks behind last year’s spring breakout. But remember NY’s weather rule which holds that if you don’t like the weather, just wait a minute. Of course, that could mean a leap to summer-like temps or a cold winter recession and even more of the white stuff…

In any case, it’s still not too late to get the gear out and spread it all over the living room – drape every piece of furniture with it – lay out fly boxes and reels and spare spools on every flat surface – empty reels of fly line and backing – and christen it all with a few empty beer bottles, perhaps. Much as a dog marks their territory, this will let all household inhabitants know, you are IN town and ready to flog the banks…

And whilst doing this, don’t forget the bevy of fly fishing events popping up like so many crocuses. Our area is ripe with them, and just this weekend, you’ll find 2 fine examples to attend and really get you in the mood…

If that doesn’t induce spring fever, or the cost of “Texas tea” is just too heady to drive much, stay home and attend to cleaning, lubing, restoring, fixing and general preparation, as described in these short articles:

Rod Care 1, Rod Care 2

Reel Care

Line Care

Boot Care

Preparing 1, Preparing 2

Tight  Lines…

Short Casts: It’s Almost Time

Until recently, Old Man Winter was doing a pretty good job of keeping the Southern Tier in his icy grip. February and March, to date, have seen good snowfall and cold temperatures…

Anyone for a Sunday drive?

The remainder of March looks better, with warming daytime temps ranging from freezing to the low 50′s. March is always a wild card, but as it came in “a lion”, it will hopefully go out, “a lamb”.

Fly fishing will be iffy until the creeks drop and clear a bit, but Southern Tier anglers should take heart: there’s a lot going on locally to keep even the most restless angler happy. Click here for a current listing of local fly fishing events.

Even if you’re not the social type – you know, one of those lone wolf anglers – there’s still much to do to prepare for the fly fishing season. Click here for a summary of the kind of stuff you ought to be doing right now. And if it’s fly fishing supplies you’re lacking, click here for a list of Southern Tier fly shops and retailers that might help you stock up for the opener.

Tight Lines…

Winter bound…

It is snowing heavily outside my study window this morning as I write and I, like many of my fly fisher brethren, are wondering aloud – “will it ever end?” It’s not that there’s not a lot of fishing-related things to do: Waders need patching, reels need lubrication, lines need cleaning – gear needs going over. And flies – well, tying always seems to call before the season. Still, the snow and cold of winter can seem to stretch on endlessly this time of year and just plain “get to you”. In the words of one fellow fly angler hailing from equally frost-bitten western PA: “I think I have the opposite of seasonal affective disorder; the lighter it gets means trout season is coming, and the more impatient and irritable I become…”

The cold, the snow, the silence - it can get to you...

For the most hardy amongst us, even winter fly fishing is limited by this most recent spate of bitter cold. Just a few weeks ago, before the Arctic enveloped the Southern Tier, I made it out for a walk along the main stem of Nanticoke Creek, up north of the village of Maine, NY. This little put and take fishery was largely icebound, save the riffles and glides…

Nanticoke Creek in deep winter...

The Nanticoke is closed in the off season to fishing but it did offer respite for this winter-bound angler. The creek-side snow was deep the day I hiked its course – the surrounding woods silent, save the sound of the wind whispering through boughs of hemlock.

Flowing sweet and black...

The soft murmur of it’s icy black water soothed my soul like a lullaby; the contrast of the stark colors of winter – the deep green of hemlock against the white snow – enough to offer promise of spring.

Looking upstream to the junction pool...

Although it’s hard to acknowledge in the depth of winter, especially when we are assaulted each weekend with fly fishing shows from southern locales, there is purpose in the off season. Like the seventh day of the week, we all need time to reflect on the past, rest in the present, and look forward to the rebirth that comes with spring.

So for inspiration to the winter-bound out there, I’ll close this post with one of Robert Frost’s most famous poems – Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening. While there are many themes found in this poem, including Frost’s own bouts with depression and dealing with loss, its words speak to me about the importance of balance: Valuing rest, symbolized by the alluring beauty of the woods in winter, with activity, which there seems to be so much of in modern life.

 

Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

 

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

 

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound’s the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

 

The woods are lovely dark and deep

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

Sleep softly, Nanticoke Creek…

Listening to guides…

When local fly fishing guide Wayne Aldridge recently spoke to our Trout Unlimited chapter, I took copious notes. Part of my studiousness was in the interest of writing a report on his presentation: “Fall fly fishing on the West Branch of the Delaware”. But most of my note-taking was out of pure self-interest: I have learned to listen to guides. This past Sunday was a perfect example of how listening to a guide can pay off.

After recent dousings of rain, the weekend had looked like it might be the perfect set-up for fishing the Cayuga Lake tribs. A good push of water along with the sting of some frosty nights this time of year is typically what sends a love message to the landlocked salmon and brown trout staging in the lake. The fish sense that the time is right and move up the tribs to spawn, giving fly fishers a golden opportunity to catch the fish of a lifetime. But timing the run is never a sure thing, and while monitoring the USGS river gauge and the weather report are key, there’s nothing like being on the spot and testing the waters to really know when the run is on. And so, an email inquiry was quickly dispatched to fellow blogger and trout bum extraordinaire, Artie Loomis, and the inquiry was just as quickly answered: “Fall Creek isn’t happening yet”. As I stared at those disappointing words early Sunday morning, I immediately started thinking about plan B…

Plan B...

A quick glance at the Hale Eddy river gauge showed perfect wading flows, but the potential for dirty water loomed large in my mind. The tailwaters are known for producing a turbid discharge in the Fall, the result of turnover in the reservoir that feeds the river. Most fly anglers would not even give discolored water a chance figuring the fish can barely see their nose in such conditions. But the advice of Wayne Aldridge suggested otherwise – that stained water in combination with the presence of spawned-up male brown trout in a bad-ass mood can make for some truly outstanding fishing. What’s good for a guide is always plenty good enough for me…

Shortly before 9 am I crossed the river at the Rt 17 / Deposit overpass. The Gentleman’s pool was flowing picture-perfect and its banks were totally void of anglers but the river water was the color of dirty wash-water. I made my way to the river road and was butt-deep in the 45 degree water in no time, armed with my Scott A2 9 foot 6 weight streamer rod, a vest stuffed with flies, and hope in a guide’s advice.

The river was in its peak autumn glory and I had the entire stretch of river to myself. Mist rose off the water and encircled me like cigar smoke, but despite the frosty morning temps, the constant casting, mending, and stripping that’s required when streamer fishing warmed me up in no time.

I started the morning fishing a white conehead zuddler on a river braid above the pool. The water was cleaner there – the channel was fast in spots but the far bank was undercut and laden with thick cover. A downed tree created a deep green pool with a gorgeous back eddy as well. I had once streamer-fished this braid on an early spring morning and experienced one of those vicious, arm-jerking strikes that momentarily stops one’s heart and left my 1X tippet clean of any fly.

The channel failed to produce, so I made my way to the riffle at the head of the pool where two spin anglers had taken up position and now broke the morning solitude. They were throwing what appeared to be spinners based on the glint of light that beamed off the end of their lines. It wasn’t long before the taller of the two caught a small brown, and then another. That was enough for me to change my fly. Tucked in my fly box was a black maribou streamer with a zonker-style body of gold. I figured the gold flash and contrasting black color might show better in the murk of the pool.

I walked downriver below the spin anglers and worked the water thoroughly, hanging up every now and again. Losing flies, especially streamers, can get pricey, but I chalk that up to the price of success after another “guide-ism” that states; “if you’re not losing flies on the bottom every once in a while, you’re not fishing deep enough”. I quartered my cast upstream, then stripped it hard, down and across. After every few casts I moved down a few steps and continued this way, eventually hooking up with a few feisty browns, small but full of spirit.

Mid-morning, I headed back to the car for a break, my legs numb from the cold water. The spinning anglers had also left the river and we chatted a bit in the warmth of the sun. These guys were from New Jersey and had apparently done well on a Saturday float trip of the Main Stem. They inquired as to the fishing of the West Branch and I told them that fall was regarded as the best time to catch the brown trout of a lifetime. Indeed, towards the end of his presentation, Wayne Aldridge had gone even further stating that every year the river gave up a fish in the 27″ – 30″ range.

I returned to the river fishing tandem streamers, starting at the head of the pool and slowly working down-river. Partway through I changed flies again (another guide-ism – to change type and color often when streamer fishing) and this time tied on a snow-white bead-head zonker as my lead fly with a black ghost riding shotgun some 2 feet back.

Halfway down the pool I snagged what I thought was the bottom but then watched in disbelief as a very nice brown launched airborne and tail-walked across the river at the end of my line. The fish fought deep – a solid heavy slug-fest and much more in character with what brown trout are known to do so well. I gradually worked him out of the main current but saw little of his size in the discolored water. Minutes later and after a few misguided attempts, I finally got him part way into my woefully inadequate net…

The pay-off...

After releasing this beautiful male brown, regaled in spawning colors and sporting a pronounced kype, I thanked the good Lord for two things: the advice of guides and ears to listen with…

Tight lines…

Just one last cast…

We’ve all thought, said, or murmured the phrase a million times: “just one more cast”. This mantra of anglers comes at the eleventh hour of a day on the water when we know we have to get back home for myriad reasons and the fishing has not been great, but we can still feel some luck out there. So we make that last cast and most times the results are no different than the 100 casts before, but every once in a while we are pleasantly surprised…

Such was the case for me this past Sunday evening. I only had time for 2 hours for fishing, so I hit a local favorite pool on the Susquehanna River for smallmouth bass. I rigged up with a sink-tip line and 1X leader and tied on a Murray’s Dying Minnow streamer. Casting at the tail of the pool and then across the riffle adjacent to it produced 2 decent bass and some fallfish, but with the cool water and tons of baitfish about, I was hoping for the type of action I’d recently enjoyed on the Chenango River.

I experimented with different patterns of streamers and fished some other sections of the river to no avail. Before hiking back to the car I returned to the pool tail-out for one last cast and was rewarded with a solid thump – the kind that catches you off-guard and puts a “yeah!” in the air. After setting the hook, a bass thrashed to the surface. At first it felt like a smallish fish. It dove and held briefly in the current but then about-faced downstream with supercharged vigor for a fish its size. I put the fish on the reel, thinking I might have underestimated this bass. With fly rod bowed nicely, I thought, “maybe this was one of those bass that suddenly grows in size when it feels the hook?”

I applied some drag, put the brakes to the downstream charge, and steered the fish with sideways pressure out of the riffle and into a patch of slower water, but even out of the current this “bass” was acting, well, very “un-bassy”. Missing were the acrobatics, the darting and diving, and the bulldogging for deeper water. The fight was plain old “down and dirty” – almost walleye-like – and I started second-guessing what might be at the end of my line. More pressure to raise the fish met more throbbing resistance. Finally, a very long green form emerged, like a submarine surfacing for air…

Musky bait on the fly...

The fish came up, porpoised and dove again, and as it did I saw the telltale markings of a musky, and that put a “holy crap” in the air, stirred renewed enthusiasm in my heart and put prayers on my lips of “dear Jesus, if only he’ll hold”. Alas, just as fast as I thought and prayed he was gone, the heavy bend to the rod lightened, and a very tired and limp smallmouth of about 12 inches came to hand. This poor guy had taken my fly with gusto, only to be taken himself with tooth and fang. Talk about a bad day: caught on both ends, no less! I took a quick picture but the pic does not do justice to what the jaws of our local underwater version of cujo can do to scaled and muscled flesh. Barely visible in the pic is a slash mark behind the pectoral fin that sliced open the bass halfway up his side. Other tooth marks were there as well – like bullet holes in the side of Bonnie and Clyde’s getaway car. This poor guy looked like he’d been dipped into a garbage disposal.

Remarkably, the bass was still alive, so I tried to revive him in the current a good while. Before long he was shaking his head and I let him swim off, a piscatorial version of Rocky back for another round. Friends of PETA might chide me for my act of mercy, but I thought any bass that could survive such an attack deserves a chance. Of course if he did not fully regain strength, there was that musky waiting back in the pool and a bald eagle and osprey that regularly patrolled the river.

After that last cast I left the river with a new-found longing for a fly box arsenal of long leggy-looking musky flies…

This is no wooly bugger...

I thought about that new 9 foot 8 weight JP Ross rod I’ve been reserving for the upcoming Finger Lake trib runs, the heavy mono I have for a tooth-proof leader and a long-handled boat net I use in the salt. Then the lyrics of the Jimi Hendrix song, “Foxy Lady”, blasted away in my head…

“I’m coming to get you….”

Tight lines…

Mojo found…

In “The Spy Who Shagged Me”, Austin Powers wakes up one day to discover he’s “lost his mojo”. Devastated, he goes about doing whatever he can to retrieve the magic stuff that makes him a man of extreme attraction to beautiful women world-wide.

If Austin can lose it, so can you...

I suppose anglers have their own version of losing their mojo as it relates to piscatorial pursuits. There are some fly fisherman out there who seem to bubble over with the stuff, have the masculine chin of Dudley Doright, and knowingly or not, seem to veritably rub it in no matter what they do on the water as we lesser types flail away. Most of us mortals do come up short, sometimes for brief periods – but sometimes for longer than admissible.

Such has been my case this summer. Whereas the Susquehanna has behaved itself well, the hunting has not been good. I plied my favorite pools and riffles with little to show for it. At first I considered it bad luck and then maybe poor timing. Every technique I tried, including dead drift nymphing, failed to get more than a few smallmouth wannabe’s. Ultimately I gave just gave it a rest for a while, attributing my string of poor results to the weather, which was supposedly the hottest on record (figures from the Northeast Regional Climate Center at Cornell University show 28 cities from Washington, D.C., to Caribou, Maine, set record highs for average temperature from March through August) and one that had warmed the river to feel like a bath-tub. Beneath that official Southern Tier Flyfisher statement, however, lurked the possibility that I truly had lost my mojo…

Come September and the world once again seems to be one groovy place, baby. Two recent trips to the often-overlooked Chenango River have proved quite successful, the first a week ago in the late afternoon and another trip just yesterday.

This swift run is at the head of a long, deep, and smallmouth-infested pool...

Both trips started almost immediately with hookups on the much maligned fallfish.

Fallfish often serve as a marker species for smallmouth...

Fallfish are wrongly referred to as “chubs” by many who come across them on the river. They aggressively strike nymphs, streamers and even dry flies and while they are no smallmouth bass, the bigger ones will put a good bow in a 7 weight fly rod. The New York state record (and potential world record) fallfish, weighing in at 3 lbs., 9 ounces, was caught in our very own Susquehanna River near Owego last year.

Eventually I got into smallmouth, and the headshakes, jumps, and sheer bulldoggedness of their fight put a big smile on my face. The pool I fished was deep with good current, so I fished a sink tip line and caught many fish on a crayfish pattern, courtesy of Murray’s Fly Shop. The bass seemed to hit on just slight and occasional stripping of the fly and almost a crawl across the bottom.

Singer's Crayfish - smallies love 'em...

On my first outing the bass were very aggressive and for a while it seemed I was into a deepwater feeding frenzy. I later noticed inch-long dark brown nymphs in the mouths of some of them, a discovery which backs up the fact that smallmouth bass can be taken on big nymphs and even dry flies when the time is right.

Other patterns also produced: Murray’s Mad Tom as well as another favorite, Whitlock’s Near ‘Nuff Sculpin.

Chenango River smallmouth bass...

Yesterday’s trip produced fewer bass but bigger ones, including a real gem that I lost after a while and most likely due to a poor hook-set. A highlight of the trip was fighting a nice bass while a bigger cousin cruised alongside to see what the fuss was all about. I’d never witnessed this in any of my river fishing though I’d seen it on various televised fishing shows.

Now is the time when smallmouth start to feed aggressively. Cooler nights and the resultant lower water temps seem to signal the bass that it’s time to feed up and get their own “mojo” on…

The Chenango River, looking upstream...

Tight lines and happy hunting…