On Monday my father needed some help moving some large furniture from the home in Rhode Island to a new condominium in central Connecticut. It was a bit of a schlep just to unload a few dressers and a TV stand only to turn around and head back to Rhode Island the next morning, but I used the return trip as an opportunity to fish my home. With the route calculated, I commenced my three part fishing adventure.
The first stop on this excursion was the Salmon River. This river is often overshadowed by the more storied Farmington and Housitonic, but when looking for a trout fishery east of Hartford, the Salmon River cannot be beat. When I arrived at the river the skies were low and it did not take long before the rain started to come down. Of course, being underwater, the fish don't mind the rain. If anything they enjoyed the drop in barometric pressure and were willing to cooperate on both nymphs and swung wets. By the end of my time on the river I had brought ten fish to hand and completed the east coast trout trifecta: a Brown Trout, Brook Trout, and Rainbow Trout.
The next stop was Ninigret Pond, a tidal salt pond in South County, where there had been reports of cinder worm hatches the past three days. I arrived at the pond around 5:30 to blistering winds and periodic rain. There were no signs of worms so I tied on a Ray's Fly and began blind casting to down wind along a point. I began wading and fishing up the east side of the point back towards the shore. For a while, things really seemed hopeless until I saw it. Just to my right was a small cinder worm squirming along. Soon I saw another and decided to swap my streamer for a tag team of worm flies.
It wasn't long until the fish took notice and began rising. It was a marvelous sight to see stripers feeding on these small invertebrates, but anyone who has fished a worm hatch knows how finicky stripers can be. Matching the size and color of the worms in a given hatch is the first piece of the puzzle. Then trying to get the fish to notice your flies without moving the fly at an unnatural pace makes for even more of a challenge. Cast, hope, and pray (often in that order) is the name of the game when fishing the worm hatch. Fortunately my prayers were answered, first in the form of a schoolie bass, then in the form of a larger bass one inch short of keeper size. Unfortunately the larger fish was a bit camera shy. Just as I retrieved my phone from it's waterproof case he swam between my legs, releasing himself in the process.
After about 45 minutes of consistent rises things started to slow down. I decided it was time to leave and started wading back down the point to the walking trail. For good measure I decided to let my flies trail behind me. About halfway to where the trail meets the water I heard a huge splash followed by big tug. I was hooked into beast of a fish that began taking drag at such at pace that the handle of my reel hit my knuckles with enough force to leave a bruise. After a few minutes of battle I felt as though I had the fish firmly hooked and began to really put the guns to him, applying side pressure and tightening the drag so that he really had to work if he wanted to make a run. After another minute I had made considerable ground on the fish. A few more tugs and a little more reeling and he would probably be close enough to see. Then he gave one more surge and before I could respond the tension disappears and my flies went whizzing by me.
I was heartbroken, bewildered, and could not understand how the fish was lost. When I inspected my flies I saw that the hook point had been broken off one of them. This meant one of two things happened: a) the fish was so powerful that it snapped the hook and swam free. Or b) when the fish surged it went deep and the fly that wasn't hooked to the fish caught on a rock. This alleviated the tension just long enough for the fish to shake the fly loose and swim away. The former makes for a better story, but the latter is more plausible. Either way, I took it as a sign to head to Bristol for the last of the outgoing tide.
The last stop on my 12-hour fishing bender was a spot in Bristol, Rhode Island where I predicted bass would be feeding on silversides. When I arrived I was welcomed by the sounds of bass gorging themselves. I tied on a dark, slender stream and went to work. Most of the fish were small, 15-20 inches, but they were fun. Occasionally a larger fish in the 24" range would enter the mix. After about 45 minutes the surface feeding began to cease. Soon the strikes became less frequent and I decided I had had enough fun for the day.
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