Just a guess that everything usable has been taken and sold. Once maybe part of a suburban soccer convoy until somebody rolled it into the salt marsh where it stands rusty sentry over early season striper water.
Tagged: nyc, spring fishing, striped bass, urban fishing
Downloaded the underwater shots from my recent pike fishing expedition. Some people see ugliness in her face, but I see cold calculating elegance. Even here, subdued, her eye has a look like she’s sizing up the possibility of biting off my fingers.
Tagged: northern pike
I had a small window of time to get it done today, my only alloted fishing time this week. The carp were getting it done, too. Full on spawn. Funny how pheramones and the need to proliferate trump all. On a normal day these fish spook at the sound of a footstep on the bank at 80 feet. Today, I could have lobbed grenades in the water and they would have doubled back and reconvened with purpose. All I could do was break down the rod, pull out the camera, and get some grainy voyeur shots for posterity.
Tagged: carp, photos of fish, spawning
I’m sitting in the Roscoe Diner eating a bison burger with an order of potato pancakes on the side. It is 11 degrees fahrenheit outside and snowing and my two-year-old is throwing her carrots. I’m in the heartland of Eastern trout fishing but as far away from casting a fly as you could possibly be. Route 17 winds along the flowing river and as we drive I have thoughts about that. I have fantasies of loading up a car, throwing a canoe on top, and just going, hitting every spot of water I run across. I could do it every day until I’m 80 and still not cover enough water. I look in the rear view mirror at my daughter in her car seat.…
My buddy’s got a pond just across the way from his house. He rolls a canoe up a path and across the street and takes his son fishing for pickerel, bass, bluegill, sunnies…all the panfish a kid or repressed adolescent could want. We loaded into the canoe and paddled off our hangovers and the Slam breakfast, but all I got to show for it is this grainy picture of a little yellow perch. Hit like a sonofabitch, I tell you.
Tagged: hangover fishing, yellow perch
The car blocking the left lane is pushing 53 mph; the car in the center is doing 52. Nothing to do but ride this one out. There’s still 45 minutes of highway, 15 on the side roads, and then from the dock a solid 25 to get outside the inlet. When it all boxes in and everyone’s doing 20, press play and wait for the involuntary exhale.
Tagged: Rebel Within, Son of Bocephus
Bluefish are typically too impudent to care that the birds are betraying them, and too geeked up to notice that the wounded baitfish they are chasing is connected to a ten-inch strand of wire.
Fly-fishing fishing for bass, however, is the perfection of the sport, and infinitely surpasses in excitement all other methods of killing these noble fish.” –Robert B. Roosevelt, Superior Fishing; or the Striped Bass, Trout, and Black Bass of the Northern States, 1865 (A sportsman’s contemplation well before catch and release.)
Ron Jeremy once said of his life’s work, “Put a mirror under her nose and if I see fog, I’m going in.” There are some parallels here. If it hits a fly, I am going to cast to it without shame. When a gil or sunny hits a popper on a three-weight and turns its side to the fight, the rod bends all the same.
Tagged: micro slabs, panfish
A quick wordless summation, complete with sunset cliche.
