Tag Archives: fall run

Last Call

Striper Mug

Thursday is likely my last day on the water for 2008. Unless I can somehow find time to get out during the herring run or it gets really cold in December and I can hit the outflow at the Stacks. I was supposed to be on the water today but for the stupid jerkbag clipper system gale warnings.

It’s been a strange fall for Northeast salt and if the pattern continues next year, I’m moving to Montauk.

VIDEO: False Albacore

Some shaky footage from fishing for false albacore last week.

[UPDATE: Reloaded the video after trying to take some of the shakiness out. It was making me sick.]

[NOTE: For everyone asking, the rod is a Helios prototype, which is why it has a different reel seat and coloration than what's in production. And, yes, that is floating line. I had on full sink, but when I hooked my first one the line didn't clear properly and I got a ridiculous bird's nest pulled tight by a fleeing albie. I didn't want to miss out while untangling, so I switched out to the floating--all I had--super quick just to get a fly in the mix. Normally I use full sink. The backing is gel spun.]

Hold, Wait For It…

When I woke with the morning’s sunrise, the outdoor thermometer read 61 degrees. The dead season is almost over. All the little gits that cut you off at the local break will be back in school. Boats pulling tubers through prime topwater bust locations will disappear. Jet skis will decline precipitously. This is our time*. We just need the fish to hold up their end of the bargain. Come on, predators, show us what you got.

 

*With the exception of sailors and their fall races, which don’t really bother anything anyhow.

FALL FISHING: Signs of Mean

Indian Summer continues in the Northeast, as does the practice of chasing bluefish around Long Island Sound. These fish get a bad rap–some people go as far as to disdain them–but it’s hard to beat the visual electricity that occurs when twitching a popper through a bluefish frenzy.  For those who say it’s easy, so’s playing a three-chord progression on an acoustic guitar, but it’s still pleasing to the ear. And you still have to find them.

My buddy and I ran point to point and into the backs of bays in search of them. Look for signs of life, I said, until it occurred to me that we were really looking for signs of mean. Find the life–the nervous water–and then look for the mean–pops or busts on the surface where baitfish meet their impending doom. Think of all those little peanuts and silversides swimming to the surface to get away, and that the face above (minus the Boga grip) is the last thing they ever see.