Many coastal fly anglers consider surf fishing to be the ultimate challenge. Fortunately, most of us live within a coffee-mug drive from some of the best surf fly fishing opportunities in the world. Down South, the snook is king, while Up North the striped bass wears the crown. There’s a supporting cast of bluefish, mackerel, trout, and jacks.

Bob Popovics is one of the best at the game of surf fly fishing. He’s been at it for more than 50 years and lives only minutes from New Jersey’s Island Beach State Park, a favorite for striped bass hunters. His surf experience also includes time at surf fly fishing haunts like Martha’s Vineyard, Montauk, and the Outer Banks.

Just back from Vietnam in 1970, the young Marine was eager to get on with his life and get back to fishing with his dad and working at his family’s Shady Rest restaurant in Bayville, New Jersey.  A lunch get-together with high school buddies Jimmy Magee and Butch Colvin (whose dad owned the iconic Cap Colvin’s Tackle in Seaside Park), was the first step in a lifelong fly fishing journey that has made Bob one of the most influential fly tiers of the second generation of saltwater fly fishing pioneers.

The three buddies arranged a trip off Harvey Cedars to jig weakfish, but when bluefish crashed the party, Butch grabbed a fly rod and began casting. “I thought that was pretty cool, and wanted to learn more about fly fishing, so the next day Butch took me to Cap Colvin’s to buy my first fly rod, reel and line,” Popovics says. “I was hooked. It was like therapy, and the process of learning to cast and catch fish was soothing, and great fun. I fished with the fly rod as often as I could.”

Later that winter, Butch gave Bob a cardboard beer flat filled with a fly tying vise, bobbin, thread, and some feathers and bucktail, and said, “You’re going to learn how to tie flies.” Back then, there wasn’t much information about saltwater fly tying, but like the promise of a full moon at high tide, a new organization called the Salt Water Fly Rodders of America (SWFROA) brought a fresh level of excitement to coastal fly fishers with an exchange of information, techniques, tackle, and fly tying. Bob was an eager student.

Annual get-togethers were sponsored by SWFROA and its chapters at places like Tilghman Island, Maryland; Key West, Florida; Newport, Rhode Island; and Sag Harbor, New York. Bob attended one on North Carolina’s Outer Banks, where he met Lefty Kreh, who became a good friend and mentor. SWFROA had many well known fly anglers on its board of directors, but Fred Schrier of Toms River, New Jersey, was the dynamo, “the juice,” that drove the new organization.

“I owe a lot to Fred,” Popovic says, “because he was a great motivator, always encouraging me to try new things, and he helped introduce me to so many people like Mark Sosin, Poul Jorgensen, Bub Church, and many others who generously gave me advice and support. Fred’s really the guy who gave me the biggest boost.”

“Surf fly fishing is a very visual experience, and to be good at it you have to be an observer, be aware of your surroundings, the type of beach, the breeze, the currents, and beach structure. Watch everything that happens all around you. Before you make the first cast, walk up to the beach, wait a few moments and observe. Watch the wave sets, get the feel of the rhythm of things before you start fishing. Before I make the first cast I check out the water for signs of bait, cloudy and clear water edges, the formation of bars and points, the location of white water and calm water, and the types of birds in the area. You need patience to be an observer, but it makes you a better fly fisherman.”

Bob likes to keep things simple. He may have plenty of fly gear and equipment in his beach buggy, but keeps only the bare essentials in a shirt or jacket pocket when he’s standing at the water’s edge fishing. “I always have my stripping basket, and like to use a Velcro belt, which is so much easier to get on and off than a buckle-type belt. My pliers are on my wading belt. I pare down what I need to just a few flies and essentials. Instead of taking 20 of each type of pattern, such as crab flies, or bucktail Deceivers, or Jiggies, I take maybe three of each so I have enough on hand to replace a broken-off or fish-chewed fly. I like soft fleece wallets that fit into my shirt pockets to keep a supply of favorite flies close at hand.”

He also keeps a spool of 16-pound tippet handy, and another of 12-pound for very clear water. He usually doesn’t use a heavy mono bite tippet. If blues show up, he has a screw-top tube container in his pocket (like the kind that hold cigars), with 8-inch wire leaders tied with a haywire loop at one end to attach to the tippet. The open end is then haywired to the fly.

“Most of the time I know what to expect when I hit the beach, so if the mullet are running, I take mullet patterns and don’t bother loading myself down with a bunch of flies that probably are not appropriate,” Popovics says. “I do like to have a color selection on hand in case I need to change from a bright fly to dark one, and same goes for short and long patterns.”

Bob favors a 9- or 10-foot, single-hand rod, and says, “Although I’ve tried, I haven’t gotten into the two-hand casting style, and prefer to use single-hand rods most of the time. I like a rod that is not an ultra-fast design. In my consulting work with fly rod manufacturers and in teaching fly casting, I’ve come to like fly rods that have a tad more bend in the butt section as compared to stiff, ultra-fast taper fly rods. Some of my favorites include designs by St. Croix that give the surf fly caster better control of the fly presentation when mending the line or when lifting the line to make a quick cast to reposition the fly. This is an essential feature for any good surf fly rod.”

“When fly fishing the surf, it’s common to retrieve the fly all the way to the rod tip. To quickly and efficiently make the next cast, I like a short, blunt-head line that will load the rod with less line outside the tip. You’re looking to make as few false casts as possible, so a short compact head will load the rod quicker and more efficiently. Use the resistance of the water to help load the rod as you lift to make the backcast, shoot some line on the backcast, then shoot the works on the forward cast. Depending on wind you may need another false cast to reach out to the fish, but always strive for the fewest number of false casts. The goal is to lift for the backcast, shoot, and shoot again on the forward cast.”

“A floating line is my first choice when selecting a fly line. Most fly anglers can dependably cast 50 to 70 feet, and at that distance most beaches will be about 5 to 7 feet deep. A striped bass can easily see the fly at that depth and if you need to go deeper, a weighted fly like a Jiggy or a Clouser Minnow will get deep enough,” Popovics says.

A floater with a short intermediate head is his second choice. “You want to be able to pick up line and recast if necessary, and this is still possible with an intermediate sink tip fly line. You need to do this if the fish moves away from you after you’ve made a cast, or if the fish veers off at an angle from its original swimming direction.”

“A floating line only behaves badly and makes a poor presentation in the surf when you allow the line to be carried away by a breaking wave. You can overcome this by working the line in between the waves, letting it ride and fall with the waves as they roll to the beach. Watch the sets. After six or seven waves, there’s usually a calm area before the next set starts and you can make a nice presentation into this calm water.”

Bob recommends that every surf fly angler learn the skill of mending line. This quick, circular flip motion of the rod tip adjusts the line’s position in a current or wave to keep the fly tracking nicely. If the wave action makes it impossible to control the fly, he uses a roll cast, then lifts for a backcast, and shoots a forward cast to reposition the fly in calm water. “Rod handling becomes second nature, and after awhile you don’t even think about it. The line mending and lifting just become automatic responses to the motions and actions of the waves.”

We all dream of catching a fish so big we won’t have to fib about it, but typical surf-caught striped bass run from schoolies to teen-size and maybe into the 20-pound range. A 30-pounder is an astonishing catch. Even the biggest striped bass will not take too much line, so Bob prefers lightweight large-arbor reels that can hold about 150 yards of backing. “You don’t need a huge reel. The weight of a big reel gets tiring and feels like you have an anchor under the rod. More important is a large spool diameter that retrieves line quickly. Keep in mind that most fish I can play by simply bringing the line in by hand and dropping it into the stripping basket.

“Most reels today are saltwater worthy,” he says, “and it’s probably more important to consider which hand you use to crank the line in. Right or left, the dominant hand is your best choice. A right hander will reel faster, longer, and more smoothly with the right hand; the opposite is true for a southpaw.”

It’s natural to want to walk into the surf up to your knees, but Popovics prefers being higher on the sand because many times the bass will be right in the wash. When fly fishing a beach, the currents and structure are important. The basic current is from the incoming and receding waves, but there are also beach currents generated by wind that often run along the beach. These areas can be worked by letting the fly swing in the current, mending the line as needed to keep in touch with the fly and not let the waves pull line and cause an erratic retrieve and slack.

Bob suggests surgically casting along the beach structure just like a trout fishermen in a small stream. The bass aren’t everywhere; they hold and travel along definite structure such as a slough between the beach and a sand bar, a cut in a sand bar, a point of the beach with white water along its sides, the edges of clear and cloudy water, and also the calm water. “Work all of it,” he says. “Use wind and currents to your advantage when walking the beach. Keep the wind off your non-casting side when possible, or walk with the current a few steps in between casts.”

Bob’s good friend Lou Tabory told him, “There’s no substitute for time on the water,” and Bob echoes that with more good advice, “Even a fishless morning can still be a great day because of the experience earned and knowledge gained. Count the hours, not the fish. Be an observer, look for things, think about what’s going on around you, work the structure, and remember that time on the water builds casting and fishing skills.”

As the premier fall surf fly fishing builds, Bob uses specific fly patterns based on what bait is prevalent as the season matures from September through November. For the early fall, he’s usually throwing Siliclones and Bob’s Bangers to imitate mullet, and Jiggies and Surf Candies to imitate rain fish. When bigger baits are in the surf, his go-to patterns include bucktail Deceivers, The Beast, and Spread Fleyes. Later in the fall, when the sand eel invasion has hordes of the slender baits invading the beach, he’ll switch to longer but skinny Jiggy Fleyes.

One last tip, one of Bob’s favorite fall times to fly fish is the start of a fresh northeaster before the water gets all roiled up and murky, when it’s still clear. “The bass go on binge feed,” he says, “and if the water is real rough, I’ll use a 300 to 400-grain sink tip line to cut through the turbulence.”

Surf fly fishing is popular for many reasons, including its simplicity and nearness to home—and equipment doesn’t have to cost an arm and a leg. It’s exhilarating when a full-blown bluefish blitz erupts, yet serene and calm as the sun ignites the dawn and striped bass begin to swirl at bait in the trough. Fly fishing the surf is a lifelong adventure that has captured fly fishing pioneers dating back to Rhode Island’s Harold Gibbs, New Jersey’s Cap Colvin, and Maryland’s Lefty Kreh—and it now inspires today’s new generation of fly fishers.

Read more great articles like this one and get expert tips from the legends of saltwater fly fishing in the pages of Tail Fly Fishing Magazine. If you love saltwater fly fishing and wish to improve your game, support conservation causes and become part of a small but incredible community, then subscribe to Tail Fly Fishing Magazine today.

You might also like:

Stripers in the Suds – John G. Sherman

Striper Redux – Jack Gagnon

Worm Hatch – Northeast – Striped Bass

California Corbina: Sight Fishing the Surf

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Fiberglass Rods for Saltwater Fly Fishing

Who Caught the First Bonefish on a Fly?

Amazing Autumn Fly Fishing

The post Fly Fishing the Surf with Bob Popovics first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Fly Fishing the Surf with Bob Popovics appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

Worm “hatches” draw attention from fly-rodders from all walks of the sport. They are enormously appealing to freshwater anglers because of the similarity to dry fly hatches adored by trout fishers; for many of these folks, worm events are the only saltwater fishing they consider all season. But the worms interest salty fly-rodders as well—lots of them.

School fish under 30 inches can become maddeningly difficult in the midst of a worm hatch, challenging even the veterans. But despite there being no guarantee the event will even unfold as anticipated on any given day, worm hatches consistently draw daily gatherings of like-minded anglers simply for the camaraderie of fishing with on-the-water friends.

Similar to dry fly fishing, these are entirely visual events. The riveting nature of technical fly casting to surface-feeding gamefish cannot be overstated. Northeast worm events attract attention from many game species, including striped bass, bluefish, and hickory shad, and they represent a premium angling opportunity for fly-fishers.

Cinder Worm Spawning Dynamics

Let’s clarify a common misunderstanding up front: The cinder worm event is a spawn, not a hatch. The label “worm hatch” is a misnomer likely derived from its similarity to insect hatches common in fresh water. Despite the unpredictable nature of the worm event, there are environmental and meteorological factors that clearly influence cinder worm spawning. From an angling perspective, the overall quality of the event depends on two elements: the timing and intensity of the spawn and the arrival and number of migratory gamefish. Some years, the worms conduct their mating ritual entirely ahead of the migratory stripers’ arrival, with little interference from them.

Cinder worms are not commercially important, so there’s relatively little scientific information on their life cycle and habits. But here’s what we know based on years of anecdotal observation. Like all living creatures, they have preferred habitats and need particular environmental conditions to flourish. In general, they prefer clean, relatively shallow (10 feet or less), protected coastal waters, such as quiescent harbors, bays, salt ponds, estuaries, and along the flanks of slow-moving coastal rivers. They appear to prefer full ocean salinity, rather than brackish environments, and they like soft, fertile sediments such as mud and silt, opposed to coarse, granular strata like sands and gravels. Similar to freshwater insect hatches associated with portions of distinct rivers, certain inshore locations sport renowned cinder worm populations. Fly anglers know them well: Rhode Island’s salt ponds, the rivers and bays along the Connecticut shoreline, the many salt ponds and creeks associated with Massachusetts’s Cape Cod and Islands, many of Long Island’s bays and estuaries, and certain of Maine’s coastal rivers and bays.

So what ignites the spawn? As with all cold-blooded marine life, it’s principally water temperature. Conditions for worm procreation are more delicate than with warm-blooded animals that can regulate their body temperatures. With sedimentary creatures such as worms, favorable spawning conditions become even more complex—the bottom strata within which the worms reside must also attain a suitable temperature.

What influences temperatures within the cinder worm’s habitat? The sun? The moon? Is it ambient water and tidal flow? To some extent, it’s all of these. There’s a widely held notion that worm spawning is governed by moon phase—the full moon, in particular. The full and new moon phases are associated with larger tides that result in greater tidal flow and exaggerated water levels (higher highs and lower lows), influencing both sediment and water temperatures. For example, extra-low tides enhance sediment warming, especially when occurring on sunny days. Conversely, increased water levels and tide flow may retard sediment and water warming, especially during cool, overcast periods. Water column and sediment temperatures, however, are overwhelmingly governed by solar radiation and daily weather.

Based on years of observation, the magic conditions that ignite and sustain worm spawning appear to be when sediments and waters approach 60 degrees Fahrenheit. Worms begin to appear with sediment temperatures in the upper 50s, with associated surface water a couple of degrees warmer. With springtime solar radiation increasing daily, water temperatures accelerate across the 60-degree mark during the event, generally ending up in the low 60s by the end of the spawn.

Despite these observations, the belief in full moon magic persists. Consider that annual cinder worm spawning can occur over as little as one week, or it may stretch as long as three weeks, depending on prevailing weather. Even with a week-long event, there’s a 25 percent chance the full moon will occur sometime during the spawn. The longer the event persists, the more likely it will coincide with the full moon at some point. It’s wild when it does overlap with the peak of the worm’s ritual—a rising evening moon illuminating a surreal swarm of frenzied worms dimpling the surface adds immensely to the already eerie experience. I have had stellar worm fishing through the new moon, the full moon, and during both quarter-moon phases.

After the event has seasonally commenced, there’s no guarantee of daily consistency. Day-to-day weather plays a huge role in the event’s intensity and progression. Anything that disrupts gradual warming into the low 60s will slow or even shut down the spawn. Cold fronts, heavy rains, and cool weather out of the east have the potential to derail the event for a day or two. Ideal spawning conditions do not unfold concurrently throughout a given worm location with uniformity. It’s important to understand that the action moves about an estuary or salt pond throughout the event, materializing in certain areas as suitable conditions prevail, then subsiding and commencing elsewhere in the pond or bay, as prime spawning conditions are attained in those areas.

Worm spawning has a beginning, a middle, and an end—both daily and throughout the seasonal event. It generally starts out slowly with a few worms surfacing here and there and intensifies to a crescendo, and then gradually subsides to its conclusion. At the start of the seasonal event, the first few days often have weak worm showings. The same is true from the daily perspective—the early stages are generally sparse with worm activity and then build in intensity before declining to a trickle. At its peak, the number of worms per square foot of water surface can be staggering. This worm density heavily impacts the quality of fishing and your angling strategy.

While most locations present worm spawns commencing in the evening with action continuing well into darkness, other areas offer late afternoon activity that runs until the sun goes down before dwindling to a stop—another example of the mystery associated with these nebulous events. Local knowledge is invaluable when fishing unfamiliar waters; tribal insight is readily available through online resources and area tackle shops.

Unique Event, Unique Approach

As is often the case with small prey, sheer numbers and density can render a match-the-hatch approach ineffective. We see this during intense freshwater hatches and elsewhere in salt water when vast schools of small bait, such as anchovies or juvenile menhaden, are corralled and blitzed by gamefish. The essential problem with all of these situations is the same—getting your fly noticed among throngs of naturals. For worm swarms, simple strategies can overcome this problem.

First, success in worm events hinges on relative numbers rather than absolute quantity of prey. If there were 1,000 worms available and one feeding striped bass, our odds of catching it would be much lower than in a scenario of 1,000 worms with 1,000 stripers feeding on them. This example is exaggerated, but it illuminates the point: Many anglers do well early and late in worm events, both daily and seasonally, when worm numbers are low and their ratio to  gamefish numbers is also relatively low. The deck becomes stacked in the angler’s favor. At the event’s onset and conclusion, when there are hungry fish and relatively few worms to go around, your fly is much more likely to be taken.

Stripers have extremely good vision, and when pursuing easy-to-capture prey like worms, they can take their time and be careful and selective. During the latter portions of afternoon hatches and throughout evening hatches, however, the fish often take flies more readily and appear to be less leader shy. I believe this is simply because they don’t see hooks and leaders as clearly in low-light conditions, making these periods more productive.

Angling Tactics

Worm events can be challenging, but with common sense tactics tailored to this event—and attention to detail—you will succeed. It’s most important to know that no one kills it every time in worm events. Everyone has their share of good days and bad days, with plenty of average outings in between.

For tackle, 7- and 8-weight rods are ideal for the small flies and light winds commonly encountered during the worm spawn. And they’re a lot of fun when playing the 20- to 30-inch stripers typically encountered. There may be larger bass in the mix, but there are far fewer of them, and they’re statistically hooked much less often. Floating lines are standard, along with light 8- to 12-pound-test monofilament leaders, which supports presenting tiny, lightweight flies to fish sipping naturals within the surface film. Light leaders enable more lifelike fly movement with delicate worm patterns. Fluorocarbon is an option, but I believe it’s unnecessary during low-light conditions—it also sinks, while mono floats. I often employ a two-fly rig (fishing two flies on a leader) as it’s a simple way to increase your fly’s presence in the worm swarm, effectively putting another good card in your hand.

Feeding is not random. By paying close attention to the surface boils, anglers can determine where small schools of stripers are slurping worms and the direction they’re moving. This enables you to position yourself within presentation range of where the fish have been surfacing, as well as anticipate where to present your fly when they reveal themselves within range. Gauging the path of the fish and leading them with your cast is usually more successful than randomly tossing at surface boils that have already occurred; you want to enable the fish to spot your fly ahead of them and swim to it naturally. With all the worms in the water, getting takes remains a game of percentages, regardless of the fly you are fishing. Persistently presenting your fly ahead of roving packs of fish—or within large clusters of feeders—increases your odds. Eventually one will mistake your fly for the real thing and take it.

When a fish does take your fly, resist giving a hard strip set. Worms are easy prey to capture, and the bass are barely sipping them. Instead, a slow draw coupled with a modest rod lift—a “trout set”—will seal the deal better than yanking the fly away from a casually feeding fish.

Flies for Worm Fishing

Many cinder worm flies have been developed. Every worm aficionado, it seems, has a unique pattern or two to their credit. It’s impossible to present them all in a single article, but by examining key pattern attributes, anglers can develop (or purchase) flies to establish their own favorites that they’ll fish with confidence.

I can’t overstate how fickle striped bass can become regarding what flies they’ll take—or not—on a given day. In general, flies that roughly match the length of the prevailing worms are a great starting point. During an evening’s fishing, worms may range from 1 inch to more than 3 inches. I generally shoot for the middle—2 to 3 inches. Light, delicate patterns that ride high in the water often perform well. If they have inherent wormlike movement, that’s even better. Keep in mind just how fragile the naturals are; scoop one off the surface by hand and you’ll see (cinder worms will not nip you, as other worm species can).

As for color, most proven patterns are in the pink-red-orange color band, but rust, brown, olive, and even white will take fish. I sense that the silhouette of the pattern against the water’s surface in the evening, and its movement, are most important to fooling fish. Dark (usually black) highlights are common at the tips of cinder worms and their imitations, but not all worms display these attributes, and I’m uncertain how vital they are to a pattern’s success. Closed-cell foam, popular with freshwater dry flies, can be highly effective in the composition of a worm imitation. Flies using this material ride on the surface film, creating an extremely enticing wake during the retrieve (credit this to Captain Bob Hines, a venerable Rhode Island worm hatch guide). Though cinder worms are not flashy, many reliable patterns do include delicate flash material, perhaps enhancing visibility to draw more attention. One worm pattern attribute I consider vital is a small, light-wire hook. Such hooks are sufficient to secure even a 10-pound striper, and with a sporting touch, these bass may be effectively landed with the 7- and 8-weight tackle described earlier. I prefer size-4 or even size-6 Daiichi or Tiemco hooks, and I’ve taken plenty of fish using flies dressed on size-4 or -6 bronze freshwater streamer hooks. Bronze hooks rust easily and have relatively short lives, but they make for delicate flies that ride high in the water and appear quite wormlike. I’ll take more hookups over durability anytime.

Until We Meet Again

When the cinder worm spawn is over, that’s it for the season. It will not recur weeks or months down the road. Toward the end of the event, waters that were alive with bizarre worm perpetuation and impressive predation gradually go silent—until the cycle repeats itself the following spring, when those same waters again come alive with cinder worms and striped bass, magnetically drawing a cadre of fly-fishers, many of whom reunite but once a year for this special event.

by Alan Caolo

Worm Swarming—At Long Last

Atlantic Striped Bass: Pisces in Peril | Mark White

That Albacore Season – T. Edward Nickens

The post Worm Hatch – Northeast – Striped Bass first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Worm Hatch – Northeast – Striped Bass appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Stripers in the Suds – John G. Sherman first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Stripers in the Suds – John G. Sherman appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

Part of Gartside’s genius was developing deadly yet easy-to-tie flies. His Gurgler and Slider topwater patterns became saltwater standards. Jack’s book Striper Strategies was described by reviewer Steve Raymond as “one of the most remarkable striper-fishing manuals to see the light of day.”

Gartside, who died in 2009, was one of a kind. He appeared on the cover of Fly Fishing in Salt Waters, making a cast while riding his large inflatable giraffe “Gerald.” When Lefty Kreh was asked his opinion of Gartside, he said, “His paint don’t dry.”

I met Gartside while helping at Robinson’s booth at a fly fishing trade show in Marlborough, Massachusetts. Robinson’s friend Dale Linder was also attending the show. Gartside was holding court, joking and tying flies at a nearby table. He invited the three of us to try fly fishing for striped bass when the weather warmed up.

On a bright June afternoon, we waded onto a Newburyport striper flat. Gartside caught one small schoolie after another while the rest of us got skunked. Not one to mince words, Gartside told me my retrieve resembled a motion he associated with self-gratification.

I was more concerned with the waves filling my boots. When I realized I couldn’t walk, I yelled for help.

“Don’t worry!” Gartside replied. “When your waders are full, you’ll reach neutral buoyancy.”

Linder had more humanitarian instincts. Luckily, he was also strong. He waded over and hoisted me up. I leaned forward and dumped out the water. I headed to shore on wobbly legs, telling myself, I don’t belong here. But we weren’t done. Gartside had another spot for night fishing.

The evening sun was slipping from from view as the tide came in. We stumbled through the grassy hummocks and sucking muck of a tidal flat and arrived at a point. Gartside walked out onto a rock jetty and started casting. Robinson, Linder, and I spread out along the shore.

I was using a borrowed 8-weight outfit heavier than anything I’d ever used. The sink tip and bulky streamer added another degree of difficulty, and I was hesitant to wade out very far in the dark, unknown waters.

I’d make woefully short casts, sit down on the sand for a while, get up, and do it again. I sweated, cursed, and caught nothing. Around 1 a.m., the agreed time to depart, I heard Robinson and Linder talking as they walked back up the beach. Then I heard a splash.

There was enough moonlight to see surface swirls of what I suspected were feeding fish. I slapped out another cast, stripped twice, and got a jolting strike. Slack flew up through the guides, but before I got the fish on the reel, a loop of line was yanked tight around my right index finger.

The rod was straight out now. So was my finger. Unaware of my predicament, Robinson started yelling, “Let the fish run, Jack! Let him run!”

I grabbed the line below the first guide, pulled, and got enough slack to free my trapped digit. There was a momentary tug of war, then the hook pulled out, and the line went limp. Robinson and Linder made a few casts, but the fish had departed to deeper water. As we reeled up to leave, Robinson said, “Well, at least you had one on.” It wasn’t much consolation.

We found Gartside standing where we’d left him. He had a fish taking drag, but it turned out to be an unremarkable striper, foul hooked in the tail. The walk back to the car held another surprise.

Gartside inflated a small rubber raft. I was puzzled. It looked like a child’s pool toy. But it became apparent that we’d need the damn thing to get back to terra firma. A wide ditch that was ankle deep on the way in was now a flowing canal. Gartside assembled a plastic paddle, handed it to me, and said, “We’ll go one at a time.” A length of thin rope was attached to the raft for retrieval.

Some experiences enlighten us. Others just remind us of the fragility of our existence. I paddled anxiously across the outgoing current as Gartside yelled, “Row a little faster, Jack, unless you want to go out to Plum Island!”

Here We Go Again

Fast forward to 2017. I’ve lived in Lakeville, Maine for 18 years. Ed Roberts, who I frequently fish with, lives half the year near Grand Lake Stream, a premier landlocked salmon fishery, and half the year in Florida. Both of us have more than 60 years in the rear view mirror, and like me, Roberts is originally from Connecticut. He’s a stalwart friend with a good sense of humor.

Among other things, Roberts time-shared a Battenkill River fishing camp with Joan and Lee Wulff. He made his living as a mechanical engineer, and he’s also an expert rod builder who works with bamboo as well as graphite. It’s not a cliché to describe him as young for his age. Forget white hair as a marker of senescence. For arm exercise, he does hammer curls with dumbbells I strain to lift.

When he captained an offshore sport boat on the Connecticut coast, Roberts and his clients fished for everything from sharks to yellowfin tuna. Now he fishes the flats when he winters in Vero Beach, Florida. He also spends a week in Rhode Island every summer, fly fishing for striped bass at night. He invited me to try it.

Wading the ocean after sundown? Fishing a channel coming out of a tidal marsh? I had my doubts. Roberts described a spot where he rarely encounters other fishermen. To get down to the water, he hangs onto a rope tied to the base of a tree. He says it’s easier than it sounds.

I was still hesitant, so he had me try the fly rod he uses; the action fit me to a T. He offered to build me an identical 9-weight. Okay, Ed, I’m in.

Into the Night

It’s June 2019—my third trip now. The long day’s drive from Maine includes the usual stop in New Hampshire for tax-free liquor. We arrive in Rhode Island late in the afternoon.

The house we rent, like our arrival routine, has become pleasantly familiar. Boxes and coolers are emptied into cabinets, drawers, refrigerator. The portable grill goes on the table out back. Tackle goes in the front room.

We sit at a small table on the front porch overlooking Narragansett Bay, decompressing from eight hours on the road. Roberts lights a cigar while I poke through fly boxes. We decide when to eat. After supper, we assemble rods, check tippets. Tackle goes back into Roberts’ SUV.

Fishing at night, we don’t attract unwanted attention to where we fish. It’s silly to think of other fishermen as interlopers, but our sense of ownership is reinforced by the solitude we have come to expect once the sun goes down. Half an hour before dark, we turn onto the familiar grass-crowned two-track. No one else is parked at the sandy dead end.

We suit up and walk in. Crossing the elevated field, we can see the incoming tide filling the back reaches of the marsh. Two herons stand motionless on a distant mud flat. The air still has the low-tide tang of salt and clean decay.

The coiled rope is where we left it hidden last year, tied to the base of a small cedar. The slope I once imagined as daunting is neither long nor steep. The rope is a convenience, not a necessity. Roberts gives it a test yank before we go down….

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Jack Gagnon was a monthly contributor and part-time editor for the Northwoods Sporting Journal (sportingjournal.com) in West Enfield, Maine for 15 years. His work has appeared in Trout, Fly Fisherman, Virginia Sportsman, Gray’s Sporting Journal, The Upland Almanac, and Sporting Classics.

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Atlantic Striped Bass: Pisces in Peril | Mark White

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The post Striper Redux – Jack Gagnon first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Striper Redux – Jack Gagnon appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

One of the redeemable qualities about striped bass is that, when they are plentiful, these fish are incredibly accessible.  We fish for them on foot in downtown Boston, from quiet beaches in Rhode Island, in the brackish water of the Chesapeake Bay, and by boat all the way from North Carolina to Maine.  In fact, data from 2017 shows that almost 18 million angler fishing trips were taken in pursuit of stripers.  That impressive number represents 9% of the total angler fishing trips taken across the entire country (NOAA – Source).  

If you’re a striped bass angler, you likely know that the population is in trouble.  Striper populations are currently at a 25 year low and the age structure is out of whack.  If our fisheries managers at the Atlantic States Marine Fisheries Commission (ASMFC) don’t correct the trajectory, we all stand to lose this iconic resource.  ASMFC is in the midst of trying to adjust their own mismanagement of the striped bass stock and rebuild the population through a new plan.  Anglers aren’t particularly confident in ASMFC, and with good reason, the commission’s track record is less than stellar.  I share this context to simply set the stage.  I’ll halt right there and shift gears.  This is not an article of doom and gloom but rather, one of hope, and a reminder that: 

STRIPED BASS ARE IN OUR HANDS

This year, the angling community will have millions and millions of chances to care for this species.  Anglers pursue striped bass in myriad ways with a number of goals in mind:  some hope to feed their families, some go fishing to simply catch-and-release, and some to make money in the commercial fishery.  Regardless of how you access and utilize the fishery, it is your right to legally operate within the regulations that your state defines.  

Whether you catch-and-release or catch-and-keep, commercially or recreationally, releasing fish is something that all anglers do.  We are all united by the perfect moments of getting a striped bass to hand, regardless of our ambition and regardless if that fish goes to the cooler or back to the ocean.  

According to the most recent Striped Bass Stock Assessment released in 2019, the number of stripers that unintentionally die from catch-and-release angling actually exceeds the number of bass that are recreationally harvested.  To simply break that down, recreational anglers kill more fish by catching and releasing them than by actually intentionally killing them for food.  That fact might come as a surprise to many but ASMFC estimates that 9% of the fish that are caught-and-released throughout the striped bass season die.  These stripers that die from catch-and-release might be a fish gill hooked in Maine’s cold june water, or a gut hooked striper in New Jersey during the fall migration, or a Maryland bass that just couldn’t survive a summer release in a low oxygen environment, or even a bass that was simply held out of water longer than it could handle after a strenuous fight.   

When we slow down and think about each encounter during the season, it becomes clear that careful handling during every single interaction is not only vital to that individual fish’s survival but to the entire future of the striped bass population.  An encounter with a 14” schoolie and it’s safe release potentially solidifies a future 40” warrior bass that crushes menhaden, eats surface plugs, lives for live mackerel, slurps chunk baits and inhales a well placed fly. ASMFC’s most recent stock assessment, estimated that approximately 3.4 million striped bass died from the practice of catch-and-release, the direct result of our handling and angling practices. That’s an enormous number and one that we have control of through our individual behaviors. Yes, we are individual anglers but together we are the users and stewards of this resource and have an enormous impact.  

Keep Fish Wet is an organization focused on helping recreational anglers improve the outcome for each fish they release.  They do this by taking the best available science on how fish respond to capture and handling, and translate the research into simple techniques that anglers can use to ensure that released fish survive and are healthy.  When doing the math, Sascha Clark Danylchuk, Executive Director of Keep Fish Wet, reminds us that if we decrease release mortality by just one percent (something that is very doable using best practices), then over 250,000 more stripers would remain in the fishery.  Those fish that have been given the best chance at survival will live on to support recovering stocks and be caught again another day.  Whether you fish from a center console, the beach, a rocky shoreline, a skiff, or a downtown piece of city concrete, these principles will help to make sure that your catch is released safely.  

• Minimize Air Exposure.  10 seconds or less is best.
• Eliminate Contact with Dry Surfaces.  Wet your hands before touching fish and avoid bringing them into boats.   
• Reduce Handling Time.  Release fish quickly and only revive fish that cannot swim on their own.

We have high hopes that ASMFC sets the management plan for striped bass on a course to rapid recovery, but in the meantime let’s take this fishery in our own hands and safeguard that each fish we release swims off strong and healthy because:

STRIPED BASS ARE IN OUR HANDS  

Expanded Best Practices for Catch-and-Release: 

Below are the best practices you can use to create better outcomes for each striped bass you release.  

Best Practice Principles: 

The actions that will make the most difference to the survival and health of the striped bass you put back – whether because of regulations or voluntarily.  Regardless, we all catch-and-release.

1. Minimize Air Exposure.  10 seconds or less is best.
2. Eliminate Contact with Dry Surfaces.  Wet your hands before touching fish and avoid bringing them into boats.   
3. Reduce Handling Time.  Release fish quickly and only revive fish that cannot swim on their own.

Best Practice Tips:  

Actions that help you employ the Principles

• Use barbless hooks
• Limit your use of lip grippers, and when doing so keep the fish in the water
• Always hold fish with two hands and never hang fish vertically in the air
• Photograph fish in or just over the water  
• If you are fishing from a boat with high gunnels, reach down to meet the fish or use a long handled net.  If you have to bring the fish into the boat, be prepared to make it quick.  Have a hook removal tool at the ready, and get that fish back into the water quickly and gently. 

Written By: Kyle Schaefer in collaboration with Sascha Clark Danylchuk, Andy Danylchuk, and Bri Dostie

Atlantic Striped Bass: Pisces in Peril | Mark White

A NEW NORM FOR MONTAUK’S LEGENDARY RUN

Ted Williams Is On Assignment at the Eastern Funnel

The post Stripers In Our Hands first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Stripers In Our Hands appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

In a nutshell, worm swarmings (often erroneously referred to as “the worm hatch”) occur when sexually mature annelid worms—in the Northeast we’re talking about clamworms of the genera Nereis or Platynereis—leave their burrows to mate, sometimes in huge numbers. When enough spawning worms are present in an area, striped bass will feed on them selectively, so the pattern you fish should approximate the size, shape, and action of the natural. My first few encounters with swarming worms were incidental; in my ignorance, I was skunked.

My friend Harry Graff has a home on the Bass River in South Dennis and has fished this event for decades. Understanding the science behind worm swarmings is helpful, but it’s no match for experience—or for having your finger on the pulse of the river.

Harry dropped me an email to tell me the game was on. In his area, swarmings occur in the vicinity of Memorial Day weekend. They tend to begin at dusk and end when it gets dark. The bulk of it, he notes, often takes place over three consecutive evenings.

I pulled into Harry’s driveway at about 7 p.m. The tide was still rising as we got to the water. The Bass River is a good early-season spot, as the fish will arrive here before we see them on the northern side of the Cape. In my mid-20s I caught my first striped bass in this river, where it runs by Wilbur Park in Yarmouth. I used a soggy glass Garcia Conolon bass-bug rod (the rod my father had first let me use at age seven) to fling a small Lefty’s Deceiver into a subtle current seam. As if on cue, the fish pulled. It wasn’t big—certainly no more than 16 inches—but I don’t know that I’ve ever caught a striped bass that has thrilled me more.

There were lots of small fish in the river, Harry said; he’d taken one last night that was only 7 inches. Small fish are a promising sign; the fishery isn’t what it was back in the late ‘90s—no one seems to know why.

We stepped into the water, and it was only moments before I spotted a worm. The spawning form of the worm—referred to as the heteronereid or epitoke in the scientific literature—is shorter and stouter than the non-spawning adult. This worm was approximately 2 inches long and about a quarter-inch in diameter, reddish in color. During the process of sexual maturation, the rearmost legs of the worm (parapodia) transform into tiny scoop-like oars–only slightly in some species, radically in others such as the worms at hand. Swarming worms are amazingly proficient swimmers. Their pirouettes at the water’s surface call to mind skywriting airplanes.

Much has been made about the flies needed to fish the swarmings. The way some authors have written about it, it’s nothing short of voodoo. For one article submission we received at TFFM, the Rhode Island guide who was featured in the piece had refused to let the author photograph his worm fly. (I’ll let you guess how that ended.)

At the other end of the swarming-worm-disorder spectrum is Harry Graff. The flies Harry uses during the swarmings are straightforward. Harry handed me a 2-inch red bucktail with a body of small orange cactus chenille. Dressed on a 1/0 carbon-plated hook, it was well-worn from years of action. The fly Harry was using was Page Rogers’ Cinder Worm—basically a length of red velvet tubing fastened to the hook and a head of black chenille. Harry likes this fly, he says, because it’s very durable.

I wanted to satisfy myself that the fish were actually being selective, so I tied on a white Tabory Snake Fly, which I’ve used to catch everything from smallmouth bass to tarpon. I quickly picked up a 12-inch schoolie on the Snake Fly, but nothing after that. About five minutes later, Harry had landed his second fish and had missed probably a half dozen due to short strikes. That was enough to convince me. I tied on Harry’s worm fly.

I worked the fly with a retrieve appropriate to the natural—hand-over-hand, briskly, but only 2 inches at a time. It wasn’t long before I felt my first tug—short, as were many of Harry’s. It felt as if the fish nipped the tail. I also think a 1/0 hook is a bit large for fish in the 12-inch range.

Ten minutes later, the event was in full swing. Upriver or down, as far as you could see, the surface was dimpled with the swirls of feeding stripers.

The house on the river has been in Harry’s family since the 1950s. Harry’s father had done all of his fishing with a spinning rod. Harry recalls evenings like this as a kid when the river came alive with activity but the fish wouldn’t look at a Rapala. The first time I experienced a swarming, I knew virtually nothing about the life cycle of clam worms. I simply knew the fish weren’t interested in whatever I showed them. This evening I only actually saw that one worm, so it’s easy to see how an angler can get stumped by such an occurrence.

Anyone can go down to the water and cast flies—and very often this approach pays dividends—but it always helps to be mindful of your environment, particularly when you know the fish are there but they’re not cooperating.

If the fish are being selective, first try to approximate the size and shape of what they’re feeding on. I recall one September afternoon along Plymouth Beach many years ago. Large schools of striped bass in the 22- to 24-inch range were gorging themselves on 6-inch silversides. I was able to hook up consistently with a 6-inch white Deceiver. The action was prolific enough that it left my thumb ragged. I watched a guy standing on the jetty with a surf rod as he hurled a 14-inch bathtub toy into the breaking schools. Cast after cast went ignored until finally—I presume in frustration—he reeled up and went home. Had the man simply changed to a lure that more closely matched the size of the prey, I’m convinced he would have landed his share.

Sometimes what the fish are eating isn’t so obvious. In such situations, you’ll do well to look around the water’s edge to see what might be available. More than once I’ve experienced striped bass feeding selectively on grass shrimp just under the surface. In the moonlight I could see their sides flash white as they took; they bulged the surface similarly to a trout feeding subsurface on emergers. Had I not shined a flashlight along the shoreline I never would have seen the many thousands of shrimp flitting about. Only then, after trimming my black Deceiver to an

inch and working it in 2-inch strips, could I catch fish—one after another, and I was surprised at how hard they hit.

The rule of thumb in selective feeding is to first match the size of the prey and then the action. Many will disagree with me, but I generally don’t consider color of much importance (I’ll change retrieves before I change the color of a fly in which I have confidence). And fish don’t see color at night, so I think black is as good a color as any. After discovering selective feeding on grass shrimp, I began carrying a few suggestions in my box—simple reverse-tied bucktails with wool bodies on a size 2 or 4 hook, an inch or so long, solid black for night fishing. When I’ve found the bass are keyed in on shrimp after dark, this fly has done the trick.

When night proper fell on the river, the worm swarming turned off, as Harry had said it would. We’d each landed some fish, but lost many more.

I met Harry through Henry Weston Outfitters in Pembroke, one of the many fly shops that popped up along coastal Massachusetts when the striped bass fishery made a comeback in the early 1990s (and after A River Runs Through It caused the industry to explode). This was the first time we had ever fished together. I think I’m going to have to give him a call and see if I can finagle another invitation.

I left Harry’s and made it over the bridge in time to get to Katie’s Burger Bar in Plymouth before the kitchen closed. After an evening of fishing on the South Shore you could do worse than to sit down to a Hell Burger and an IPA. I’ll be glad when we can sit at the bar again. Beer and burgers always taste better when you sit at the bar. Piscator non solum piscatur.

by George Roberts

George Roberts is TFFM’s Acquisitions Editor.

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THE VOICE OF SALTWATER FLY FISHING

A NEW NORM FOR MONTAUK’S LEGENDARY RUN

Running the Coast for striped bass

SEEING ON THE FLATS

The post Worm Swarming—At Long Last first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Worm Swarming—At Long Last appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

Increased fishing pressure and degradation and loss of habitat in the 1970s resulted in a collapse of striped bass stock in the 1980s, but a moratorium on striper fishing, new legislation, and a new management program all contributed to an apparent striper rebound by the late 1990s.

Striped bass thrived for nearly a decade–but once again, the population is in serious decline. Eager to offset the decline, East Coast states have stepped in with various proposals aimed at reducing striper mortality–particularly the mortality of the “spawning stock biomass”: the weight of females ages four years and older in the striper population. Despite these efforts, the Atlantic striped bass population appears to be in continued decline.

How did we get here? What can we do to save the beloved striper?

America’s Saltwater Sweetheart

For better or worse, the humble striper remains a favorite of the hook-and-line recreational angler. According to an article in the February 2019 issue of On the Water magazine, reporting on a meeting of the Atlantic States Marine Fisheries Commission’s (ASMFC) Striped Bass Management Board, recreational anglers were responsible for 90 percent of the coastal removal of striped bass in 2017: In real numbers, “recreational fishermen are estimated to have caught 41.2 million striped bass in 2017. They kept 2.9 million and released 38.2 million. Of those 38.2 million released, it is estimated that 3.4 million did not survive.” Yes, you read that correctly: The ASMFC estimates that in 2017, the number of fish that died after being handled by recreational anglers and then returned to the water exceeded the number that anglers took home with them.

Could training enable recreational anglers to reduce catch-and-release mortality? Yes, says Captain Dave Cornell, who guides along Massachusetts’ South Coast: “Landing a fish quickly, with a minimum of handling at the boat, is very important.” Pinch down those barbs, says Cornell, and have pliers at the ready. “Fish that have hooks in their gills and may be bleeding are best unhooked by opening the gill and going in from behind, where the hook is often easier to access. Many anglers don’t know this. Cutting off the fly after freeing it from the gill plates can minimize damage to the gill.”

Dr. Gary Nelson of the Massachusetts Division of Marine Fisheries (MDMF) offers a qualified agreement that changing recreational anglers’ behavior could greatly affect rates of fish mortality: “Yes and no. I think many recreational anglers are aware that circle hooks are a good alternative to J hooks for decreasing hooking mortality.” But many anglers Nelson knows don’t like fishing with circle hooks, which don’t have to be set like J hooks. Anglers enjoy “the thrill of setting a hook,” Nelson continues. The MDMF “has been promoting the use of circle hooks to reduce hooking mortality since I started back in 2001. As of 2020, use of in-line circle hooks when fishing for striped bass using natural baits is a requirement.”

What one thing should recreational anglers know about fish mortality? Although Nelson’s views do not represent those of the MDMF, he himself insists, “Playing time after hooking a fish contributes significantly to hooking mortality.” Lactic acid, a byproduct of vigorous exercise, builds to toxic levels in the exhausted fish. To improve your quarry’s chances of survival, Nelson continues, “reel in the fish as quickly as possible.”

Commercial Fishing

Striped bass are also caught commercially with gill nets, pound nets, haul seines, and hook and line. In 2017 the commercial fishing industry harvested nearly five million pounds of striped bass; more than 60 percent of that haul came out of the Chesapeake Bay. Already this is a heavily regulated fishery; nevertheless, at an October 2019 meeting the ASMFC’s Atlantic Striped Bass Management Board approved an 18 percent cut in commercial and recreational striper harvests for 2020.

Environmental Change

Striped bass spend most of their adult lives in coastal estuaries or the ocean, migrating south in the winter and returning to rivers to spawn in the spring. Although the Hudson and Delaware Rivers remain important spawning grounds, the truth is that most of the striper spawning stock comes out of the venerable Chesapeake Bay. And striper stakeholders fear that the Bay is seriously threatened: Both urban development and farming endanger the seagrasses that act as striper nurseries; the forage fish (like anchovies and menhaden) that striped bass depend upon for sustenance appear themselves to be in decline; and poor water quality and warmer water (with lower oxygen levels) have led to a higher incidence of hypoxia and diseases like mycobacteriosis, which is currently leaving external lesions on Chesapeake Bay striped bass.

Is the decline in fish habitat a reflection of climate change or of pollution of local waterways? Very probably both, argues Nelson. In the all-important Chesapeake Bay, he says, low-oxygen (anoxic) conditions develop during the summer as a result of high water temperatures and “agricultural runoff that promotes growth of bacteria that use oxygen.” Striped bass do what they can to avoid low-oxygen habitats. They are therefore “squeezed into habitats that are sub-optimal for their survival.” From 2004 to 2010, the Chesapeake Bay produced fewer young striped bass–likely, says Nelson, as a result of climate change: “Good survival occurs when spring weather is wet and cool. We are now observing northward shifts in fish distribution along the Atlantic Coast as water temperatures increase. In the Gulf of Maine, water temperature is rising faster than any water body in the world, and it is believed that the collapse of Gulf of Maine northern shrimp is due to increasing temperatures.” And again, where prey species go, predator species soon follow.

Striper to Seal to Shark

When Cape Cod’s striped bass fans look for the culprits responsible for the striper decline, their eyes turn in an unexpected direction: “Along with climate change, overfishing, and habitat loss,” says guide Dave Cornell, “seals are a huge factor in striper mortality. Buzzards Bay isn’t as affected as Cape Cod, but we have a growing seal population near Penikese Island.” And many residents fear that right behind seals come sharks. 

The seal question “can only be answered by amending the Marine Mammal Protection Act,” says Dean Clark of the nonprofit conservation group Stripers Forever Massachusetts. “Without ecosystem-based management and the studies to support the same,” it is difficult to determine the full effect of the seal population on the wild striped bass population. Fisheries biologist Nelson concurs: Yes, striped bass are “found occasionally in seals’ stomachs, but there is no estimate of numbers consumed,” and “the impact of seal predation is likely not as great” as many assume. 

How significant a factor is striper predation by white and thresher sharks? Nelson does not dismiss the possibility, noting that juvenile sharks are indeed fish-eaters. Guide, fly angler, and marine researcher Zachary Whitener says, “I’m sure that seals eat a large amount of striped bass. But I’m also sure that humans kill many, many more fish and have had–and are having–a much greater effect on the Atlantic ecosystem as a whole than seals. We have more control over how we manage fish than how seals manage fish.” In the final analysis, Dean Clark reminds us, an emotional reaction to striper decline “serves no one well.”

Poaching

Just how big a role does poaching play in striper decline? The reality is that, despite uniformed and plainclothes policing by environmental officers, striped bass poaching is, in Nelson’s words, “ubiquitous.” In Massachusetts, he says, poaching “occurs frequently near urban areas like Lynn and Lawrence on the Merrimack River.” Recently the Cape Cod Canal has seen an uptick in poaching, which is unfortunately as difficult to curb as it is to quantify.

Poaching, says Stripers Forever’s Clark, “has more of a sociological effect than a species population effect. The poachers’ disrespect for the welfare of the species and their disregard for the rules creates an ethos that makes it difficult for the general public to understand and support regulations designed to protect the integrity of striped bass.” Dave Cornell insists that publicized poaching arrests may be common but unfortunately represent just “the tip of the iceberg.” 

Aquaculture

So do we throw in the towel and accept the inevitable decline of the Atlantic striped bass? Not so fast, say stakeholders. Consider, for example, aquaculture: In 2005, almost 60 percent of all striped bass sold in the United States were grown in an aquaculture operation. In the Chesapeake Bay region, aquaculture supplies readily available seafood at the same time that it reduces pressure on wild striped bass stock and the species on which they prey.

Should aquaculture be the sole source of commercially sold bass? Dean Clark answers, “Yes–but not for the reasons that you might think. Historically striped bass were sought only as a commercial food fish. Their value to society was initially established on a dollars-per-pound-at-market basis. Only recently have stripers become a significant player in the recreational market economy, and this has created a conflict between opposing sectors.” Commercial interests maximize the value of striped bass when they maximize the harvest. For recreational anglers, the opposite is true: “The more and higher quality fish that are alive and thus potentially catchable, the more valuable the striper fishery is,” explains Clark. Fisheries management plans have so far striven to satisfy both constituent groups–although “a voting majority of the regulators are commercially biased. It is a lot like having the foxes in charge of the welfare of the chickens.”

Designating striped bass as a recreation-only species “like trout, deer, and waterfowl” would alleviate the pressure that fisheries management officials get from commercial harvesting interests, says Clark, enabling regulators to “put the welfare of the stripers ahead of those wishing to exploit them. Conservation will replace exploitation, so yes–wild striped bass should not be harvested for commercial purposes.”

Given the strength of the commercial fishing lobby in many East Coast states, regulators are unlikely to outlaw traditional rod-and-reel commercial striper fishing. Aquaculture may be able to put a striper/white bass hybrid on the market, but the public will still demand wild fish. Many stakeholders agree with Dave Cornell that commercial fishing interests and recreational anglers can and should co-exist–and that fishery regulations need to strive for a balance between competing interests.

Whither Go Bass

Regulators have put in place an Atlantic striped bass management plan that reduces harvest quotas and establishes size limits for both commercial and recreational interests. Is this the best way to turn around striper population decline? Should the Eastern Seaboard set a one-size-fits-all limit to promote public awareness and avoid confusion?

Dean Clark suggests that size limits obscure the real issue, which should be “management philosophy and which interest group is driving the bus. Under the guidance of the commercially biased ASMFC,” Clark argues, “the quality and size of the fishery has continued to shrink over the past ten-plus years. We should be asking why. We shouldn’t be debating how big a striper should be to keep. We should be asking why the ASMFC has allowed commercial by-catch to go unreported, not prioritized the welfare of the fish, and catered to a relatively small group of commercial fishermen while ignoring the conservation demands of the many millions of recreational fishermen. Getting answers to these questions is far more important than arguing over harvesting equivalencies.”

Nelson believes that standardizing regulations across all concerned states would help the Atlantic striper fishery. “Once spawning adults leave the Chesapeake Bay in the spring,” he explains, “the only fish remaining are small fish–smaller than 25 inches and mostly male. If Maryland and Virginia set the same minimum size requirement as Massachusetts, recreational anglers could keep very few fish.” He suggests that perhaps states with reciprocity agreements–that is, states in which anglers with valid saltwater fishing licenses may cross state lines while fishing, as in Connecticut, Rhode Island, Massachusetts, and New Hampshire–should consider coordinating their regulations to avoid angler confusion.

Slot limits protect larger bass because most striped bass over 30 pounds are breeding females. (According to the Massachusetts Division of Marine Fisheries, a 12-pound female can produce about 850,000 eggs, and a 55-pound female can produce more than 4,000,000 eggs.) In addition to slot limits, current regulations target recreational discard behavior: how to properly catch, handle, and release striped bass. So circle hooks and non-lethal handling devices like BogaGrips and landing nets are in–and gaffing is essentially out.

Setting aside “who is most to blame,” the expert stakeholders appear to agree that the threats to the Eastern Seaboard’s striped bass fishery are real and many–and resuscitating the fishery therefore requires a multifaceted approach. For example, climate change is one serious threat, resulting in significant loss of habitat and adversely affecting fish distribution. But “thanks to the Clean Water Act and other national legislation as well as a decline in industry,” remarks Zachary Whitener, “our local waters in Maine are many times cleaner than they were 50 years ago.” So we can indeed have a positive and lasting impact on the environment. But Clean Water Act gains in Maine and across the country are threatened every four years, when conservation becomes a political football. 

“I think that there are many, many ways that climate change can manifest itself regarding habitat and striped bass,” says Whitener, “but as a species stripers exhibit a wide variety of life history and behaviors, inhabiting a wide variety of habitats, hedging the species as a whole from losing its ecological niches.” That’s the good news. But unfortunately, “we don’t know how prey relationships or migrations will change,” and those unknowns are “the most unsettling aspect of climate change.”

We have examined recreational discard mortality rates for Atlantic striped bass; the saltwater fly angler quite naturally wonders what these rates might mean for tarpon, marlin, bonefish, and steelhead. Is the gamefish dragged over the gunwale for a selfie being faithfully released back into the water only to die a couple of days later?

The truth is that we have more questions than answers. But all those who care about saltwater gamefish–and in particular the Atlantic striped bass–should be engaged in finding longterm solutions that result in healthy, sustainable fisheries for the next generation of commercial and recreational anglers.

Bio: A lifelong fly angler, Mark White lives on the South Coast of Massachusetts, where he works as a physician assistant in the field of neurosurgery. You can visit his website at southcoastflyfisher.com.

READ MORE ABOUT STRIPED BASS:

Stripers: Past & Present

Fly fishing for striped bass

THE DECLINE OF THE STRIPED BASS

Running the Coast for striped bass

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SALTWATER FLY FISHING

The post Atlantic Striped Bass: Pisces in Peril | Mark White first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Atlantic Striped Bass: Pisces in Peril | Mark White appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The Scene

The greatest migrations on Earth do not occur on African savannas, Old World steppes, or North American flyways, but along the neck of the eastern funnel where Long Island juts into the North Atlantic. Here tide and wind clash over inshore and offshore bars, and sea creatures—most unseen save by anglers—stage, feed, and stream south and north.

In autumn, gannets fold their wings and pierce the waves as if shot by medieval archers. Peregrine falcons trade between south-side cliffs and north-side beaches. Ospreys and eagles hover and dive. Sea ducks swirl around the horizon like coal smoke.

Whales, dolphins, and seals graze on mile-long shoals of menhaden. Sea turtles—leatherbacks, loggerheads, and Kemp’s ridleys—cleave quieter water. Mola mola flop and wag.

Farther out, sharks, tunas, mahi, marlins, longfin albacore, king mackerel, and wahoo crash through schools of halfbeaks and frigate mackerel.

Starting in Indian summer, my friends and I are on hand to watch and participate. Bobbing in little boats, we jockey around rust-colored clouds of bay anchovies harried from above by screaming gulls and terns, harried from below by ravenous predator fish that send the inch-long bait spraying into the air like welding sparks.

The striped bass move slower and are packed tighter than the bluefish or false albacore. These “bass boils” can cover acres. They sound like washing machines, and they happen nowhere else.

My boat, a 21-foot green Contender, is named Assignment, so when my creditors and editors demand to speak to me, my wife can tell them, “He’s on Assignment.”

There’s only one occupation at which you can make less money than as a freelance nature writer, and that’s as a light-tackle fishing guide. It’s a calling I aspire to. The guiding I do now isn’t real. It’s philanthropy—pro-bono service for friends staffing and funding the Theodore Roosevelt Conservation Partnership, Trout Unlimited, and American Rivers.

The Fish

These days, virtually all the topwater bass are shorts, so I target only false albacore (aka albies), especially the big, raging pods. All that competition increases hookup chances exponentially.

Albies are mini tunas. They attain immense speeds via hard, sickle tails equipped with horizontal stabilizers, fins that fold into grooves and a ramjet-like oxygenating system whereby water is pushed, rather than pumped, through massive, blood-rich gills. The average 7-pounder will rip off 30 yards of backing before you can palm your reel.

Stripers and bluefish roll and splash. Albies erupt, flashing silver flanks. When they get excited they light up like billfish. Twice this past September I found them 100 feet off the Montauk Light, crisscrossing wildly around and under the Assignment, backs glowing neon green in the high sun. They were so beautiful I almost forgot to cast.

Fortunately, albies are the worst-eating fish in the sea. A commercial market does exist, however — in New York City’s Chinatown, where they’re sold as green bonito (among the best-eating fish in the sea). My friend Captain David Blinken, one of Long Island’s most popular and experienced light-tackle guides (northflats.com), was recently ejected from a Chinatown fish market for telling the owner a fact he didn’t want to know: that albies aren’t bonitos.

I can’t think that anyone eats albies. Forty years ago I broiled one, and it literally stank me out of the kitchen. My theory is this: Chinatown residents buy an albie because it’s beautiful. They take one bite, trash it, and never buy another. It’s just that there are so many Chinatown residents they maintain the market.

The threat to albies isn’t human consumption but a possible reduction fishery, perhaps for animal feed and similar to that which depleted menhaden. The false albacore’s tight schooling behavior and predictable migration routes make it vulnerable to industrial-scale purse-seining. Yet the National Marine Fisheries Service declines to regulate the species because it’s abundant. Such is the traditional mindset of fish managers: Don’t manage a stock until it’s depleted. And then manage it not for abundance but maximum sustainable yield: i.e., dead-on-the-dock poundage.

We don’t like to think of albies as baitfish, but that’s what they are. Blinken offers this: “False Albacore need to be protected now; we can’t afford to wait until it’s too late. They sustain marine ecosystems. Larger predators can’t make it just on forage like sand eels, anchovies, herring, and spearing. They need more protein. And albies give us guides a shot at diversity. Since the demise of the striped bass fishery we rely on them.”

From what I saw at Montauk in the fall of 2019, I wouldn’t say a striper demise has happened, but it sure seems to be on the way. It was nice to once again encounter massive bass boils extending from Shagwong Reef around the point and several miles along the south side. But not one bass I saw caught was over the 28-inch limit. Most get picked off as soon as they hit 28.

In 1984, after the states ran stripers into commercial extinction, Congress passed the Atlantic Striped Bass Conservation Act, a law requiring a moratorium on striper fishing in any East Coast state that refused to comply with a management plan hatched by the Atlantic States Marine Fisheries Commission (ASMFC).

Recreational anglers, then and now responsible for the vast majority of striped bass mortality, were limited to one fish daily at 36 inches. Stripers surged back.

But rather than managing for abundance, the ASMFC responded by expanding the recreational limit to two fish at 28 inches. The stock steadily dwindled, and it kept dwindling even after the ASMFC cut the limit to one fish at 28 inches. Finally, the ASMFC admitted what anglers knew: that stripers are “overfished.”

On October 30, 2019, the ASMFC had a chance to reverse the decline. Instead, it imposed a one-fish recreational slot limit for the ocean of between 28 and 34 inches.

“That decision dooms the 2015 and 2016 year classes,” remarks Blinken. “Why can’t we remember past lessons? Stripers are such special fish. You can find them in the rips or on the flats, 20 miles offshore or 20 miles up rivers. They fuel whole economies, providing income for hotels, restaurants, marinas and tackle shops. Now there are gillnetters all along the south side of Long Island. They’re blocking striper migration, creating boating hazards, killing turtles, birds, and marine mammals. And the six-pack guys [running large charters for recreational trollers] kill even more big breeders than the gillnetters. To destroy this resource to make a few people happy is so wrong.” 

The Fishing

Albies can be as picky as brown trout, especially in fading light. When they get lockjaw, try a white Gartside Gurgler with lots of flash in the tail or a Crease Fly.

Blinken’s standby fly (which he originally invented for bonito) is the Jellyfish.  “When I first started fishing albies I used only epoxy flies,” he says. “They’d bang off the hull or engine and shatter. So I started experimenting with a fly that was durable and could imitate lots of bait–squid, spearing, peanut bunker, anchovies. I’ve always tied my flies with feathers splayed. When I started doing Hi Ties I didn’t get enough movement, so I took some slender feathers and tied them into the back tarpon-style. Then I tied in uniform collars of synthetic material. When the fly sat it the water with the tendrils hanging down it looked like a jellyfish.”

Another popular Montauk fly is the Albie Whore, invented by our friend and Blinken’s regular client, Richard Reagan. It’s a bit like a Deceiver but tied with tail feathers splayed and side feathers anchored with hot glue. Google “Albie Whore” and you’ll get dozens of videos of guys tying it. Everyone save Reagan is tying it wrong (flylifemagazine.com/at-the-vise-albie-whore).

For albies, Blinken and I use only 10-weight fly rods. In deeper water, where most albies feed, a 10-weight has lifting power that 8-weights and 9-weights lack. “You want to beat that fish as quickly as possible so lactic acid doesn’t build up,” Blinken says. “Of course you can land an albie with an 8-weight, but you might kill it.”

Use an Albright knot to join leader to fly line. If a fly line comes with a loop, an Albright is all the easier to tie. A loop-to-loop connection creates a hinge effect that impedes your leader from turning over.

The angling mistake I see most is “trout striking”—i.e., lifting the fly rod instead of strip striking. Trout strikes guarantee missing at least half of your fish.

The next most common mistake I see is making too many false casts. For albies, Blinken and I use floating lines. They allow us to water haul and, with a single back cast, deliver the fly. “Albie fishing is very aggressive, very fast-paced,” says Blinken. “When the pod moves 20 feet to your left or right, you need to pick up and present it again quickly. If you’re using an intermediate or sinking line, you’re not going to get to those fish.”

When you’re throwing into big bait balls, matching the hatch is bad strategy. Why should a fish eat your fly when there are several hundred thousand baitfish that look just like it? Usually your flies should be two or three times bigger than the bait.

Guides make mistakes, too. Churlishness and too much advice are major turnoffs. And this from Blinken: “I think the biggest mistake a guide can make is having his client show up when it’s unfishable. We all want to make money, but if it’s blowing 25, you don’t tell your client to show up anyway, especially if it takes him four hours to get there. And guides need to be flexible. I keep my skiff available all fall, so if Montauk’s too rough, I can fish west.”

Once, when I was in Blinken’s boat, we watched a guide chase stripers in past the wave break. It’s a dangerous practice, but sometimes they can’t resist. “He’s gonna turtle,” yelled Blinken. When he did, we went in stern-first and fished out the client who had lost his rod, fly box, and car keys. Someone else fished out the guide, who didn’t get a tip that day. The boat rolled around under the cliffs all fall.

Best Conversation on the Water

I trailer the Assignment to Niantic, Connecticut, and cross to Long Island. After I tie up to the dock, I don’t like to hold up the scup guys. Scup are as prolific as they are delicious. The fishery has a huge African American following.

One early morning, after I’d parked my truck, I ran back to the ramp because nine scup anglers were preparing to launch a boat scarcely bigger than mine. They were headed a mile offshore, each with an excellent chance of filling his 30-fish limit.

One gentleman declared: “Take your time. You ain’t a young man no more.” Then he pointed to my one-piece Loomis rods and inquired what I was planning to do with the “long fish poles.” I explained that I was headed to Montauk to chase false albacore. Slapping his forehead, he intoned, “Twenty-five miles for fish you can’t eat?”  (…continued)

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The post Ted Williams Is On Assignment at the Eastern Funnel first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Ted Williams Is On Assignment at the Eastern Funnel appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

When it comes to flies, I’ve always had an innovative attitude that I believe is due to my occupational background. As an AutoCad draftsman for the better part of 20 years, I’ve been able to use my everyday computer skills at home on my hobbies. When I sleep, I guess you could say that I’m haunted by fish-shaped foam.

Materials

• Hook: Mustad 3407DT O’Shaughnessy (or equivalent), Size 2/0
• Thread: Danville 210 Denier Flat Waxed Nylon
• Head: 2mm Craft Foam Sheet (craft store or fly shop)
• Adhesive: Super Glue
• Loops: 20- to 30-pound monofilament or fluorocarbon, 12 inches
• Beads:  Glass Beads – 3/16” to 1/4” diameter (Typical for 2) (craft store)
• Body: Letera’s 4” Magnum Dubbing by American Tied Flies (or equivalent)
• Eyes: Prism, self-adhesive, 3/16” to 1/4” diameter
• Body Art: Paint Markers, Airbrush, etc.
• Finish Coat: Flex Seal Liquid (Clear) or UV Flex Epoxy

Step 1

Starting at the hook eye, wrap a base of thread toward the bend a little less than half way. Wrap thread back to the eye before beginning step 2.

Step 2

Fold a 12-inch length of mono or fluoro in half, leaving a loop at one end. With the loop end, starting behind the hook eye, use the thread to tie in the mono, keeping both 6-inch lengths side by side on the top of the shank and down the bend, matching the wraps from step 1.

Step 3

Starting with the bobbin hanging near the hook point, place one glass bead on either tag end of the mono. Keeping both tag ends as even as possible, roll the mono forward, creating bead loops. Make about six wraps and adjust the length of the mono loops before continuing to tie in the remainder of the mono.

Step 4

Cut the remaining tag ends of mono behind the hook eye and wrap in completely. When completed, the loops should still be loose enough to allow the beads some freedom of movement.

Step 5

Starting with the bobbin hanging just ahead of the hook bend, tie in the first layer of body hair (belly color). Leave approximately 3 inches of hair extending beyond the bend. Finish wrapping any remaining hair along the hook shank.

Step 6

Matching the start point and length of the first layer, tie in second layer of body hair (back color). This time, pull the forward portion of remaining hair backward to be used as filler. When pulling the hair back, be sure to add a few wraps ahead of the hair to lock it in. Whip finish and prepare the foam head using the provided pattern.

Step 7

Once you have the foam head cut out and pre-glued into a tubular shape, rotate the fly 180 degrees and take a moment to test fit the foam head and see how you would like it to sit. Once satisfied with where the head will be positioned, put the head aside and add a few dabs of Super Glue along the bottom of the hook shank. Using a bodkin or toothpick, spread the glue evenly along the bottom and sides of the shank.

Step 8

Once the glue is spread evenly along the thread, slide the foam head over the hook, being careful not to let the foam touch the glue until it’s in the correct position. Let the glue set to the foam for about 15 seconds.

Step 9

Flip the fly right-side up. If you have not already done so, use a bodkin and poke a hole in the foam lip where it will be pushed over the hook eye. The hole should be approximately 5/16 of an inch up from the end of the lip. Carefully stretch the foam down and over the eye.

Step 10

Add prism eyes and any other body art, if desired. I’ve found both paint markers and airbrush paints hold up well when using a finish coat.

Step 11

Put a finish coat on the entire surface of the foam head. I prefer Flex Seal clear liquid, but it requires 4 to 6 hours of drying time. Use UV Flex Epoxy for faster drying times.

To learn more about Carl Harris’ innovative fly patterns,

you can visit his Online Store, Instagram, or Facebook pages

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The post Soft Chew Wiggler 2.0 first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Soft Chew Wiggler 2.0 appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

Visual excitement aside, there are other good reasons why you should add surface flies—popping bugs, sliders, and hair-heads—to your bag of tricks. First, nothing gets a striper’s attention like a wounded baitfish, and there’s no better way to transmit distress signals than with a popping bug. While a streamer must pass through the fish’s field of vision to trigger a strike, poppers can summon fish from a distance. A striped bass’s lateral line is ever alert to low-frequency waves such as those generated by baitfish in trouble; it gives the fish a sensory “radar” that extends out to around 50 feet. Therefore, the surface commotion generated by a popper or hair-head attracts fish that you may have missed with a more subtle subsurface offering. In short, when fishing for striped bass, don’t hesitate to ring the dinner bell!

Topwater Fly Designs

Surface striper flies fall into two broad categories: popping bugs/sliders and hair-headed streamers. Popping bugs and sliders typically are made of one of three types of material: cork, balsa wood, or most commonly foam (such as the closed-cell foam from which lobster-pot buoys are made). Most striped-bass poppers range from about 1/2 inch to 5/8 inch in diameter, and from 1 inch to an 1 1/2 inches in length, minus the tail. Poppers much larger than this become difficult to cast.

The tails of most popping bugs are made of either bucktail, saddle hackles, or a combination of hackles and marabou. Saddle hackles allow for a longer tail, but the commotion produced by a popping bug creates the illusion of a prey item much larger than the popper’s actual size.

The bodies of sliders tend to be slimmer than those of popping bugs, and the face is often cut to a V. Sliders are meant to move across the surface quietly, creating a wake that the bass still feels. Sliders are particularly good in calm water and, unlike poppers, they can be deadly after dark—especially when bass are picking off small baitfish on the surface. Despite the slider’s subtlety, bass will hit them just as hard as they’ll hit a popping bug. Under the right circumstances, fishing a slider can be like pulling your fly through a minefield.

When fishing shallow over structure like rocks, seaweed, or grass, there’s a chance you could hang up on something other than a fish, and you’ll do well to use a fly that has some buoyancy. Streamers with heads made of spun or flared deer body hair work well in such situations. The late Bill Catherwood’s Giant Killer series of flies are the prototypical hair-heads, dressed in a colorful melange of saddle hackle, marabou, and clipped deer body hair that striped bass find irresistible. A full-size Giant Killer runs seven to nine inches long, and the construction technique doesn’t lend itself well to a fly half that size. So if you’re looking to throw the sardine rather than the full kipper, you’ll do well to go with a more basic pattern. One of my favorite hair-heads is Lou Tabory’s Snake Fly. It sports a wing of of ostrich herl flanked with marabou that has a lot of inherent action in the water. It’s a deadly-effective pattern that’s relatively easy to tie and lends itself to a size-2 to 1/0 hook.

The Outfit

For striped bass, consider the size of the flies you’ll be casting before you consider the size of the fish you might encounter. Although I feel an 8-weight outfit is adequate to handle any striper I’m likely to hook, I often fish a 10-weight rod, simply because it makes casting the largest poppers and hair-heads much easier.

I’ve read about anglers fishing popping bugs with intermediate lines, but I feel a full floating line gives a bug its best action. If you find casting popping bugs a challenge with a standard weight-forward taper (that is, a head in the vicinity of 40 feet), one of the shorter, more compact tapers being produced by such manufacturers as Airflo or Royal Wulff might help you better turn it over.

Striped bass aren’t particularly leader shy, so it’s unnecessary to use a long tapered leader with a popping bug. Six feet of level 15- or 20-pound test monofilament is ideal. Should you wish to build a tapered leader, keep it simple. A three-piece leader no longer than nine feet that tapers to 15- or 20-pound test is sufficient. If there’s a chance you might hook into a bluefish, consider adding eight or so inches of 60-pound mono or wire to the tippet as a bite guard.

Where and When

Popping bugs can be effective wherever bass are found—in tidal rivers, off beaches, in bays, near jetties—but they’re not for all occasions, and I limit their use to specific situations. During the day, I generally won’t use a popper in water less than six feet deep. Shallow-water stripers tend to be spooky, so your chances of catching these fish are better with a streamer. Exceptions to this occur in the spring and fall, when you’re likely to encounter schools of bass smashing bait tight to the shore. During this wild surface feeding a popper can be deadly, as its prominent silhouette and the commotion it causes enable fish to key in on it immediately.

Poppers are also good for attracting fish from deep water. Over holes and drop-offs, where a streamer might go unnoticed, a noisy bug is sometimes just the thing to make the fish come up and take a look.

Popping bugs are also good searching patterns. If you draw a strike with a popper but your next dozen cast casts go unnoticed, switch to a streamer. Conversely, I’ll tie on a popper as a change-of-pace fly when streamers aren’t producing.

The most productive times to fish popping bugs, in my experience, are in the early morning and the late afternoon until nightfall. Although stripers will feed readily on the surface after the sun has set, for reasons I don’t understand, poppers just don’t seem to produce after dark. For proper night fishing I’ll tie on a slider.

Don’t hesitate to drop a popping bug into any likely bass-holding area—the mouth of an inlet or tidal pool (particularly on a falling tide), or in the middle of a rip. In rivers, I’ve had my best success by casting directly across the current. In particular, work the edges and eddies.

If the setting doesn’t lend itself to a popping bug but you’d still like to play the topwater game, don’t hesitate to tie on a hair-head. One of my most memorable hookups came a number of years ago when I was fishing with my old friend, Captain Dave Tracy, who used to guide around Boston and Plymouth. It was a July 4th weekend. We had had some good fishing in the morning, and it was now coming on noon. We had bright sunshine, not a cloud in the sky, and the temperature was approaching 90 degrees. Dave had us drifting along a rocky shore in Plymouth that used to produce well on a coming tide. We were within yards of a crowded sunbathing beach, with fairly heavy boat traffic behind us.

Dave was used to having to produce for clients, so he fished a Clouser Half-and-Half on a sinking line a large percentage of the time. He wanted me to fish one now. I could tell I was annoying him. I was standing on the bow, throwing a full-size Catherwood Herring (one I had dressed—not an original) 90 feet toward shore, then skating it back across the surface in foot-long strips over a field of submerged boulders. (I may have been trying to impress a girl who was with us—I can’t quite remember.)

“You really have confidence in that big fly…?” Dave asked.

I was about to tell him that I had more confidence in the fly than in the location, when a bass appeared from the bottom—if it wasn’t 40 inches, it was close—and slammed the Herring. I was tight to the fish, but instead of running to deeper water it headed toward shore, into the rocks. Seven seconds later, it was all over.

I think Dave and I both learned something that day.

Cast, Retrieve, and Hookset

Some fly anglers believe you must form fairly open loops to cast popping bugs. This applies more to casting weighted flies, which take on their own momentum. (Bringing a weighted fly through a quick change of direction, as you do when you form tight loops, jars the cast.) Popping bugs are more wind-resistant than they are heavy, so forming a tight loop will carry the bug farther, more efficiently, than will an open loop.

When I first began pursuing striped bass with a fly rod, my only previous experience with popping bugs had been fishing them for largemouth bass. In fresh water, a popper can suggest anything from a large insect to a small bird or rodent. In the ocean, however, a popper imitates baitfish, period. The pop-and-wait retrieve so effective in fresh water is useless in the salt. To get a striped bass to smash a popping bug, you’ve got to keep the popper moving.

Start slowly at first, using short strips to move the bug three or four inches at a time, kicking up water every now and then. If that doesn’t draw any strikes, intersperse the retrieve with a few longer strips to suggest the erratic behavior of baitfish in trouble. Convey panic by stripping quickly, skittering the bug across the surface. At times a choppy two-handed retrieve is effective. No matter which retrieve you use, the important thing is to keep the bug moving.

Whether hitting out of curiosity, or attempting to stun prey with a slap of the tail, a striper doesn’t always take a surface fly into its mouth immediately. Raising the rod on such hits will not only result in a miss; it will pull the fly out of harm’s way. Instead of trying to set with the rod tip, keep the rod tip close to the water and pointed at your bug during the retrieve. Pay attention—the interest a striper shows in a popper is often subtle. If you see a swirl behind your bug, or if the bug’s wake seems unusually large—get ready. Chances are a fish is inspecting your fly.

If you rouse a fish but draw no strike, cast back and work the same area again; a striper that’s shown interest seldom passes up a second chance. If the fish strikes, keep your rod down and continue to strip line. That way, if the fish doesn’t take, the bug will still be in position for the fish to take another swipe. I’ve seen bass slap at a bug as many as four times before they finally took it. Only when you feel the weight of the fish should you strike. One sharp strip is often enough to set the hook.

A Floating Sand Eel slider has produced well for me when bass have been slashing at naturals on the surface. I’ve also done well with it when there was no surface activity, usually in calm waters in the evening or at night. With sliders, and particularly after dark, I’ve found a continuous retrieve is most productive. Retrieve the fly hand-over-hand and brace yourself for an explosion—it takes nerve to fish a slider well.

Retrieve hair-heads with single strips of six to 12 inches, or use a continuous retrieve. In heavy current or rips I like to let them swing as you would swing a streamer on a trout river, adding an occasional strip for interest. Although hair-headed flies do absorb water and may eventually sink, they’ll ride close enough to the surface that they’ll remain snag-free, and you’ll still see every take. (To watch a short instructional video on topwater fishing for striped bass, visit my website, the address to which is listed in the byline.)

If catching striped bass on the surface turns out to be your cup of tea, you might consider taking the flies, gear, and techniques to other fisheries. Jack Crevalle love a popping bug, and Puerto Rican tarpon will absolutely crush a Catherwood Giant Killer. Lou Tabory’s Snake Fly is my favorite fly for false albacore, particularly around Harkers Island. Watching a 20-pound tuna launch itself out of the water to clobber your fly may just be enough to get you to put your sinking lines away for good.

Bio: George Roberts produced the first video fly casting program devoted exclusively to salt water: Saltwater Fly Casting: 10 Steps to Distance and Power. He’s also the author of Master the Cast: Fly Casting in Seven Lessons (McGraw-Hill, 2002). For more information on fly casting and fly angling you can visit George’s website: masterthecast.com

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The post Bass on Top first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

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