Born to be BFC

BFC honorary member and offshore fishing enthusiast Captain Doug Fournier is featured prominently in Yankee Magazine this month, rocking an impressive Mahoney Thumbs Up. Well done Captain Doug! Well done.

Hear Ye, Hear She, Brooke Anable!

The BFC's Biddy was wed this past weekend in beautiful Lisbon, New Hampshire.  There was a strong attendance of BFC alumni and honoraries.  Congrats and blessings to Brooke and Zach!!!

Bridesmen:  Bros in bows.

The recently wed Schoens, laying it down on the dancefloor.

Bassmaster Nissen.

Bobcats and Bears, oh my!

 

'Ol Barefoot Schoen and I hit the Amonoosuc briefly and found it to be relieving of hangovers.

 

Biddy aboard the O.I. in 2010.

 

 

Blowin' 40 on Newfound Lake

A couple months back, the buddy whose boat I go out on in the warmer months threw out the idea of a Super Bowl weekend trip to his old stomping grounds up on Newfound Lake.

Originally there was to be a posse of eight of us but with two late dropouts we were six. Newfound Lake is a trout and salmon protected lake so we were limited to two lines per person. But even after losing four lines, we were still psyched at the potential of bringing some slobs through the ice.

Some of the group was able to get to the cabin on Thursday night in order to put a full day in on Friday. I was toiling away in the office and I get a text:

They had found a nice spot that was perfect for all intents and purposes, nice changes in depth, a lot of different formations under the ice, perfect. So the three gents who made it up early set up the shanty and popped some holes.......and sent us all the spoils of their efforts:

 

After a solid morning showing, the winds started to pick up and lunch was a necessity; so, they packed it in to warm up and heat up some chili. And then the winds really picked up. Oh, and then they picked up some more. And then some more. And then finally some more.

By the time my buddy Joe and I got to the house, it was 1045pm and the winds were blowing pretty insanely and a conversation started as we met with an old friend:

"Do we think the shanty is still there?" There were some bets placed and some very scientific conversations had about the merits of the ice screws holding everything together. And that's how day one wrapped. 

Five short hours of restless sleep later, we were all up. Three solid metal deck chairs had been blown over on the deck and massive clouds of loose snow could be seen blowing from the north end of the lake to the south. Couldn't be that bad, could it? More coffee brandy gave us the stones to give it a shot. 

First 100 yards, slippery but OK. Next hundred yards some 30-40 mph gusts started to pick up. A sustained gust would slide the five of us not wearing yaktracks about 20-30 feet south on the glassy ice. And the battle was just beginning. We trudged further to one of two islands and the snow covering the ice had somehow turned to slush annnnd it became a battle between packed snow and foot-deep slush. And still we continued, determined to make it to the shack where our trusty propane heater was waiting for us. As we turned the corner of the second island, that was all that was waiting for us along with all twelve of the ice screws that had been sunk in to keep the shanty in place. Sadly though, fiberglass poles were no match for the winds and snapped like twigs, turning the shanty into a sail (that would be found later that morning on the south end of the lake maybe half a mile away).

So we were finally defeated...for the morning. After some time by the fire we were determined not to let this weekend get totally away from us and we devised a new strategy. We were going to set up no further than 150 yards from the house. We laid some cusk lines, some tip ups, and some were even brave enough to jig for a bit. This is how we spent the better part of the morning and then again in the afternoon into the late evening with nary a bite.

Finally as we were wrapping up for the day we did pull a small laker through the ice. No picture though - too cold for iPhones and hands to operate in sync.

More coffee brandy and whiskey and Naragansetts got us through the night and a brave few woke up real early to catch more wind and a chill. And their gumption was rewarded with the fourth fish of the trip: one ugly ass motherfuckin' cusk.

All in all, a great trip. Surely more to be made. Possibly Maine next year.

That time of the year....

Hundreds of deer are being slaughtered.
Shot dead while the look for a mate.
Imagine how that would have changed your approach while picking up co-eds in Lewiston ?

Regardless, this is the time of year when people are harvesting fly tying supplies for you and all you need to do is ask them for some scraps.

The musky flies I'm interested in require buck tail, specifically I like long, talented tail fibers. I like ones that have been harvested by a friend or co-worker. Throw it in a bag and toss it on my desk, I'll find it at 5:00am the next morning.

Primo, Maine, buck tail. Bloody stump and all, hopefully smelly with good mojo as this one is.

Toss that tail in a warm water and soap bath, remember, this thing was the bow tie on a poop machine.
Clean it up a bit.

Washed. Now identify the tail bone, prepare your surgical area.

Carefully remove the bone and muscle surrounding said bone, then scrape as much of the white fatty tissue and remove as well.

You can see in the photo above I removed a little too much fat and skin and cut through to the hair underneath. Party foul but we will live with it.

I stretched my tail out and pegged it in place, then add the Borax.

The internet says that 6 weeks of the Borax on the fat and skin will "cure" things.
Pro Tip : Place the tail covered in Borax in a tupperware tub and do not leave it inside the house.
Your wife/partner/team mate will be very upset with you and will result in an "argument".
Stash the tupperware tub in an unused closet and let it sit.

Save money, have fun, do it yourself.
Thank you,
Jasper

Pop that cherry...

You always remember your first steele and my buddy and fellow Bates alum - Gabe - landed a real chrome beauty this past weekend!

The one that perhaps should have got away...

I think it's safe to say that we have all experienced "The one that got away", or sometimes "The one that shouldn't have got away, but did." In far fewer instances do we encounter "The one that perhaps should have got away, but didn't." I have a tale for you of just that.

It happened sometime in September out at Block Canyon, Fishtails, in what was one of the finer tuna bites of recent blue-water memory. Captain Doug, Gavin and I set-up on the chunk, which was the preferred method for enticing tuna and began our drift. It was not long till we were tight to a yellowfin on the spinning gear and following a spirited battle, by both the fish and angler, we boated the 80 lb tuna. Oh yeah, the leader broke as we sunk the gaff, but this is not where this story ends.

Behind the boat, we had attracted a different class of critter. A twelve inch squid danced in our underwater lights and while he took interest in our boat, we took interest in putting him on a hook and seeing what would eat him. A quick dip of the net and we were in business with our first live bait of the evening.

Following a brief 10 minute soak, our live squid was taken. Line ran out with pace from the Stella spinning reel and the drag was engaged, hook set! "Fish on, or off?", Capt Doug questioned, as the line seemed to limp, then came tight again with some serious vigor. We quickly found ourselves engaged in a straight up and down battle, which is typical with larger tuna. Our setup had a 100 lb leader to 80 lb braid, and on a spinning rod our intention was to play him in gradually, the ole slow and steady wins the race tactic. This is all fine and dandy except this fish had a different plan and began heated runs back from once he came - the deep. I continued to push the drag up as the 300 yd spool was growing thin, "Not long till we can see the knot on this one" I said as I continued to push the drag beyond where I wanted to - expecting to feel a sudden release of pressure as the fish broke something somewhere. However this did not happen - the fish turned and we were able to gain on him.

At about 50 minutes into the struggle, the fish was 30 yards behind the boat on the surface, line nearly straight out, we could make out his profile in the darkness with help from the aft spreader lights. He was backwards and upside down. It appeared the beast was tail wrapped or something, it was difficult to tell. "What the he...." I was cut off mid-sentence as a vicious tail slap righted the fish and it nearly porpoised as it went on it's most impressive run yet. Against serious pressure and a wet deck, I lost my footing and landed hard against the side of the boat. It is the closest I have come to being pulled over in my 5 year canyon career. Now, it was personal.

Another forty-five minutes and this fish had nearly had its fill, once again coming up behind the boat, this time a fair bit closer - 10 yards or so. "Certainly coming in backwards" Gavin remarked, and he was right. A quick gaff in the fish's head and a tail rope before he got any other ideas and over the rail! One snagged Bigeye tuna ~ 170lbs!

How that half an inch of skin held this fish, we will never know, nor will he!

Well .... It's a Musky

I have been inspired by many of the things I have witnessed on this blog of yours.
None more than the muskies from the great north.
I had committed myself this winter to getting one. New stick, lots of flies a new old boat and some dirt road miles were needed.

We were fishing a remote pond that I have digging around and gathering intel for about a year now.
I had fished it once in the fall with no luck.

Small pond with very little visible structure. Started with the inlet and outlet, no signs.
I will say the craigslist 5hp and 1955 new to me 12'er performed flawlessly.

Clouds and rain all day, the day after the full moon, not a soul for miles.... the odds were in our favor.

Investigating the shallow end of the lake we spotted one stump sticking up from the water. 10-12' depth surrounding it, it was the only break in the flat grey light. It was a sign.

Posted up and started probing, fly changes every twenty casts it wasn't long before I spotted our first follower, a hot fish tracking behind my fly like a WWI era submarine, I dove the rod tip under water and started my figure 8, the fish continued to track the feathers, along side the boat, parallel now, just inches under the water...... boooom.... she spooked and was back to the depths.

Argghhh.... that was enough to get my heart pumping. At least we knew we were near them. Over the next hour we continued to have 1o or 12 more follows, all fish in the 25-30" class interested but not committing to the bite.  It was both amazing to watch and intensely frustrating.

Finally out of the blue I had an eat, early in the retrieve no visual contact. First musky on  the board.
A beautiful spunky 25"er, I managed one shot of it in the cradle and it lost it's mind and flipped out of the net.

A lot of joy after a "scud" sized fish. He ate an articulated Redspot fly my friend Mike tied up. A hollow flat wing, with jungle cock eyes, a classly tie. I fished that fly and it's twin the rest of the day.

Afternoon was quickly dissolving and we had one more shot to land another fish before we needed to hit the dirt for 300 plus miles of road towards home. Shuffled down to the outlet again and could see a graveyard of old growth timber on the pond bottom. Methodically casting, retrieve and into the figure 8. One fish coming in hot on the tail, it's body pushing a wake of water near the surface, parallel to the boat now it's eyes breaking the surface, so intent on crushing it's prey. Lunging ahead, gills flared and totally missing the fly.... never to be seen again.

Great day on the water all around, the offer still stands for anyone interested in making the drive.
Live it up

Old Man and the Garage Sale

First, kudos to you three gentlemen - that trip looked amazing.

This past weekend, I found myself bound for the eastern end of Long Island again. Prospects of getting out on the water were slim because of schedules.

On Saturday, the Masgouf was 30 miles offshore hunting for some Mako (hooked up with six or seven blue sharks instead) and I wasn't sure if the gents would be up for another trip out before their journeys home. So, I spent my Saturday driving around finding garage sales to see if I could score any interesting deals. After acquiring an old Stanley thermos at one sale, I peeled off the road at the next and landed on quite a find.

It was an old fellow and his two daughters manning the driveway. On some of the tables were the typical finds: a pair of jumper cables, a ratchet set, some other assorted tools collected over a lifetime of tinkering. Then I passed a couple of old galvanized anchors and found myself looking at a lifetime's worth of tackle. Rods, reels, lures, flies, whatever: this guy had bought it at one time or another.

I got the old salt's contact info: "Jim - Fishing Gear" and we had some brief talk about what gear to use where for what and after paying $20 for five rigs, I was on my way. There was a nice harbor off the sound that I wanted to try my luck at - Northwest Harbor. Casting from the shore, I realized I had started fishing in a slack tide and reeled in - better luck tomorrow.

And as luck would have it, the boys from the shark trip were up for a short blast around Montauk Point to try and replicate the success we had Memorial Day weekend. We caught a few out of season black Sea Bass and some short Fluke before we landed on a nice drift that had a big-ass bait ball under it. Feeding off that were some nice Porgies. We took in four of those and called it a morning as one of the guys had a ferry to catch and the other a ride to Ithaca.  So for 2-2.5 hours on the water, our haul wasn't too shabby.

Memorial Day Weekend Fluke Fest

Been awhile - like years - since the last post of mine.  Apologies there, but a buddy of mine got a 21-foot regulator over the winter and finally got a chance to put it the water at the beginning of May.  After naming it, working the kinks out, and doing some test runs on his own, he asked if I wanted to come out Memorial Day Weekend to do some exploring/fishing off the east end of Long Island.

With dinner plans looming, we had time to head west along the north shore of the island to see if there were any stripers running to this lagoon that typically holds fish.  We caught the tides wrong and after a few casts an impending storm cut our afternoon short.

Over a few Pacificos, we determined a strategy for the next day that had us leaving the dock at about 9:30. We were going to head out by Montauk Lighthouse on the Sound side and hammer the bottom for some fluke and bring gear just in case we come across some blues.  

Bagel sandwiches purchased and beers on ice, we were on time and made it out to the Sound only to meet a wall of fog that left visibility to about 50 yards or so. At least I didn't have to worry about sunburn for the morning.  

Dropped the spearing and squid down to the bottom and the tides were ripping - I caught the first fluke of the day on that first drop...not too shabby. An inch or two short of keeping, we tossed it back. A few minutes later, Alex - the trusty cap'n - reeled up a nice 4-lb doormat. It's one of these guys in the picture (not positive which one though).

The fog started clearing and we saw a nice ball of bait fish coming to the surface...being chased by those blues we had hoped to find.  We tossed all sorts of tackle at it, but nothing took.  Got a couple of chases, but nothing more than that. So around the point we went and set a nice drift on the ocean side of the island.

That's where the fun began. We were watching the fish finder and we came to this one spot where there was something coming up off the ocean floor - just a nice little ridge and we fished the shit out of it. The tides were stronger and kept our bait from hitting the floor, so we tied on some extra weight and it seemed to do the trick. We drifted over this ridge maybe half a dozen times and each pass rewarded one or both of us with some nice fish. With one keeper in the live well, we wanted more. By the day's end I landed two more big-ass fluke and tossed 'em in the bucket - one a tad over 4 lbs. and the last one a solid 5 lbs.

CL Smooth for scale

All told, the three keepers tipped the scales at just over 13 lbs. and combine that with the 7 or 8 other fish we caught, it was a pretty good Memorial Day Weekend.  

Likely heading out again this weekend unless work gets in the way - here's hoping for similar results.

Stockholm Syndrome

As I approached the tailout I could feel my pulse start to quicken, my Steele sense tingled. A tension settled over me, my muscles taught with anticipation, nerves like a string of Black Cats with the wick sizzling expectantly. It looked soo good. It swung soo beautifully there's no way it wasn't going to happen there. My physiological reaction was merely the byproduct of this greater realization - there are times when you think a fish should be somewhere, and there are times when you know a fish is somewhere. I trusted my accelerated heart rate as the latter.  I made the motions deliberately, mended all the way to the fly, and let the current guide it down along the seam and into the trough. I hardly had to do anything else it fished so well. Next cast, same routine, the anticipation building. Another cast. Then another cast. And another. And another. I could clearly discern the shape and color of the rocks on the bottom, and if I could do so then there was no way any fish in the tailout would've missed all 462 casts I made after that out of desperation, unwilling to let that feeling go, unyielding to the passing moment.

It was a false-positive. An affirmation that you are doing everything correctly and so well that you just know that you're about to catch a fish. Only you don't. The moment builds just like every other one before it, ripe with promise and potential, then passes cold and tasteless. Is it me? Is it the fish? Is it my fly? Is it the weather? The flows? The cloud cover? The aspect of the Sun to Mercury in a Taurus house after a waning blood moon?? All I knew was that it was beyond me, that no matter how hard I tried I was still doing something flagrantly wrong to the fish. My humble and desperate pleas to the fish gods fell on deaf lateral lines. People around me hardly even caught fish, so I really started to wonder if I wasn't the jinx, if I was bad juju for the people I fished with. I still don't know.

I do know that I spent 33 days on the water between some local rivers and half a dozen excursions to the coast. I landed five fish in total, and lost only two. Of course the two I lost were the biggest, freshest fish I have encountered to date, but sometimes that just how it goes. I only saw three other fish hooked by people I was with, and two of those were landed. I spent some quality time getting to know new people, and I spent more than my fair share of time on the water for someone's whose understanding wife supports the household. I know that I love the woods and the waters that Steele haunts, and I love knowing that somewhere out there waits a fish for me next season, next trip, next cast.

Here's a brief synopsis of those excursions, accompanied by a few images from each.

Trip I - My job ran out, my buddy from Montana drove out, and we went fishing. Along the way we picked up a weathered soul, that dirtbag with dreadlocks from the Trout Bum Diaries, Ryan Davey. He's a good dude.

Trip II - I had plans to cruise out to Seattle and hook up with Ryan again, until someone pulled fifth wheel and tagged along for the adventure - Clyde. It was with Clyde that I landed my first fish on the swing, a hatchery kelt. A victory nonetheless! Later that same afternoon I swung up my first bull trout, too.

Trip III - Six straight days of floating with Capt. Davey. We each landed one fish, we each lost one fish.

Trip IV - Ariel and I tagged along with Jesse and a couple of his buddies from Santa Fe. We camped and fished and ate and drank and were merry all the while.

Trip V - Some very serious late-season swinging was done. Doug found a fish. The springers were also starting to show up, which can make it frustrating when you see three fish roll in the run but still proceed to touch nothing. I'm warming up to the cold shoulder now though. 

Trip VI - Mr. Robbins extended an invite to fish with him and another mutual acquaintance. I accepted. We drove out, went fishing, got rained on, got wet, built a fire, got drunk, fished some more, then went home. 

I'm not so sure how much more of this game my feeble mind can take, but at the same time, I can't tear myself away.