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SOMEWHERE IN NORTHWEST CONNECTICUT — “Bleak.”
That assessment of the weather came from photographer Sarah Blodgett, who was shivering in her booth at the Salisbury Artisans sale on an extremely chilly and windy Saturday morning, May 7.
Trout Unlimited’s Scott Ritchie fished as his fellow chapter members heckled him at Beckley Furnace on Saturday, April 16. Photo by Patrick L. Sullivan
NORTH CANAAN — The Blackberry River is well-stocked and fished hard.
It also has Beckley Furnace, which is Connecticut’s only industrial monument and as such has a couple of picnic tables.
On a pleasant day it’s a nice spot to grab a sandwich and relax.
RIVERTON — Ever been to a fishermen’s flea market? Me neither.
So I saddled up Saturday morning, April 2, and went over to Riverton, near the spot where the Still River joins the West Branch of the Farmington River, and had a look around.
Your tax dollars at work, in the form of a stocked rainbow trout taken in the Blackberry River. The fish was released unharmed and with first-hand knowledge of why it shouldn’t try to eat panfish poppers. Photo by Patrick L. Sullivan
The snow’s pretty much gone so it’s time for the annual look at tackle fondling.
Let us check out the waders. Do they leak? Why yes, they do. Not so much a large tear in the Space Age breathable fabric, with frigid water gushing in. No, we are talking pinprick leaks, which inevitably develop in even the priciest waders.
Casting about for a suitable topic for the Bleak Mid-Winter Edition of Tangled Lines, I decided it is far too early to write the traditional “tackle fondling” column.
And because it has not been very good fishing weather, I can’t regale the customers with timely tales of angling derring-do.
Wet.
That’s the word to describe the fishing scene in 2022.
May The spring stocking of the Housatonic took place when the river was pretty high. Terrific if you’re in a boat. Us perambulators had to bide our time and wait for a more reasonable flow. And wait, and wait, and wait.
Going into the Labor Day weekend, I regret to announce I am suffering from PAWS.
Post-Acute Withdrawal Syndrome, that is.
Owing to an unfortunate concatenation of events — namely, the weather — I have not wet a line in two weeks.
As we head into the end of August let us scrape off the mildew and assess the state of play for this fishing season.
We had approximately 80 kajillion inches of rain in July, which rendered the rivers and streams mostly unfishable. Also unboatable, and unanythingable except observation-from-a-prudent-and-respectful-distanceable.
Patrick L. Sullivan caught a bass at a private lake that helped him understand why they’re called “largemouth.” Photo by Patrick L. Sullivan
It’s baseball’s All-Star midseason break so let us take a similar look at the fly-fishing season thus far.
Much of the early going was spent on what us professional fly-fishing scribes refer to as “little blue lines” — those thin blue squiggles on the map that may or may not have a name and may or may not hold wild trout.
An old-school bucket hat protects the neck as well as the face on a sweltering day. Photo by Patrick L. Sullivan
Two weeks ago, after a long, chilly, wet “spring,” it suddenly turned into summer. I dutifully folded and stored the flannels and Viyellas and big old Filson wool shirts, and dug out and hung the madras, seersucker, aloha and summery shirts.
Then the temps dropped like a tungsten head nymph tied on a jig hook. Of course.
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