Potomac Shad

February 2, 2015 Parker Clemens

Before moving to the east coast, I had never heard of shad. Four years later, I have become well acquainted with this herring like fish affectionately dubbed ‘the poor man’s salmon.’

Any half respectable fisherman in the DMV (DC, Maryland, Virginia) area will tell you with wide eyes about shad season. It is a saving grace for those beaten down by winter. It is a promise of spring and new life. It is a reason to go outside. Perhaps most of all, shad season is a chance to catch an obscene amount of fish.

Winter limits my fishing options to where I often find myself driving further and further out of the city in search of fish. However, everything changes with the arrival of spring and the annual shad run. Not only do my fishing options increase, but the fish come to me. In fact, I don’t even need to drive anywhere. Eight miles on my bike and I am in the middle of the action.

The Potomac River at Fletchers Cove, just above Georgetown, is as good a place as any to catch shad. Rent a wooden rowboat from Fletcher’s Boathouse, paddle out, drop anchor, and start casting. This is no secret and there is often a wait list for the limited amount of boats.

Fly selection is not of great importance. I use short Clouser minnows of various colors because they are cheap and easy to tie. The biggest factor determining success is depth and location of the fly. The fish stack up in certain places and a sinking line is needed to reach them. More than once, fishermen in other boats have called out inquiring about my fly choice and I tell them, “It is a #6 white Clouser, but the fly is not that important. You just need to paddle around and keep casting until you find a school of fish.” Once you find a school, there is a good possibility for constant hook ups upwards of 50 fish.

Although fishermen have caught high numbers of shad in recent years, the population of both American and hickory shad is still at a fragile level compared to past numbers. The sad and redundant theme of human caused decline through over fishing, pollution, and river obstruction once again rears its ugly head. Efforts are currently being made to increase the fish populations and return significance to this historic species. In addition to large scale stocking, a moratorium on American shad has been in effect since 1982 and all hickory shad also must be returned to the water.

I remain optimistic for the future of these fish. Still, the tales of old serve as a painful reminder of what could have been; prolific runs of fish beyond imagination. In the early 1600s, famous explorer John Smith noted that the fish were “...lying so thicke with their heads above water, as for want of nets we attempted to catch them with frying pans.” As for the now, I will stick with my fly rod and enjoy any fish I am fortunate enough to catch.

See you on the river this spring.

*An unexpected bi-catch. Photo: Charlie Church*

Surfperch

January 26, 2015 Parker Clemens

For me, it is much a shame that I spent my youth oblivious towards the fishing opportunities that surrounded me. I may be older and wiser these days, but I am also living far from my childhood home. The east coast is where I reside for now, but once a year I make the journey west to my place of birth, Santa Barbara, CA.

Each trip home uncovers new fishing ventures in old familiar places. Surfperch, the most recent of these discoveries, spurred from a casual conversation about fly-fishing. A family friend alerted me to the existence of these aggressive fish living amongst the waves. Eager to make up for lost time, I borrowed a 6wt rod with sinking line, a box of flies, and a stripping basket from my fishing informant and hit the beach.

Much to my surprise, I found myself fishing on the same beach I grew up on. A beach where I spent so many summers lounging and winters surfing over the years now had a whole new appeal. Now, with no knowledge and minimal information gathered on the characteristics of these fish, I did as I often do in these uncertain scenarios - start casting.

Right away, I was glad to have the stripping basket, which I had initially declined, thinking it would be a cumbersome bother. I now realize that the incessant crashing of waves and shifting tide would have been a nightmare line management scenario if not for the basket.

After casting in the beach break and trying to get some idea of where my fly was in the water, I started to doubt that anything could even see the fly amongst the frothy mess of kelp, sand, and whitewater churning around me. With every cast I threw, the waves instantly pushed my line back towards my body, making it near impossible to get any sort of controlled retrieval. Gradually accepting that I probably wouldn’t catch anything, I began to relax and let any frustration fade away, trying to think positive thoughts…beautiful day, beautiful beach, not too cold out… A sharp tug on the line abruptly interrupted these thoughts. Fish always seem to catch me off guard, or rather I catch them when I’m off guard… either way, I had a fish on the end of my line and began frantically stripping in slack. Sure enough, there was my first surfperch with fly squarely in its mouth.

It is wild how quickly fortunes can change. With confidence renewed, I kept casting, catching nine more fish until the sunset could no longer be ignored. Quite literally, the setting sun sucked me in like a moth to the flame. I became incapacitated with wonder.

There was not another person on the beach that day, only me, the sun, and its reflection off the wet sand. This was a December I will always remember.

Interesting fact: Surfperch give birth to live young

Seasonal Struggles

January 16, 2015 Parker Clemens

Finding a rhythm in winter is difficult. DC’s lack of ski slopes and fish friendly tailwaters limits my prefered outdoor activities. I try to remain optimistic, but winter’s icy hands form an ever present stranglehold. Bitter cold and leafless trees swathed in grey only add to the seasonal struggle. Fleeting daylight, 35 degree water temps, and lethargic fish deliver the knockout blow.

I refuse to go down without a fight. I don’t want to become another sad face on the subway, moving in tubes from one box to another. I will not spend my weekend indoors. I will continue to fish. I must for my sanity. I must because the alternative is grim: a season long hibernation away from the things that make me feel alive.

A single warm day is a cruel tease readily accepted. I chose to spend this day with friends exploring the partially frozen creeks of Shenandoah National Park. This park has become something of a haven for me. Free of man’s influence, it is a place to soothe mind and spirit.

The remnants of a recent snowfall covered the hiking trail, but quickly turned to slush and mud anywhere the sun hit. As we hiked along the creek, outer layers were shed and memories of sun warming bare skin were briefly renewed. Although no hatching insects were visible, I decided to tie a #16 Stimulator on my 2wt rod. Shenandoah National Park is the only place I will solely fish dry flies; not for some purist reason, but rather the simple sake of efficiency. There are so many shallow pools and riffles no more than an arms length in size, changing up nymph rigs can be incredibly time consuming. I prefer throwing a few casts with a dry fly before moving to the next pool. Witnessing the aerial acrobatics of a brook trout take is another reason I favor dries in this environment.

Although the sun warmed the surroundings, the larger trout stubbornly remained hidden on the stream bottom, allowing the fingerlings open reign on my fly. I caught no fish over 7” on this venture, but it was no matter to me. This day was more of an excuse to get outside than anything else. Still, a fish is a fish no matter the size, and I thoroughly enjoyed interacting with these miniature residents of the stream. It never ceases to amaze me how these little trout compete against their much larger brethren for the same resources. I find it strange to think that the same fly can catch a 3” fish or a 30” fish. Trout are interesting like that. These thoughts often come to me when I am near a river. I hold onto them as long as I can until I return to the city where they are replaced with thoughts of traffic and fluorescent lights.

I know winter will pass, but sometimes I still forget.

Old Rag

New York Steel

December 16, 2014 Parker Clemens

I have made the seven hour drive to upstate New York and western New York on two separate occasions. I have hooked many steelhead and landed only one, a 14” fish. Such is the theme of fishing. It is hard not to be discouraged when multiple days on the water yield little to no fish, but it happens and I am not immune to discouragement. Still, I try to mitigate those feelings by focusing on what is going right, and when I am outside standing in a river, well then a lot of things are right and good. After a tough day fishing, I often tell myself, “I went on a hike today in a beautiful setting, the trail just happened to be in a river.” It is all about perspective.

Enough about my fishing woes. I much prefer to focus on the fish my friends caught, knowing the persistent focus these fish required. October 2013 was a hot and dry month for Buffalo, NY. Low flows on Erie tributaries from lack of rain resulted in fewer fish moving into the rivers. The outcome was less than ideal fishing conditions. Charlie and Steve took this blow in stride, perfecting their spey casts while covering water with streamers. Their mindset was, “If we are not catching fish, lets not catch fish swinging streamers.” My mindset was, “If I’m not catching fish, I’m going to sit on the bank and carve this stick I found.” As is almost universally true, good things come to those who wait and persist. Charlie and Steve each got their steelhead on the swing and I got my pointy stick.

Although I would have much preferred landing a monster steelhead, I am not upset with how things turned out. It was a beautiful weekend spent exploring new water with friends. I got to watch my friends catch fish and help net those fish. There will be other chances at steelhead sometime in the future. Until then, I am going to enjoy memories of that nicely carved stick.

Rocky Mountain Summer

December 9, 2014 Parker Clemens

The air is clean, although there are few trees. Above 11,000ft, we are higher than most trees. Instead, grasses and wildflowers blanket the ground surrounding this high mountain lake. Permanent snow packs layered on nearby peaks frame this picturesque setting. It is surreal, like walking into a fairytale. I can’t help thinking, “How can this much beauty exist undisturbed in today’s world?” Yet it does.

Small snowmelt trickles feed the lake in all directions. It is the only noise that can be heard and the soft babbling is soothing. The air may be thinner with less oxygen up here, but the mind is clear. City distractions seem like distant memories. One could be content simply taking in the beauty, but one could also take in the beauty while casting at wild cutthroat trout.

In the crystal clear shallows, trout patrol the banks, searching for food. A gentle cast, placing a beetle fly twenty feet in front of the roaming trout produces fish after fish. The trout seem to be circling the banks as they continue to appear one after the other. They are almost identical 12-14" fish, all vibrant in color. Each fish approaches with caution, not one attacks the fly. Rather they gently sip the fly, or refuse the offering and continue patrolling the banks. There is no rush, no hurry among the fish. I dwell on this thought, laying the rod down beside me, turning my gaze to the snow covered cliffs, then up to the clouds before closing my eyes and allowing the soft babble of running water to lull me to sleep. There is no rush.