Articles

WINTER STRIPERS 2001

By Mike Rice

Over the years I've read about a winter population of stripers in the Thames River in New London, Connecticut. Apparently, for a reason no one seems to be able to explain, these fish reside in the river and remain active long after their brethren have continued south. The thought of these fly deprived fish weighs heavily on mind during the day, at work, at my tying bench and at night as I try to sleep.

Finally, on December 29th, 2001, I couldn't take the curiosity any longer and decided that the next morning I would drive down to the Thames and take a look around. The following morning I departed my home in Marshfield, Massachusetts at 6:45 AM under clear blue skies, a slight breeze from the west and a temperature of 22 degrees Fahrenheit. Excellent fly-fishing conditions! I stopped to fill up my truck before I got on the highway and laughed to myself as I pumped gas next to a car full of kids with a loaded ski rack on top.

At about 8:45 AM I crossed the Thames River on I-95 and turned off the highway at Exit 84. I had decided to fish the south side of the river so that the angle of the sun would present favorable conditions for the solar warming of my soon to be wet hands. I won't tell you exactly where I went, but will tell you to stop at the Welcome Area just after you cross into Connecticut from Rhode Island. Inside is a plethora of local maps and area guides. In particular, you should obtain a copy of the Historic New London Map & Guide. There is a foldout map inside of the waterfront area that will show you several locations that afford excellent access to the river. Hint: focus your attention around the I-95 bridge.

As I got out of the truck, I noticed the thermometer was showing a temperature of 28 degrees. Having spent considerable time ice climbing above tree line, I doubted that what I was about to do could be any more uncomfortable than hanging off wet ice in Pinnacle gully on Mt. Washington in a February white out. Thankfully, there was only about 5 knots of breeze out of the west and the sun was starting to warm things up nicely.

I spent about 20 minutes walking the shoreline looking for a good spot to cast from and decided on an outcropping of rocks that I could leapfrog out on far enough to get away from the weeds and flotsam on the riverbank. The tide was just starting to change and there was about four feet of water over a small bar that ran down into deeper water. Also, the outcropping of rocks and the bar created a small eddy that I hoped would hold some fish. The bottom had a small amount of plant life but was mostly gravel.

During this time, I had been watching a group of gulls working their way up the river that were obviously chasing baitfish. At least I kept telling myself that they were chasing baitfish. I was rigging my rod with a sinking line when the birds hit the water in front of me like my wife on Macy's during a half-off sale! As the birds moved on, I saw two fish roll simultaneously about fifteen feet in front of me. I couldn't tell what they were, but I knew I had found the right place.

Fighting excited nervousness and numb fingers, I tied on one of my 2/0 purple over pink and white Maxi-Deceivers and stripped out some line. I started casting in the area I had seen the two fish roll and silently asked the River Gods for their blessing on my endeavors. Fifteen minutes later I felt that familiar tug and set my hook. I played the fish for a minute or two and when I got it close enough to get a good look, let out a rebel yell as I confirmed the stories I had read about. On my line was a healthy looking post-Christmas striper that scaled out at 16-1/2". I said thank you to the fish for sharing those few minutes with me and quickly released it. At this point I realized that among the pile of gear I had brought with me, I had left the camera at home. Undaunted, I quickly reasoned that this omission created a necessary purpose to return that even my wife would understand.

About twenty minutes later I felt couple of small bumps and hits on a few casts and decided to switch to a different fly. I tied on a 2/0 olive and yellow silicone baitfish pattern that I had just started tying. I had brought several of these in different color combinations to see how they swam and appeared in the water. To my pleasure the fly swam straight and looked good not only to me, but also to a small striper in the 10" to12" range that gobbled it up on my third cast. A short time later, I released another fish in the same size range. I had now fished for an hour and a half. The water was dropping and my rod hand fingers were numb so I decided to head home and hang out with my daughter in front of the wood stove.

It was by far one of the most productive short mornings of fishing I have experienced, especially in late December. As I broke down my rod and packed my gear, I looked out over the river, felt the warmth of the winter sun on my face and wondered if it could get any better. In the wake of the holiday craziness, the madness of current world events and the questionable American economy, I realized that for those two hours, I hadn't thought about anything else but the beauty of those fish, the thrill of being part of their world and what in the hell are they eating. That short time on the water emphasized once again that it is not the number of fish caught or not caught, but the act of fishing that draws me to it.

I returned to the Thames three more times that winter, once at the end of January, again in the middle of February and finally at the end of March. I struck out in January but had another beautiful day on the river, got lucky in a snow shower during the February visit and released two fish and struck out again in March. I took my brother-in-law Gary with me on the final trip, and while we didn't catch fish, we did catch up.

All in all, it's worth the trip. It's closer than the Keys, cheaper than the Bahamas and better than jigging through a hole in the ice.