“Can this goddamn train go any faster?” I thought, staring out of the rain-streaked window of Northeast Regional 67 as it thundered north. My destination was time sensitive, and the heavy downpours from earlier that morning had sent a shockwave of delays across the East Coast, putting my 3:25 p.m. train from Penn Station dangerously close to missing the connecting ferry. I was bound for Fishers Island, but more specifically, to a pond tucked into the brambled heart of the island. It was early April, and a recent warm front told me it was time to make my annual pilgrimage, so I’d bought a ticket the night before, hoping to connect with a giant.
Luckily for me, the conductor seemed to share my vendetta against the prevailing weather and got us into New London at 6:13 p.m., just enough time for me to scamper across the tracks and into the ferry office.
“One, please,” I wheezed, adjusting the bags on my shoulder. The gentleman behind the desk eyed me up and down before printing off a singular ticket, then fixated on the rod in my hand.
“Bit early for stripers, isn’t it?” he said suspiciously.
“Sure is…” I coughed out, snatching the ticket from his hand, “way, way too early…”
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Growing up, I spent my summers on Fishers Island through the grace of my grandparents. They had found their way out there on a lark, invited for a weekend of leisure by my grandfather’s coworker in July 1958. Sixty-seven years later, we are still here. It’s an odd spit of rock, not necessarily a true summer hub like Nantucket, Martha’s Vineyard, or even Block Island. It lacks the quintessential downtown laden with tchotchkes and ivy-covered restaurants, but by no means is it devoid of charm. It is a community frozen in time, a relic of postwar New England in all its simplicity. There is one bar, no hotels, and the daytime activities available to the island’s summer population are limited to the offerings of two clubs—tennis or golf. The only fishing that takes place is between June and October, and it is usually from the comfort of a boat on Long Island Sound.
However, there is another fishery on the island that I discovered by accident during March of 2020. I was marooned on Fishers for the duration of the pandemic and had gained a penchant for long, aimless walks; a necessity to avoid the insanity that comes from too much family exposure. One day, while standing at the edge of a pond typically reserved as a post-beach desalination station for local bathers, something shimmering in the water caught my eye. It was a freshwater shiner about the size of my fist, swimming anxiously back and forth among the drowned oak leaves. I returned to this pond many times that spring to spot further signs of life, but decided to test my luck once the weather warmed.
Fishers Island is well known by anglers for it’s saltwater fishing, but the island is also home to several freshwater ponds, many of which offer exceptional largemouth bass fishing.
I was not prepared to tangle with anything in fresh water, so the best I could muster was a ½-ounce Storm Shad and an ancient porgy rod I found in my toolshed. Wading off in the direction of a mud flat where I had seen ripples the previous few evenings, I was confident in my impending skunk. My first cast was met with a salad of underwater greenery, so I adjusted my position, casting instead along the wooded edge of the pond, where a dark patch of water betrayed a trough. The Storm Shad slapped the water, sank for a moment, then was met with a furious bump. I set the hook and felt a substantial weight on the other end of the flimsy rod. Cringing while the monofilament puckered against the pulling fish, I reeled it in and saw through the tannin-stained water that it was a beautiful five-pound largemouth, fat with spring and shimmering in the broken light of early evening.
I had believed these ponds to be shallow and mud-choked, home only to painted turtles, wood frogs, and the occasional mink. As to the origin of these bass, I can only guess. I like to imagine they are the descendants from the pet project of some long-forgotten gentleman of leisure. Maybe a Manhattanite looking to spice up his summers by introducing a bit of wilderness to the island? They could also have arrived through the colon of a goose. Who knows?
Island Bass Ponds
Big Station Pond, Monomoy, MA
Many of the islands off the Northeast coast have small, sometimes nameless, freshwater ponds that harbor surprisingly robust bass populations. There’s little information available about the depth, structure, and, even available species in these ponds, but for the adventurous angler, looking for unpressured waters, the opportunity exists. The seclusion and air of mystery, along with the difficulty of getting to them, makes casting lures in their quiet corners so appealing to largemouth fishermen. Here are a few of the larger island bass ponds from New York to Massachusetts..
Shelter Island, NY
Fresh Pond Nestled between the two forks of Eastern Long Island, a trip to Shelter Island requires a ferry ride across Gardiner’s Bay from Greenport, or through Shelter Island Sound from Sag Harbor. Situated on the southwestern side of Shelter Island is the 15-acre body of water known as Fresh Pond. With depths reaching 45 feet, it is home to a robust population of largemouth bass that have mostly supplanted the smallmouth bass population. Bluegill and pumpkinseed sunfish are the primary forage.
Shoreline access is limited, and hand-launched vessels like kayaks or Jon boats are the only watercraft permitted on the pond.
Block Island, RI
Fresh Pond According to the Block Island Tourism Council, of the 365 lakes and ponds that pepper the island’s landscape, Fresh Pond is the largest with an approximate surface area of 19 acres. Located inland toward the south end of Block, the pond has a maximum depth of 25 feet and, in addition to largemouth bass, it is home to native fish species like yellow perch, chain pickerel, and sunfish.
Martha’s Vineyard, MA
Fresh Pond This bass pond is just inland from the famous “Jaws Bridge.” It is a 9-acre kettle lake home to native species such as chain pickerel, yellow perch, and brown bullhead catfish. However, according to the MV Commission, smallmouth and largemouth bass, along with bluegill sunfish, were “imported” at some point in the past. Brown and rainbow trout are stocked annually, which provides big largemouth bass with plentiful forage in addition to yellow perch and bluegills.
The shoreline is mostly residential, so access is limited.
Seth’s Pond Located in the woods of West Tisbury, this 11.4-acre kettle pond is home to native fish species including chain pickerel, yellow perch, brook trout, banded killifish, and swamp darters. According to the MV Commission, introduced fish species include stocked brown and rainbow trout, bluegill sunfish, and largemouth and smallmouth bass. The pond has a maximum depth of 16 feet, with limited shoreline access that includes a small beach area and a wooded shoreline, with plenty of fishable areas for wading or kayaking fishermen.
Monomoy Island, MA
Big Station Pond This National Wildlife Refuge is an uninhabited spit of sand and brush extending off southeastern corner of Cape Cod. Among its marshes, the 27-acre Big Station Pond was the largest of the island’s few fresh water bodies. Big Station has been known to hold trophy largemouth bass, but in early June of 2024, the pond was breached by saltwater, killing off the freshwater vegetation and likely wiping out the largemouth. There is little to no public information about the pond’s depth, or the primary forage of largemouth bass that inhabited it, which leaves only one way to find out.
For the rest of that spring, I slunk off every afternoon to chase largemouth in those abandoned waters, ducking into bushes away from the occasional dog walker so as not to reveal my discovery. It wasn’t long until I cobbled together a collection of proper bass-fishing gear so Icould experiment with different offerings. I quickly learned that this fishery was unlike any other I would come to experience.
The bass of Fishers Island exclusively crave fast-moving, large-profile baits, as their only forage are shiners, bluegill, and perch. This means traditional bottom baits such as football jigs with trailers or wacky-rigged Senkos pale in comparison to a Keitech or a Huddleston. Because of the lack of pressure, these fish are extremely aggressive, which can make picking off larger bass from the 2-pounders challenging. However, increasing the size of the bait and slowing things down was a great start.
Over-sized swimbaits, like these Huddlestons, will weed out the smaller fish and give you a better shot at a jumbo.
Larger bass in these ponds act much like cow stripers in that they have outgrown competition. They prefer to follow in the wake of busting fish to pick off stragglers or dominate a piece of structure such as a downed tree or boulder in order to ambush bait. Depending on the time of year, a well-placed Huddleston (I prefer the Huddleston Deluxe 68 with the larger tail) punctuated with the occasional pause can yield a reaction strike from these finicky trophy bass.
The bass of Fishers Island feed on shiners, bluegills, and yellow perch. As a result, they crave fast-moving, large-profile baits.
During my favorite time to fish, the pre-spawn of early April, the fishery becomes very democratic as bass of all sizes emerge from their deeper holes to sun themselves on the expansive mud flats. This is also when bass are the most sensitive to weather, so finding a warm stretch of days with good cloud cover can produce fantastic results. In that three-week duration, I never knew what I was going to get, as each cast yielded the same possibility of hooking into a giant or a rat. The name of the game was to keep moving. Despite the fact that these fish see artificial offerings from only two or three anglers over the course of a year, they are rarely fooled twice in the same hour. Moving consistently and doing laps of the shallower portions of these ponds is a necessity to avoid spooking fish. When the flats aren’t producing, I target the thick vegetation that meets the water along a bank.
A well-placed Huddleston Deluxe 68, fished with intermittent pauses, can yield a reaction strike from finicky trophy bass.
Similar to a traditional kettle pond on Cape Cod, the ponds on Fishers Island are wreathed by bushes and thickets that overhang the water, creating a gap of cover and fishable structure where larger fish love to hide during transition periods. However, unlike the Cape’s kettle ponds, these do not drop dramatically into 40- or 50-foot depths. Instead, their shorelines slope gently toward the pond’s center, transitioning from boulders and hard gravel to soft sand and mud, reaching a maximum depth of no more than 20 feet. However, given they have never been mapped, this is all speculation. I have spent many nights debating with a friend who joins me for these spring trips about what the contour of these ponds might look like.We’ve resorted to casting out baits and counting their sink time to get a rough idea of where the flats end and the ledges begin. We still haven’t figured it out.
Small island ponds are often wreathed by shrubs and branches that overhang the water, providing cover for big bass during transition periods.
Wading for these bass is not only preferable, it is the only option available. All forms of boats—including canoes and kayaks—have been barred by the local government. This not only creates another convenient barrier to entry, but also forces me to slow down, producing a hunter mindset that puts purpose behind every cast.
All forms of boats, including canoes and kayaks, are prohibited by the local government on Fishers Island, which leaves wading as the only option for bass fishermen.
For gear, I prefer two setups, one heavy and one light, as well as a bag that allows me to carry two rods at once. My heavy setup is a 7’2” Douglas casting rod with a Shimano Curado spooled with 40-pound-test braid. It’s perfect for throwing heavy swimbaits and large topwaters in the summer months while still being gentle enough to make smaller fish fun. My light setup is a 6’6” St. Croix Triumph with a Daiwa BG spooled with 15-pound-test braid. I love to throw weightless swimbaits on this combo when fish are being picky, or perhaps a Ned rig.
The drizzle had let up as the ferry pulled into the dock, and I was the only one getting off aside from a few work trucks that were being parked overnight before their drivers headed back to the mainland. The houses lining the empty harbor greeted me imposingly, their windows dark and front porches stripped of furniture. Somewhere in the brush, a chorus of peepers sang devotedly in their leafy cathedral. I suited up in the parking lot while the ferry pulled away, sealing me on the island until morning. The drive to my spot was quick, maybe 10 minutes followed by a short walk through the woods, but I didn’t want to waste a second rigging. The air was noticeably heavier at the island’s center, thick with the scent of rain. A layer of fog had spread across the surface of the water, obscuring the opposite shore.
Many of the island’s pond are off the beaten path and require short hikes through the woods to reach them.
An osprey leapt from its perch as I entered the pond, circling above me while I waded toward a clump of submerged boulders at the center of the flat. My first cast went unbothered, so I let the next one sink a bit more before starting my retrieve, trying to land it where I had always imagined there was a large hole to the right of the boulders. As my Huddleston dropped, a ferocious ripple streaked across the surface of the water before exploding on my bait, and what I saw next I can only liken to when a large striper devours a pencil popper or Danny plug. The bass’ head breached first, revealing a bucket mouth easily seven inches across and moving a substantial amount of water with each thrash of its snakelike body. As it dove, its heavy frame rolled, exposing a white belly engorged with bait. It took a hard run toward the center of the pond before turning back around, heading at my legs full speed while I tried to catch up to the line. Just as I went to reset the tension, I felt the bait pop loose, and the fish melted away into the depths. I stood there for a moment, the full weight of night now descending on the pond, watching as the turbulent water in front of me returned to its glassy smoothness.
