The Fall Run Wrap-Up
The treble hook embedded in my hand sits snugly between the bone of my right thumb and the knuckle, the gentle curve of its point now flush with the surrounding skin, which has become pale and taut as I grip my wrist. The striper that delivered this reminder of fall-run unpredictability lies at my feet, mouth gaping in the pouring rain, in an almost crude, silent laughter. Where are they? I think, patting my wader belt in a panic. The surf thrashes the line of boulders I am crouching behind and sends a blanket of green water across my back. I fumble to turn on my headlamp, then jam my good hand blindly into the crevices of the rock, praying to feel the smooth stainless-steel pliers against my fingertips. Where are they?! Another wave vaults over the boulders and cracks me on the head, knocking me on my backside and extinguishing the headlamp, leaving me gasping for breath in the dark….
***
Pulling up to the beach that morning, I note the temperature outside the truck. A balmy 50 degrees, the warmest it has been in days. It’s a week before Thanksgiving, and the entirety of the coast has been turned over like a garden bed, transforming what was once a smattering of green, red, and orange to a stark gray. The iridescent blue of the surf shimmers under a pale sun, and for a moment, I am almost tricked into thinking the scene before me belongs to March. If only that were the case.
These aimless trips to the water have grown more frequent as the days shorten, and I convince myself it’s because I enjoy the fresh air, but I know it’s because I am praying to witness a sign that the season isn’t over. A passing blitz, diving birds—I’d even take an odd-looking splash. The last fish I caught was more than two weeks ago on the night before Halloween—a healthy 30-incher that fell to a white needlefish under a waxing quarter moon. Since then, the surf has been quiet, as have the reports, so I drive the long way home, hoping to see anything that betrays the location of one last migrating school.
While bleak on the surface, November is defined by a stark beauty in oceanside communities. Early evening skies fall behind the silhouettes of shuttered houses, the crackle of oak leaves blow across an empty street, whitecaps dapple with bright, slanted light. Emptiness abounds, especially on the beaches, and I have many nights in a row without seeing another person. If spring fishing announces itself with a sigh of relief, then November is a whimper. In April, those first peeper-drenched nights may be just as cold and quiet, but at least they are spangled by the twinkling of other headlamps as anglers emerge like new shoots from the ground to welcome back life to the water. In short, there’s more to come.
November is different. Fishing in November is the lonely walk home after being last to leave the party. It’s the final glass of whiskey before crawling into an empty bed. It’s the end. I often wish that I were a different kind of angler, one capable of finessing keeper-size bass every month of the year alongside Instagram posts espousing hard work and determination. Unfortunately, come November, I always find myself begrudgingly watching the Patriots, 10 pounds heavier in the midsection, and 50 in the soul.
The crackle of the radio pulls me back into the truck, and I slam the door before driving off toward town. “You’re listening to WLNG, Long Island’s oldies station… a storm warning is in effect until 8 am. tomorrow morning. North winds 20 to 30 knots with gusts up to 50 knots and seas 4 to 7 feet will affect areas of Long Island Sound east of Orient Point and the Connecticut River. Very strong winds will cause hazardous seas which could capsize or damage vessels and reduce visibility…”
Perfect timing, I think.
I’ve decided that tonight will be the last striper trip I’ll take for the year, and I choose to end it by attempting something I’ve never done before. Usually, I spend my last days on the water chasing schoolies in estuary rivers and in the back bays; tonight, I want to aim higher. Where I am on Long Island Sound, the bulk of the fall run wraps up just after the last new moon in October but, sometimes, one or two cow bass slip silently by much later, long after their brothers and sisters have nestled into their home coves in the Hudson or the Chesapeake. These last-rite bass follow the final meandering schools of bait south, gorging themselves with abandon to fatten their bellies before winter drapes itself across the sea. I’ve heard stories of guys pulling in 30- and 40-pound bass on Thanksgiving, victories that no doubt keeps them warm and happy long after the rest of us have hung up our waders.
As evening comes, I hunker down in my plug room to prepare. Outside, things have already started to sour, and the wind occasionally creeps through the uninsulated cedar shake, causing the walls to shudder and hum as a gust rushes through the cottage. Scattered across my workstation is a debris field of hooks, swivels, split rings, and shamefully enough, a few cigarette butts, each casting a fractured shadow from the single bulb dangling above. It feels pointless to be putting on new hooks this late in the year, but I tell myself it’s because I don’t want to taint the mouth of my final fish with rust—nothing to do with what’s waiting for me on the other side of the rattling door. A lukewarm beer pulled from an iceless cooler turns into a second, and I can feel my body relaxing as I get a little too consumed in my busywork. In an act of defiance, I pour the rest of my beer down the sink and twist on the faucet, only to remember we turned off the water over Columbus Day.
My destination for the evening is a south-facing point that caps a popular summertime beach. To the untrained eye, this nondescript clump of boulders looks like any other, a rocky stretch punctuated with broken slabs of concrete from the defunct military base and large columns of driftwood, but just off its tip lies a drop-off that conceals a few car-sized boulders. In the fairer months, this location is a hot spot for evening cookouts and flounder fishing because it never produces a tide higher than one’s waist. Yet, as the seasons change, it transforms, and the once-flat sand becomes swallowed by waves and white water that pins bait to the shore. It’s the perfect place to intercept a few bass on their journey home. Given how rough the surf was forecast to be that evening, the only lures I place into my surf bag are a pair of weighted needlefish and some Super Strike darters. The heavy left-to-right current of the point requires something capable of movement, and the needlefish will help if I can find any bass further out. Another gust rattles the plug room, followed by the heavy patter of something against the windows. Rain.
Perfect timing, I think again.
The only thing worse than leaving the couch this time of year is leaving the truck. Waders have a fantastic ability to keep me the perfect level of dry and warm, and the cab is always just quiet and comfortable enough to make me question why I choose to go fishing in the first place. Sitting in the pull-off above the beach, I find myself unable to open the door. Mentally, I try to plan a path along the stones that will yield the best chance of keeping me dry as long as possible. That’s wishful thinking in this weather. The wind has nearly reached gale force, and the incoming tide is climbing fast. If I am going to make a move, it had to be now. I listen to the last rhythmic sounds of the windshield wipers before turning off the key. One more fish….
The beach is less of a warzone than I anticipated, and I am pleasantly surprised at how warm the water feels against my shins. For a moment, with the humid scent of mung and eel grass cutting through the salt, I think of September nights, and I can feel my confidence rising. By the time I reach the far point, the waves have just started to produce their magic roll over the large boulders, in their low periods revealing the crests of each rock like small mountains in the surf. Given the white water, I opt to start with something heavy and hurl a sinking 3-ounce blurple needle into the darkness. After every fourth turn of the handle on my VS200, I give the needle a jostle, pausing momentarily to wipe the rain from my face.
After a dozen or so casts, nothing bites, and I decide to switch to the darter. This time, I aim far left, allowing the sweeping current to carry the plug to the center of my cast before beginning the retrieve. The action feels strong, and the tip of my surf rod thumps as the darter digs in. Occasionally, the hooks swipe the edge of a rock and my heart stops, hands tingling in anticipation as I pray to feel a solid strike. I pause again, this time to clear weeds from the line. An hour passes, and no strikes come. Deflated, I change positions, clambering along the shore and down into a pool of boulders that sit closer to the water’s edge. From here, I need to battle more waves, but the payoff is that I have better access to the drop-off. Once again, I aim left with the darter, waiting in silence as the plug vibrates.
It’s these moments that self-doubt is the loudest. Getting skunked in May is frustrating, but I always have the next night. Maybe the fish haven’t arrived yet or maybe the tide is wrong. I don’t have the same luxury this late in the season, and a skunk tonight means the end has truly come. As I am licking my wounds, I feel the darter shimmy. Nothing substantial, but a gentle movement in an area that is far beyond the edge of the boulder field. I cast again and feel another bump, then another, and soon enough, I am on. It isn’t much, a feisty, lukewarm 16-inch schoolie, but it’s a bass. Elated, I cast again, this time connecting with a fish that feels a bit better, and I pull a 25-incher to my feet. It’s full of vinegar and spitting up sand eels. For the next fifteen minutes, I catch a slew of feisty schoolies; all the while, the tide around me rises.
It’s not long until I feel properly satiated, so I lean back on a stump and enjoy my success. I have had some decent nights in the fall, but nothing like this in November. Must be the warm weather, I muse. At this point, my pinholed waders are starting to soak through, and I can feel the heavy canvas work pants I am wearing grow stiff and cold with seawater. To add insult to injury, my headlamp has a corroded coil, meaning that I need to fidget with it to produce any light. Let’s get one more to end on, I decide. Pulling myself off the stump and back into position, I cast again into the vein of water that has been producing fish and am thrilled to feel another solid strike on the darter. This fish has more weight, and I thank myself for having the determination to stick around a bit longer. The fish takes a fair amount of line, I gain it back, and we repeat this dance until I wrestle it over the lip of the rocks and into my submerged pool. A healthy-looking specimen, just north of 38 inches with a plump belly. I reach down to hoist the fish aloft, bringing it up to my line of vision while holding it with arms outstretched. In that moment, two things happen very quickly.
First, I lose my footing. The rock I am standing on is just a bit bigger than a manhole cover, and with the rising water, it shifts a mere two inches, nothing major, but enough to upset my balance. The second thing is the fish shakes its head. A spasm, mindless and unintentional, but unfortunate. As I fall, I feel my weight descend on my rod and a sickening snap breaks through the hiss of the waves. I then feel a dull pain in my hand, as if someone jammed a blunt stick into the knuckle of my thumb with all their weight. I inhale sharply, sputtering rainwater from my lips as I look at the 4/0 treble hook now dangling from my hand.
As I regain my wind from the last wave, I attempt to sit up, only to be beaten down again by more water washing over the boulders. The darkness in front of me is unyielding, and I grasp aimlessly at the space below me to try and find my headlamp. The striper, now in my lap, spasms again, slapping my thigh with its broomtail and tangling itself in a mess of braid. In the tumble, I realize I have ripped my waders, and my left leg feels heavy as I try to stand. The pain in my hand starts to set in, and I accept that finding my pliers at this point is a lost cause. Taking a deep breath, I shimmy my forefinger under the curve of the treble and pull. In an instant, I feel the pressure in my knuckle subside, followed by a warm cascade of something dripping down my fingers. Blood, no doubt. As I turn to address my broken rod, I see the faint glow of something green at my feet. The headlamp, thankfully, caught around the cracked guide. Restoring it to my head, I am shocked that it turns on the first try.
The culprit of this misfortune is nowhere to be found, already wriggling free of the line and pulling a Houdini through a gap in the pool back into the white water. Gathering up what remains of my busted tackle, I trudge off the rocks toward my truck, cursing myself all the while.
In the bathroom back at the cottage, I look down at my skewered hand, which now holds a forlorn looking mug filled with some Goslings I found under the kitchen sink. The bleeding has stopped, and the wound resembles the cut end of a flower; a hollow wick reaching down to the bone. I drink deeply from the mug. After such a poignant defeat, I am surprised that I am not feeling sorry for myself. The universe has given me a clear answer that it’s time to call it quits, but for some reason I am not ready to listen. Ripped waders can be repaired, fishing rods and pliers replaced, headlamps get new batteries.
Football can wait, I decide, the season isn’t over just yet.
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Source: https://onthewater.com/the-fall-run-wrap-up
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