twoifbysea

Eat Local Drink Local.

2012-01-12T18:32:00.000-08:00

There is a clear cut difference between being a catch and release holier then thou sportsman, a bait chucking meat fisherman, or those who keep the largest fish, or all fish, not to eat but to weigh in at the local tackle store to prove their amazing fishing prowess. I must admit that I was all of these at some point.

I keep fish now to eat. Mostly fish that are about 30" and plentiful, and not yet at the breeding age. A perfect couple meals for my wife and I, and maybe a friend or two. Sometimes I do feel bad about killing and eating a beautiful striped bass, but mostly I just feel like I am doing what humans have been doing since the beginning of time.

There is something so satisfying and humbling about: catching, filleting, cooking, and eating an animal that you have taken. It really puts things in perspective, and makes you realize that no matter how bad things might get, you still have the ability and skill to provide, unlike a lot of people these days.

Tonight I drank beer that I brewed myself, and ate clams that I pulled from the bay today. I must admit it made me feel pretty self sufficient. Tomorrow I will probably eat fast food and drink beer made in Milwaukee and not feel bad about it.

Please, keep a fish and feed your family and friends, or brew your own beer, or grow your own shit. Or you can buy it at the store..........................

Indian Fall?

2012-01-08T12:16:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure what it is called when winter doesn't set in until mid January or even February. I know it's going to come, and more then likely, come really hard. But as for now the weather here in Jersey is almost balmy. Fishing in a t-shirt in January is a rare luxury, but greatly appreciated.

Bass are still here, and not the resident 20"-24" that can be caught by anyone who is willing to put in their time and battle the cold. These are migrating fish who are not sure what to make of this strange La Nina weather. They are chasing sand eels and herring that are equally confused by this strange weather pattern.

Global Warming? Probably not, just another ebb and flow of the natural cycle. And a well deserved respite after a couple of brutally cold and snowy winters here on the East Coast.

Don't put your gear away yet. There are still fish to be caught.........

A Good Fall, A Crazy Autumn.

2012-01-05T18:30:00.000-08:00

The Bass came this year like they do every fall. All the speculation and theorizing means nothing to migrating fish. Sometimes they come in in one mad rush in late October, sometimes they come in spurts throughout the season. Sometimes they are in a frenzy smashing bunker with reckless abandon, sometimes they are feeding on sand eels with the daintiness of a brown trout sipping a mayfly. For as long as I remember they always seem to come, as sure as the change of seasons. This is something I take for granted, even though I know I shouldn't.

According to some, this was the best fall season for striped bass in a long time, some say ever. I guess that is a relative statement unless it could be proven by some government agency who keeps records on that kind of thing. I will admit it was a good year.

I lot of fish were caught: a lot of sunrises, beer drank, cigarettes smoked, stories told, lies told, cold mornings, warm afternoons, and time well spent.

And also we got a crazy new puppy named Autumn.

1,265 miles = 1 fish "The Journey is the Destination."

2011-11-16T17:59:00.000-08:00

A road trip always feels good, a way to think about things or think about nothing at all. Watching miles tick off the odometer gives me a strange feeling of accomplishment, especially if I am headed to a place I have never been before.

Driving west on the Pennsylvania Turnpike is how all roadtrips start and end for me. I remember the promise and mystery it held on my first trip Out West almost twenty years ago. I remember the the feeling of home it gave me after living in California for years. It has a place in my heart that will always symbolize the beginning and the end of something for me.

This is not a momentous or symbolic trip, simply 3 days to the tributaries of Lake Erie to try and catch a few Steelhead. My destination was NorthEast PA, and the 4 Mile, Seven Mile, 12 Mile, 16 Mile, and 20 Mile Creeks a little over 500 miles from my door. The names don't evoke the mystery of the great Steelhead rivers of the west like: The Rouge, Umpqua, Babine, but they do have fish.

After a couple beautiful November days of putting 18 hours of throwing a fly, I finally had a steelhead in my net. A few pictures and then the long ride home.

The Days were not wasted......

Fishing not Catching........

2011-10-30T08:50:00.000-07:00

I have been putting my fair share of time on the beach with little results in terms of fish: a bluefish here, or a few decent bass plugging after dark every now and then. The rewards have been a bit more subtle: watching the sun break past the horizon, the feel of the fall air, the smell of smoke from somebodies beach fire, geese flying south, a nap in the truck, or a cup of hot coffee or cold beer after a day on the beach. These things are hard to appreciate when fish are being caught at a manic pace. The older I get the more I appreciate slow fishing days when there is time to think and when the occasional fish is an unexpected bonus therefore more rewarding, but sometimes too much thinking is not such a good thing and gets the best of me.

This mid-October lull, and too much time on the beach thinking has also led to a new hobby/art project. I began collecting massive amounts of driftwood with a specific goal in mind. In the Rocky Mountain west people go shed hunting and find the antlers of elk and deer that have shed there antlers after the rut. Sometimes they collect enough to create something interesting, and in some cases an antler arch. The most famous antler arches are in Town Square in Jackson Wyoming, a place I have a special fondness for. I daydream about the brewpub, the aspens changing colors, and coming into town and seeing those antlers lit up with Christmas lights. It will probably be another year before I am there again so I decided to bring a little bit of Jackson Wyoming into my backyard in Toms River New Jersey. After a sixpack, and about 4 hours of work I was kinda impressed at what I had created, after five minutes of staring at the driftwood arch in the fading light, I was put in a place far away from where I really was, a place out west.....

"Many men go fishing all there lives without knowing that it's not fish they are after."

-Henry David Thoreau

Everybody goes home in October......

2011-10-02T16:08:00.000-07:00

"In Inky night we crossed New Mexico; at grey dawn it was Dalhart, Texas; in the bleak Sunday afternoon we rode through one Oklahoma flat-town after another; at nightfall it was Kansas. The bus roared on. I was going home in October. Everyone goes home in October."

Jack Kerouac

Its now October in New Jersey, my home. On cue the weather has changed. It is no longer t-shirt and shorts weather. If you wake up early in the morning you feel it.

I normally have a feeling of discontent living here. Thinking that the world is passing me by, and I dream about being someplace else. In October there is no place I would rather be then here, specifically on the beach chasing striped bass, false albacore, bonito, and even bluefish, and the place I feel most at home is Island Beach State Park. I have spent the last two days(the first two days of October) doing just that.

Dispite my best efforts the only fish I caught was the lowly bluefish. I have actually developed an affinity for these fish; they fight well and seem to be around when the less glamorous species are less then cooperative, they are the saltwater equivilant of the whitefish.

The tug of the line always gives me a thrill, there is a saying: "The charm of fishing is that it is the pursuit of what is attainable, a perpetual series of occasions for hope". I appreciate bluefish but I am hoping for bass..............

It's about that time....

2011-09-19T18:36:00.000-07:00

The days are getting shorter and the mornings are cool. Summer already seems like a hazy memory. Talk around town begins to focus on fish, particularly striped bass. This is the time when every local is a fisherman or at least pretends to be. Something happens at "The Real Jersey Shore" in mid-September when talk at the post office, grocery store, barbershop, local bar, and of course tackle shop all focus around who is catching bass, and where. Fish are caught just about every month of the year but "The Fall Run" is what everyone looks forward too. Stripers and The Fall compliment each other perfectly, it's one of those things that can't be explained, at least not by me.

The time is now: organize your tackle, replace rusty hooks, oil reels, and enjoy. It doesn't last that long and the days are only getting shorter..........

September in Montana

2011-09-14T13:21:00.000-07:00

September in Montana (and Wyoming):

Charles Kurult was born September 10, 1934 and spent his 60th birthday somewhere outside of Livingston Montana. At the same time his 84 year old father was on his death bed, and he knew he would have to leave before the month was over. This made him sad because he loved the place so much at this time of year. The one thing that gave him some solstice is that if he lived to his fathers age of 84, he would get to spend 14 more Septembers in Montana.

Unfortunately Mr. Kurult passed away only 2 years later at the age of 62. I only hope he got to spend his last two Septembers in such an amazing place.

For the last five autumns I have been going out to Montana, Wyoming, and Idaho. To catch fish and and escape the clausterphobia of living in New Jersey and marvel at the scenery and clean cool air I didn't even know existed. It has become what I look forward to in the coldest days of February and the hottest days of August. I spend months pouring over maps, reading books, tying flies, and finding blogs. I do this, not just to prepare for my 10 day escape, but to also try and trasform myself to the memory of standing in the Firehole, Madison, Gibbon, or some other small creek feeling the crisp autumn air and the tug of a fish on the line.

I treasure the days I have spent in Montana more then I could ever explain. I hope that I will have the privilage of spending at least a few magical days each September for the rest of my life. That being said, I know that will be impossible: work, marriage, finances, kids, and life interfere even with your greatest of passions.

I don't know when I will be back, I hope next September, but one never knows. Mr. Kerult thought he had 14 more Septembers and got two at best. I hope to have 49 more, but one never knows. I will treasure every minute I have spent there and never take such a place, at such a time, for granted.

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Fall run Browns on the Madison in The Barnes Holes coming up from Hebgen Lake. Who knew they would come up so early? Not many of the locals or the guys at the fly shops. The few of us there swinging soft hackles got more then our share of fish. Thank you guys, I owe you some Stripers when you come back East.

Somewhere around Nine Mile hole on the Madison. I got a few small fish but couldn't catch the 20" that was rising on the far bank.

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Flat Creek hatch. The first time in 5 years that I have ever caught a fish on this crazy spring creek.

Small Cutthroat on The Gros Ventre. Probably still my favorite river, you never know if your gonna catch a 5 incher or a five pounder. Both surprise me and excite me.

Soo many Brookies on Panther Creek in the park. When I got back to my truck I had to jump in the back window because 3 buffalo were surrounding my truck.

This gentelmen's name is Bob Tusken. He is the best fly caster I have ever seen as well as a really nice guy. I guarantee you he will out fish you without even putting hi waders on. Seriously he fished from the bank and caught a bunch of big lake run browns.

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Upper Gros Ventre, a 20 + " native cutthroat. Thats why its my favorite river.

A cold PBR never tastes as good as it does at over 10,000 ft.