Walk of Shame.

Gives You An Idea of the Water Quality.

I went for a run the other day down a highway by my apartment and discovered a small stream nearby. I stopped running and peered over into the slow dirty stream and saw a huge largemouth cruising down under the bridge. That was all I really needed to see and I anticipated heading back to catch some fish. Finally, a decent spot for some fun. A few days later I woke up at dawn and decided to walk down to the stream. The mile long walk along the highway wasn't too bad on the way there. I was pumped and amused by the looks on commuters faces as they passed by. Little did I know, but the walk back wouldn't be so fun.

Watch Your Step, or Risk Your Leg.

Someone Misplaced This.

As I bushwacked down under the bridge I hoped I wouldn't come across another homeless person, like my last excursion. Thankfully, I didn't and after a few moments my first cast produced. To my surprise, it was a small pickerel. I was ecstatic that I found a decent spot so close to my apartment. On my next cast, a much larger pickerel, easily over 20 inches exploded on my woolly bugger from under a brush pile. My line went limp as I set the hook. He had easily sliced right through my 3x. I brushed it off, and thought that it was just because I didn't check my tippet after the last fish. I tied on another fly, a much larger pattern. I was only going after the big guns now. A few casts later, in a deeper hole, another leviathan came out to play and once again my tippet was cut clean. I brushed it off again, cut off that silly piece of tippet, and tied another large streamer pattern straight to the butt section of my leader. 

I Had High Hopes After Landing This Guy.

My, What Big Teeth You Have.

A Broken Loop Revealed How Dirty My Line Is.

Too Much Brownlining.

I thought there was no way that another pickerel could cut through what was easily 15-20 pound test, but I was wrong. I lost another one of my favorite streamers. It fell victim to the blade like teeth of these voracious predators. After fumbling around the muddy banks, wading through forests of poison ivy, and sinking feet into mud, I called it quits. Of course this was after, I had lost yet another large pickerel (but not my fly) and the loop connection on my sharkskin broke. I left the stream, made my way up to the highway, and began the walk of shame back to the apartment. I was sad, dejected, and covered in mud. With the way my luck went, I am probably covered in poison ivy and deer ticks but that is the last thing on my mind. I am only thinking about a trip to the nearest fly shop, some steel leaders, and some freshly tied pike streamers. Next time, I will be prepared, and it most definitely will be a different story. 

Walk of Shame.

Gives You An Idea of the Water Quality.

I went for a run the other day down a highway by my apartment and discovered a small stream nearby. I stopped running and peered over into the slow dirty stream and saw a huge largemouth cruising down under the bridge. That was all I really needed to see and I anticipated heading back to catch some fish. Finally, a decent spot for some fun. A few days later I woke up at dawn and decided to walk down to the stream. The mile long walk along the highway wasn't too bad on the way there. I was pumped and amused by the looks on commuters faces as they passed by. Little did I know, but the walk back wouldn't be so fun.

Watch Your Step, or Risk Your Leg.

Someone Misplaced This.

As I bushwacked down under the bridge I hoped I wouldn't come across another homeless person, like my last excursion. Thankfully, I didn't and after a few moments my first cast produced. To my surprise, it was a small pickerel. I was ecstatic that I found a decent spot so close to my apartment. On my next cast, a much larger pickerel, easily over 20 inches exploded on my woolly bugger from under a brush pile. My line went limp as I set the hook. He had easily sliced right through my 3x. I brushed it off, and thought that it was just because I didn't check my tippet after the last fish. I tied on another fly, a much larger pattern. I was only going after the big guns now. A few casts later, in a deeper hole, another leviathan came out to play and once again my tippet was cut clean. I brushed it off again, cut off that silly piece of tippet, and tied another large streamer pattern straight to the butt section of my leader. 

I Had High Hopes After Landing This Guy.

My, What Big Teeth You Have.

A Broken Loop Revealed How Dirty My Line Is.

Too Much Brownlining.

I thought there was no way that another pickerel could cut through what was easily 15-20 pound test, but I was wrong. I lost another one of my favorite streamers. It fell victim to the blade like teeth of these voracious predators. After fumbling around the muddy banks, wading through forests of poison ivy, and sinking feet into mud, I called it quits. Of course this was after, I had lost yet another large pickerel (but not my fly) and the loop connection on my sharkskin broke. I left the stream, made my way up to the highway, and began the walk of shame back to the apartment. I was sad, dejected, and covered in mud. With the way my luck went, I am probably covered in poison ivy and deer ticks but that is the last thing on my mind. I am only thinking about a trip to the nearest fly shop, some steel leaders, and some freshly tied pike streamers. Next time, I will be prepared, and it most definitely will be a different story. 

Dressed to Kill.

Peck's Pond is billed as a pickerel paradise, so it was with high hopes that we rented rowboats and tied on steel leaders.  This lily pad-choked lake offers up tons of prime territory for toothy predators to ambush whatever might be unlucky enough to get within view.  We had an arsenal of deceivers, poppers and streamers and we were pumped at the potential that the day held.  To top it all off, I had a sweet new fly fishing messenger bag that my girlfriend made for me out of my old favorite pair of jeans.  In short, I was dressed to kill.  As were the perfectly camouflaged pickeral we were chasing.

Dressed to Kill

We rowed, dropped anchor, stood upon the seats in the boats for a better view and cast a 360 degree circle around our location, over and over and over and over again. 

The Double-Haul caused the boat to rock a bit too much...

 

Weeds and Lillys

Precariously Perched...

Speaking of dressed to kill...check out Big Poppa Pump manning the oars.

After 6 hours of this I had one pickerel (which I mistook for some weeds caught on my fly) follow my deciever for a few feet and Adam had jumped one fish.  The other boat with Mark and our father in it had not even seen a fish.  Thats was it.

Ultimate Fake-Out.  Weeds.

The thought of it turning into a shut-out occured to all of us as we tied out boats together and laughed over a drink.  We were amazed that none of us had fallen out of the boats yet, as one person typically rowed while the other stood on the other seat and cast to promising lies.  The sudden accelerations from the rowing action and the sudden decelerations from the weed beds made for some interesting moves while perched at the front of the boat.  We were pretty astounded that we hadn't seen more action, also.  No wakes charging after our flies as we stripped them in.  No explosions in the pockets of weedless water.  No slashes, no follows, no looks, no hits, no misses.  

Endlessly searching.

We didn't really care, however.  It was a lot of fun to explore the lake in the rental boats and it was great to fish with my dad, brother and friend together one more time before I move to the islands.

Post-drink break, we worked the west side bank of the lake and fished the shallows around the docks of the rental homes in the area, when, after casting a specially tied, weedless, rubber legged bunny streamer next to some lillys, Adam finally hooked up.  It was a 10inch largemouth bass.  After so many fishless hours in the heat we joked about taking a hundred pictures of it and passing it around so we could each hold it and remember what it was like to actually catch a fish.

Rippin' Lips.

Over the next two hours, Mark hooked into a slam pig bluegill and one pickeral while Adam brought to hand a 17" largemouth.  

Fish of the Day.  16.75" measured.

Googly-Eyed Poppers.

Captured one, at long last.

On the way back to the dock, as we struggled to keep the boats within the lane cleared through the endless weeds, a bald eagle swooped down towards the water and pulled up at the last second.  It perched in the top branches of a dead tree overlooking the lake.  It was quite a sight.

A Bald Eagle.

The King of the Pond.

Four fish, four fishermen, eight hours.  It was a great day.

P.S.  -  The Best Sunburn Ever, courtesy of Adam and a hat.

Dressed to Kill.

Peck's Pond is billed as a pickerel paradise, so it was with high hopes that we rented rowboats and tied on steel leaders.  This lily pad-choked lake offers up tons of prime territory for toothy predators to ambush whatever might be unlucky enough to get within view.  We had an arsenal of deceivers, poppers and streamers and we were pumped at the potential that the day held.  To top it all off, I had a sweet new fly fishing messenger bag that my girlfriend made for me out of my old favorite pair of jeans.  In short, I was dressed to kill.  As were the perfectly camouflaged pickeral we were chasing.

Dressed to Kill

We rowed, dropped anchor, stood upon the seats in the boats for a better view and cast a 360 degree circle around our location, over and over and over and over again. 

The Double-Haul caused the boat to rock a bit too much...

 

Weeds and Lillys

Precariously Perched...

Speaking of dressed to kill...check out Big Poppa Pump manning the oars.

After 6 hours of this I had one pickerel (which I mistook for some weeds caught on my fly) follow my deciever for a few feet and Adam had jumped one fish.  The other boat with Mark and our father in it had not even seen a fish.  Thats was it.

Ultimate Fake-Out.  Weeds.

The thought of it turning into a shut-out occured to all of us as we tied out boats together and laughed over a drink.  We were amazed that none of us had fallen out of the boats yet, as one person typically rowed while the other stood on the other seat and cast to promising lies.  The sudden accelerations from the rowing action and the sudden decelerations from the weed beds made for some interesting moves while perched at the front of the boat.  We were pretty astounded that we hadn't seen more action, also.  No wakes charging after our flies as we stripped them in.  No explosions in the pockets of weedless water.  No slashes, no follows, no looks, no hits, no misses.  

Endlessly searching.

We didn't really care, however.  It was a lot of fun to explore the lake in the rental boats and it was great to fish with my dad, brother and friend together one more time before I move to the islands.

Post-drink break, we worked the west side bank of the lake and fished the shallows around the docks of the rental homes in the area, when, after casting a specially tied, weedless, rubber legged bunny streamer next to some lillys, Adam finally hooked up.  It was a 10inch largemouth bass.  After so many fishless hours in the heat we joked about taking a hundred pictures of it and passing it around so we could each hold it and remember what it was like to actually catch a fish.

Rippin' Lips.

Over the next two hours, Mark hooked into a slam pig bluegill and one pickeral while Adam brought to hand a 17" largemouth.  

Fish of the Day.  16.75" measured.

Googly-Eyed Poppers.

Captured one, at long last.

On the way back to the dock, as we struggled to keep the boats within the lane cleared through the endless weeds, a bald eagle swooped down towards the water and pulled up at the last second.  It perched in the top branches of a dead tree overlooking the lake.  It was quite a sight.

A Bald Eagle.

The King of the Pond.

Four fish, four fishermen, eight hours.  It was a great day.

P.S.  -  The Best Sunburn Ever, courtesy of Adam and a hat.

First week back from school...

Once my semester came to a long deserved close I had to explore a few bodies of water on the home front in order to kick off my last ever summer vacation. My first stop was Indian Creek, followed by the Lehigh River bordering the Walnutport Canal.

Got to Love Natives

Beautiful Indian Brown

The Lehigh River was super high and off colored so I opted for my 8wt. and geared up with a lead-head and a box of streamers.

This Brown slammed my black bugger on the swing, it hit and fought so hard I thought it was a smallmouth. After a few powerful runs I managed to get the fish within a reasonable distance to lip it (still thinking its a nice smallmouth). Once I got a glimpse of it in the turbid water, I promptly located my net on my back and went for the scoop.

Average Smallmouth

Small But Mighty

As a walked down the Canal path I took a few casts and was rewarded as well...

Slab

Crumby Shot

Hello Summer...