Touch of Gray
South Carolina Fishing
May 23, 2023 12:16:58 #
Got this today from Anglers Journal. Enjoyed and wanted to share with my fishing friends. Enjoy
Targeting striped bass along the foggy flats of Maine's Casco Bay with fly-fishing guide Eric Wallace.
The sun rises over the Royal River in Yarmouth, Maine. Photographer James Manning is next to me in the boat, sipping coffee and deciding whether to put his camera into its underwater housing. It is our second day fishing in Maine, and the air is mild with a slight chill. We hope to find a quiet patch of water and some eager fish to return us to a sense of equilibrium once again.
Maine during summer is one of the treasured places in my heart. When I was 15, I caught my first striped bass not far from here. I was an inept angler, but I was there with my dad, and we were celebrating what was our first “normal” year of my adolescence without the prospect of me having to get more tests and more chemotherapy. It was a perfect trip, all the way down to the lobster rolls we ate from the dock after our morning catches.
Eric Wallace was among the first fly-fishing guides to target striped bass in Maine's skinny waters with a poling skiff.
“Morning guys,” Eric Wallace says as we walk down the ramp. His Maverick skiff is already in the water, and he greets us with firm handshakes. He’s a burly man, wearing just enough easy-to-shed layers to keep him comfortable.
A fellow traveler, Wallace began guiding in 1992 on the Fryingpan and Roaring Fork rivers in Colorado before moving to Oregon and becoming enamored with steelhead on the Deschutes. Around that time, his father had begun exploring Islamorada, Florida, and Wallace was called to join him. He learned to pole in the Keys, and in 2002, he and his wife began exploring a move.
“My ex and I flipped a coin, and we ended up in Maine,” he says. “I realized once I got here that I brought the wrong boat. Once I got my skiff up here, I started exploring. I saw stripers in really skinny water, and then things took off. I was able to book my Eastern clients that used to come west to come to [fish] Maine instead. We learned together. It was a real team effort. It felt like we had it to ourselves for a long time.”
When conditions allow, this fishery is all about sight-casting for striped bass.
And that’s just what we have as he hits the throttle. We’re alone on Casco Bay, and fog is all around us. The morning gray has seeped in, but it’s not ominous. Wallace sets the skiff up along a calm stretch. We can make out the ripples of a sandbar.
Tony Friedrich, policy director for the American Saltwater Guides Association, calls Wallace, a “great, conservation-minded guy. He’s one of those guys that says, ‘This is my game, and I’m going to figure it out better than anyone.’ ”
The author with his best fish of the trip.
Friedrich’s words prove true as we begin to fish. “The bass set up on the side of the bar as the shrimp get washed over,” Wallace says as he hands me a rod with a simple, greenish-brown epoxy shrimp fly. I’m first on the platform. We begin our drift along the edge, still the only boat around. I’m blind-casting. The water is 8-feet deep around the sandbar. If there were a high sun, I’d be able to see bottom, but I can only gaze at the gray fog and the darkened water. Wallace assures me there are fish here.
He poles effortlessly, his pushes imperceptible as the tide floods. I soak up the salt air to clear my head of the wreckage of another summer in the trenches at a summer camp that supplements my pay as a teacher. Time on the platform is my reward. This day, this hour, this next cast — this is my summer vacation.
We drift the bar, and I get no bumps. I trade places with Manning, who sets down his camera and underwater housing. Fishing this way is the best because I get to watch a better angler cast and can learn from his moves. Manning is tall and lean. He’s athletic. You don’t carry 60 pounds of gear on your back every day if you’re not in good shape, and it translates to his cast. It’s powerful. He punches air, the way legendary fly fisherman Lefty Kreh told us to, and sends the shrimp 90 feet with ease. Then he hooks up. The first fish of the day is an unruly schoolie that Manning strips in. The fish spits the barbless hook boatside, and I’m back on the platform. I want a fish, but I realize there’s a whole day ahead of us.
The sun begins to penetrate the morning fog. We’ve run across the bay and set up near an outlet to the ocean, where there’s a rocky island with a small lighthouse and plenty of seals. “Put a few in there,” Wallace says from the console.
I cast toward the island as Manning sets up a photo of a lone lobster buoy against the dull light. A slight breeze ripples my shirt as I cast. It’s warm and inviting. I forget about the work irritants I left behind in New Jersey. I’m casting toward a beautiful island, and I’m perfectly content. This is why I come to Maine.
Maine stripers feast on a menu of shrimp, baitfish and crabs.
“Tide’s about to shift. I think if we run back inside, we’ll pick up some good moving water near this rip I like,” Wallace says, watching the sun’s position and the water. I never saw him check his watch. Guides like him develop a real feel for their local waters. Twenty minutes later, the fog rolls back in and covers us. We have yet to see another boat.
Wallace positions the skiff along another edge. Deep water runs parallel to a stretch of sandy bottom — a perfect ambush point. Manning is first on the rod. He casts smoothly into the haze. The water comes alive. It’s the first time we’ve seen anything resembling surface activity. “Incoming tide now,” Wallace says with a smile, knowing that the shift in tide opens a buffet for hungry stripers. Boils and bass are everywhere.
The fog is broken by the bend of a tight fly rod.
Manning casts toward one of the bigger breaks. Two strips, and he’s on. His rod bends to the water, and he’s forced to get the fish on the reel. It’s about 28 inches, but the fish is rotund from gorging on baitfish, shrimp and lobster.
We switch out, and I step up to the casting deck. There’s still surface activity to my left, but the fog is heavier. Somewhere in the distance, I hear the faint ring of a bell buoy just before I let the cast fly. I begin my retrieve. The line feels heavy. The epoxy shrimp wobbles a bit. Two more strips, and there’s an explosive take. The striper whisks away the slack line and is on the reel in a flash. This fish has some size. “Let it run when it needs to,” Wallace says. He hasn’t raised his voice or changed his demeanor since we stepped aboard. He is perfectly calm, content to take others on the journey.
The fish takes a few long runs, but I can only see a few feet into the fog. When I finally bring the fish to the boat, it’s more than 30 inches and pushing about 15 pounds. A nice fly-rod bass. “Let’s do an underwater release photo,” Manning says.
I maneuver myself so he can get the perfect shot. This fish will look spectacular underwater. A really good angler would’ve bent his knees a bit to ready himself and had the wherewithal to switch hands dexterously. Instead of a beautiful, underwater release, Wallace takes a cellphone photo of me falling backward and the striper leaping back into the green waters, telling us all to have a nice day.
I have no idea what time it is, and I don’t care. We’ve spent the morning alone on Casco Bay chasing bass at every turn, but as the fog lifts and the sun pokes out, we have an opportunity to fish for stripers Florida Keys-style.
Wallace stands atop the platform, gingerly pushing us along a stretch of beach. If you took away the shaker siding on the beach house to our right, we could be off Abaco. The water has gone from a muddy green/gray to a cool, ice blue. I never thought there was a place like this in Maine, but here we are.
Wallace has a deep knowledge of his home waters. He always seems to know where the fish are hanging out.
Manning is up and waiting for his shot. “Ten o’clock. Moving right to left,” Wallace says.
“I’ve got him,” Manning replies.
I haven’t seen a thing. Manning, who has sight-fished the Northeast and the Caribbean, barely flinches and places the fly exactly where Wallace instructs. The water explodes. It can’t be more than 3 feet deep. The thrash of the striper’s tail stirs up silt and pebbles. It is the perfect stalk, cast and catch. Manning and Wallace execute it with perfection.
Back at the ramp, with the prospect of a long drive back down I-95 in my head, I shake Wallace’s hand and thank him for a glimpse into this unspoiled world that he’s found up here among the lobster traps and oyster beds. Sometimes the universe drops you right where you are supposed to be, and I’m certain that Manning and I were meant to be here on this day to experience the fishing. We certainly had the ideal person in Wallace to show us around.
Targeting striped bass along the foggy flats of Maine's Casco Bay with fly-fishing guide Eric Wallace.
The sun rises over the Royal River in Yarmouth, Maine. Photographer James Manning is next to me in the boat, sipping coffee and deciding whether to put his camera into its underwater housing. It is our second day fishing in Maine, and the air is mild with a slight chill. We hope to find a quiet patch of water and some eager fish to return us to a sense of equilibrium once again.
Maine during summer is one of the treasured places in my heart. When I was 15, I caught my first striped bass not far from here. I was an inept angler, but I was there with my dad, and we were celebrating what was our first “normal” year of my adolescence without the prospect of me having to get more tests and more chemotherapy. It was a perfect trip, all the way down to the lobster rolls we ate from the dock after our morning catches.
Eric Wallace was among the first fly-fishing guides to target striped bass in Maine's skinny waters with a poling skiff.
“Morning guys,” Eric Wallace says as we walk down the ramp. His Maverick skiff is already in the water, and he greets us with firm handshakes. He’s a burly man, wearing just enough easy-to-shed layers to keep him comfortable.
A fellow traveler, Wallace began guiding in 1992 on the Fryingpan and Roaring Fork rivers in Colorado before moving to Oregon and becoming enamored with steelhead on the Deschutes. Around that time, his father had begun exploring Islamorada, Florida, and Wallace was called to join him. He learned to pole in the Keys, and in 2002, he and his wife began exploring a move.
“My ex and I flipped a coin, and we ended up in Maine,” he says. “I realized once I got here that I brought the wrong boat. Once I got my skiff up here, I started exploring. I saw stripers in really skinny water, and then things took off. I was able to book my Eastern clients that used to come west to come to [fish] Maine instead. We learned together. It was a real team effort. It felt like we had it to ourselves for a long time.”
When conditions allow, this fishery is all about sight-casting for striped bass.
And that’s just what we have as he hits the throttle. We’re alone on Casco Bay, and fog is all around us. The morning gray has seeped in, but it’s not ominous. Wallace sets the skiff up along a calm stretch. We can make out the ripples of a sandbar.
Tony Friedrich, policy director for the American Saltwater Guides Association, calls Wallace, a “great, conservation-minded guy. He’s one of those guys that says, ‘This is my game, and I’m going to figure it out better than anyone.’ ”
The author with his best fish of the trip.
Friedrich’s words prove true as we begin to fish. “The bass set up on the side of the bar as the shrimp get washed over,” Wallace says as he hands me a rod with a simple, greenish-brown epoxy shrimp fly. I’m first on the platform. We begin our drift along the edge, still the only boat around. I’m blind-casting. The water is 8-feet deep around the sandbar. If there were a high sun, I’d be able to see bottom, but I can only gaze at the gray fog and the darkened water. Wallace assures me there are fish here.
He poles effortlessly, his pushes imperceptible as the tide floods. I soak up the salt air to clear my head of the wreckage of another summer in the trenches at a summer camp that supplements my pay as a teacher. Time on the platform is my reward. This day, this hour, this next cast — this is my summer vacation.
We drift the bar, and I get no bumps. I trade places with Manning, who sets down his camera and underwater housing. Fishing this way is the best because I get to watch a better angler cast and can learn from his moves. Manning is tall and lean. He’s athletic. You don’t carry 60 pounds of gear on your back every day if you’re not in good shape, and it translates to his cast. It’s powerful. He punches air, the way legendary fly fisherman Lefty Kreh told us to, and sends the shrimp 90 feet with ease. Then he hooks up. The first fish of the day is an unruly schoolie that Manning strips in. The fish spits the barbless hook boatside, and I’m back on the platform. I want a fish, but I realize there’s a whole day ahead of us.
The sun begins to penetrate the morning fog. We’ve run across the bay and set up near an outlet to the ocean, where there’s a rocky island with a small lighthouse and plenty of seals. “Put a few in there,” Wallace says from the console.
I cast toward the island as Manning sets up a photo of a lone lobster buoy against the dull light. A slight breeze ripples my shirt as I cast. It’s warm and inviting. I forget about the work irritants I left behind in New Jersey. I’m casting toward a beautiful island, and I’m perfectly content. This is why I come to Maine.
Maine stripers feast on a menu of shrimp, baitfish and crabs.
“Tide’s about to shift. I think if we run back inside, we’ll pick up some good moving water near this rip I like,” Wallace says, watching the sun’s position and the water. I never saw him check his watch. Guides like him develop a real feel for their local waters. Twenty minutes later, the fog rolls back in and covers us. We have yet to see another boat.
Wallace positions the skiff along another edge. Deep water runs parallel to a stretch of sandy bottom — a perfect ambush point. Manning is first on the rod. He casts smoothly into the haze. The water comes alive. It’s the first time we’ve seen anything resembling surface activity. “Incoming tide now,” Wallace says with a smile, knowing that the shift in tide opens a buffet for hungry stripers. Boils and bass are everywhere.
The fog is broken by the bend of a tight fly rod.
Manning casts toward one of the bigger breaks. Two strips, and he’s on. His rod bends to the water, and he’s forced to get the fish on the reel. It’s about 28 inches, but the fish is rotund from gorging on baitfish, shrimp and lobster.
We switch out, and I step up to the casting deck. There’s still surface activity to my left, but the fog is heavier. Somewhere in the distance, I hear the faint ring of a bell buoy just before I let the cast fly. I begin my retrieve. The line feels heavy. The epoxy shrimp wobbles a bit. Two more strips, and there’s an explosive take. The striper whisks away the slack line and is on the reel in a flash. This fish has some size. “Let it run when it needs to,” Wallace says. He hasn’t raised his voice or changed his demeanor since we stepped aboard. He is perfectly calm, content to take others on the journey.
The fish takes a few long runs, but I can only see a few feet into the fog. When I finally bring the fish to the boat, it’s more than 30 inches and pushing about 15 pounds. A nice fly-rod bass. “Let’s do an underwater release photo,” Manning says.
I maneuver myself so he can get the perfect shot. This fish will look spectacular underwater. A really good angler would’ve bent his knees a bit to ready himself and had the wherewithal to switch hands dexterously. Instead of a beautiful, underwater release, Wallace takes a cellphone photo of me falling backward and the striper leaping back into the green waters, telling us all to have a nice day.
I have no idea what time it is, and I don’t care. We’ve spent the morning alone on Casco Bay chasing bass at every turn, but as the fog lifts and the sun pokes out, we have an opportunity to fish for stripers Florida Keys-style.
Wallace stands atop the platform, gingerly pushing us along a stretch of beach. If you took away the shaker siding on the beach house to our right, we could be off Abaco. The water has gone from a muddy green/gray to a cool, ice blue. I never thought there was a place like this in Maine, but here we are.
Wallace has a deep knowledge of his home waters. He always seems to know where the fish are hanging out.
Manning is up and waiting for his shot. “Ten o’clock. Moving right to left,” Wallace says.
“I’ve got him,” Manning replies.
I haven’t seen a thing. Manning, who has sight-fished the Northeast and the Caribbean, barely flinches and places the fly exactly where Wallace instructs. The water explodes. It can’t be more than 3 feet deep. The thrash of the striper’s tail stirs up silt and pebbles. It is the perfect stalk, cast and catch. Manning and Wallace execute it with perfection.
Back at the ramp, with the prospect of a long drive back down I-95 in my head, I shake Wallace’s hand and thank him for a glimpse into this unspoiled world that he’s found up here among the lobster traps and oyster beds. Sometimes the universe drops you right where you are supposed to be, and I’m certain that Manning and I were meant to be here on this day to experience the fishing. We certainly had the ideal person in Wallace to show us around.
May 31, 2023 14:20:04 #
May 31, 2023 14:22:16 #
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