Conesus, Hemlock, Canadice Lakes Largemouth Bass

As a Jersey angler, I've heard stories about the fishing in New York's Finger Lakes for decades. I got the chance a couple of days to fish a little in the three western-most. Staying for three nights at Dog Meadow in Conesus was mostly my wife's vacation. She ventured the idea of going somewhere within four or five hours of Bedminster in the first place. I did suggest the Finger Lakes, because we had never been there. She knew about Air B & B. Superhost Andy's cabin, outdoor kitchen, and service are outstanding. At present, he rents three of the arrangements. Trish and I slept in a loft with the screened window open, even though temps fell to about 50. (Felt good.) As I sit in my living room before the wide screen and type now, I feel my house is stuffy. I will get used to it again, but I welcome the change of perspective, because Andy's set up really does give you a sense of living outdoors in comfort. (Don't miss the photos, below.) Over lunch today, I spoke to my wife about camping in Roscoe, New York, and though she expressed interest in staying in Roscoe--only in  a B & B arrangement of some kind. She will not camp in a tent, but she loved Dog Meadow. 

I had spent some time online looking at Finger Lakes boat rental possibilities, and everything I found was overpriced. Andy had put some brochures in the cabin, and I did seriously consider an hourly rate canoe rental on Canadice Lake, but the wind came out of the east at about 25 mph. Even if I had brought my anchor along, managing in wind that heavy would have been a problem I didn't care to deal with. 

The day before--Thursday the 11th--we tried a NY State Fishing Access point at Vitale Park, located at the northern end of Conesus Lake. Naturally, I was skeptical, having witnessed all these decades of my life how the state behaves. To be fair, I recognized that maybe--likely not--some bass would move over the shallow flats in rainy conditions. I cast knee deep--thigh deep at most--water. Fifteen minutes of fishing was mostly spent carefully scoping out all possibilities. I then chalked up the scene to the absurdity one should expect of a "fishing access" spot, and ate my lunch from the nearby McDonald's takeout as Trish read a novel at the picnic table and minded our black Lab, Sadie. There was little, if any, really, conflict between our interests, because Trish is fascinated in these places and finds them beautiful surroundings for her habit of reading. I had suggested Canandaigua as a town worth exploring, but up and downhill with a 13-year-old arthritic dog we had to wheel out of Vitale Park in a wagon?  

Hemlock Park offered some real possibility not many minutes away, but before I say more, I want to tell you I learned the next day that fishing is off limits in Hemlock Park except south of the boat launch. I had no idea until I saw it mapped out on a board located near the spillway. While I had fished near that spillway, a women had come and fished, an old man told me stories of fishing there, and a father and son came and fished. I lost a smallmouth that took my Chompers worm under a boulder. When I set the hook, the 20-pound fluorocarbon leader frayed on the rock and broke. Felt like a real good bass.

Anyhow, I refused to fish there again, after I learned of the legal limits. I tried another state access of Conesus at its southern end, where as far as I could cast, the water was six inches deep, and otherwise there, a sort of creek entered the lake, offering water two feet deep and weeds. I just didn't even bother. We rode on and I fished Hemlock south of the launch, where a weedbed extended along shore for hundreds of yards. I never saw the end of it. There was an edge in close; maybe the water there was four, maybe five feet deep, and it ran along shore endlessly, sometimes near-shore, sometimes further away. And it was where it was further to reach that interested me most. 

Fishing it persistently, I told myself, a little frustrated in getting no action besides a few sunfish pecks, that if I were in a boat in New Jersey, I'd hit that inside edge, because many times similar spots have produced. But I was clearly aware that with the sun directly overhead, not long after noon, conditions were a challenge. Eventually, I did catch the 14-incher photographed, and a little largemouth less than nine inches long. I got deeply involved in working that edge, but it just wasn't yielding many bass. Well, go over to Round Valley at one in the afternoon during August, fish from shore, and see how you do there. Hemlock Lake's clarity wasn't much dimmer. 

Nor was the clarity of Canadice Lake, just 15 minutes or even fewer from Hemlock. There are some pullovers along Canadice Lake Road, and I stopped at one of them. I caught nothing there, but maybe at sunset I would have succeeded. Who knows? The launch area has some possibility. I lost a little bass of about eight inches, hardly one to mention, nor the nine-incher I did catch where a weedbed similar to those at Hemlock forms a point at a drop-off, but that little bass offered me an overtone signifying larger: It took the eight-inch Chompers I had been using like a real fish. I also fished the drop off with a rocky bottom thoroughly, using a jig and Berkeley Gulp! leech. It fell away to about 12 feet deep within casting range--the deepest water I fished. 

It's possible you've heard stories of 68-bass days on the Finger Lakes like I have. I don't doubt it's happened like that. It does in Maine, too. But if I were to go back up there next weekend, I would probably catch more bass than I did on this trip, just because I learned a few things along the way. Maybe I would arrange with my wife to fish at sundown, too. I know I would sling my tackle tote over my shoulder and fish that weedline much further on down than I did yesterday...and who knows what else I would find. 

Take things with a grain of salt, though. Especially state designated fishing access. The Finger Lakes seem like a far-away paradise to us, but Syracuse is only 25 miles north or so of these three lakes. In other words, they have their regulars; they get pressured similarly as New Jersey lakes do. And the water of the Finger Lakes isn't somehow "pure" compared to water here. 

I had an interesting encounter with a guy in a kayak. He pulled away from the ramp, visibly struggling against that 25 mph headwind, paddling within my casting range. He was trying to catch up to a couple of friends in two other kayaks that got out ahead of him. I had spoken to the guys in those two earlier. They'd caught "a few bass, none bigger than a pound." 

"How's it going? I said it directly in a way that dismissed the obvious pain-in-the-ass of the wind he faced, as if to say instead, "It really doesn't really matter as much as getting what you can," but he paddled on as if he never heard me, though he had. So immediately I took stock of his four rods in fancy holders, his fortress of tackle boxes built on a sort of deck behind his seat, and concluded that this guy thinks he's hot shit. I'm standing there on a rock elevated two feet above the surroundings, and he thinks I'm just a peon. 

A few moments later, he came ashore, also within casting distance. Gets out. He's hooked himself in the crotch. 

He goes after the hook with pliers. I'm minding my fishing, but the next thing I know, he breaks the ice by asking if I have a band aid. I tell him I might in my car, give me five minutes. I hike up the roadway leading to the launch. Three minutes later, I give him two band aids. He thanks me. 

"Fish here often?" I ask. 

"I live in Syracuse. I come once and awhile."

"Ever catch any big smallmouths?"

"I've caught a couple."

"That's good," I assure him. (You know me, I meant it.)

He checks me out a sec. "You catch any today?"

I feel as if all that didn't go between us is now thoroughly redeemed. "I caught three largemouths. The biggest 14 inches from Hemlock."

That 14-incher would have made a couple of nice little fillets for Andy at Dog Meadow, but where was I going to buy ice for the cooler he supplied?  

    

Conesus Lake has houses along most of its shoreline.

Canadice Lake

Outdoor Kitchen

Maine

 

We Caught Largemouths Instead of Pike

I also walked in a mile last August, twice, though both times alone. I had a problem with dizziness, one of the outings, and though the temperature was only 88, it felt excessive to me. Today, with Oliver Round, temperatures in the 90's didn't bother me at all. But northern pike, true to their name, are cool-water fish. They weren't very cooperative this afternoon, though Oliver caught a small one, and we missed hits. I did spot one about 24 inches long that seem lethargic. My jerkbait was near it. I twitched and the fish spooked. Another time, my braid on the water spooked one about 20 inches long. 

We had fun catching largemouths, Oliver's the biggest at about a foot long. He caught it on a Wacky worm while he tried for carp with another rod. I had ventured off downstream...where I spooked something large close the bank in shade and deep water. That's when I felt I should have brought along a few Senko-type worms. 

I caught four little eight or nine and maybe 10-inch largemouths. Oliver also caught a big yellow perch of 15 or 16 inches That's the first of its species we've caught in the Passaic. 

And today I lost a plug to a tree branch. In all my experience thus far on the river., that's the first lure I've lost. Another got caught among berries on a poison ivy vine, and I reached into it and pulled it out. Then I washed my hand in the river.  

Really nice, invigorating outing. I'm glad I got the chance to get back there again this summer. I don't think the season would have been complete without it, given how meaningful visits the last two years have been.

 Dry

"Grid" Outcome

I did use my Hagstrom map to get an idea of where to begin, but actually, that idea primarily came from Tom at the supermarket where I work. Beyond those two initiatives, I used no map, no GPS, nothing but my wherewithal. That was easy, not only because I already knew some of the roads of the Musconetcong Valley--this not my first time fishing the river, and I've accumulated the experience of driving along it's entire length, on some occasions fishing it. It was easy because I don't get direction confused. Since I understand all the roads exist on a grid, as it were, all I need is the abstraction, "grid," and I know where to go. The cool thing about this "grid" is that it doesn't exist as any electronic configuration or printout as a map. It's entirely spiritual, entirely of the mind, but how can it be only "in" the mind and result in actual orientation? 

Besides, it was nothing compared to what we used to do as kids. We called it the Space Cruise. On a number of occasions, we loaded into my station wagon at night, rode up from Mercer County into North Jersey where we didn't know the roads and smoked joints while listening to the Dead. We got stoned off our asses as we rode all sorts of roads for dozens of miles, but we never failed to get back by one or two in the morning. I always drove and used that same sense of unfailing direction. 

Today, I felt very pleased to find a pull over right down in Bloomsbury, where I began fishing below where the river passes under Interstate 78. I missed two hits from little eight-inch bass on a *5 Rapala floater, spotted one of about 11 inches not interested, and watched a rainbow trout of about 13 inches swoop behind the lure repeatedly as it must have computed that lure was nothing to eat. Not by any conscious reason as we have. Not even if we're stoned beyond personal recognition. But trout have brains that organize perception into action instantaneously. They don't have to think.

Cool stuff. 

When you think about it.

I soon realized this afternoon that it might be productive to walk and wade upstream of that access point in Bloomsbury. I had switched to a Senko and got nothing but sunfish interested, but it would have been a different day, and possibly resulting in more fish, if I had locked the car, slung tackle bag over shoulder and begun walking. What I need to do first is wrestle studs into my Patagonia wading boots.

Even though down there it wasn't rocky. Because another couple miles upstream and the river has freestone quality, but it's off limits because of club property. I don't know how far upstream I can hike from Bloomsbury, before I have to stop. In any case, some of the big trout that get stocked in the club stretches--find their way out. 

I kept heading upstream and finding spots where I couldn't access fishing. Eleven years ago, my son, Matt, and I fished the river down around Bloomsbury. One or two points of access I did not find today. My next spot was just upstream of the Asbury Mill. One look at the river above the dam told me bass have to exist in the stretch, but it was relatively shallow and I knew it could hold few relative to its surface acreage. So I selected targets and made sure each got at least three casts, just in case a bass was reluctant to take my Senko--but might just yet. Nothing happened, except that, true to my assumption, I spotted three small largemouths swimming by. 

I drove on and found access maybe a quarter mile upstream for the same slow water. Once again, I selected spots and worked them, but besides one bump, all I got were sunfish taps. I felt good by then, though, because by faithfully working that river, I had got over a good bit of my alien sense in relation to it. I get disgusted with myself, if a river doesn't at least begin to absorb me into itself, but catching a decent fish or two helps.

Then I did my dance with unfamiliar roadways, ending up in Hampton. I avoided being directed to State Highway 31 by veering onto other roads I didn't know. I ended up finding access with two large parking lots and fishless water. Again, one would shoulder up and wade. 

But the Musconetcong River seems to have a lot of thin water. Take that, though, from a guy who has walked the river only in one area. Who found some good holes there, too.

Next I hit a spot at Changewater, catching an 11-inch bass on the #5 Rapala and a rainbow trout about the same length as the bass. Instead of  photographing the trout, I very quickly released it. It was 87 degrees out, and though the water was so cool I could feel chill--the Musconetcong is spring fed to significant degree--I just wanted this fish to get back on its way. And it did that, showing no signs of disorientation. 

Last, I tried off State Highway 57, before I arrived in Hackettstown to cut over to Long Valley. Again, the spot was shallow and had no fish. I waded. Fished thoroughly. You never know about knee-deep water. But no sign of fish. It wasn't the only possible access up that way, but it was about time to call it a day. 

Bloomsbury

Up from Asbury

Outside of Hampton

Highway 57

Pike Action

Frist cast resulted in a 10-inch northern pike. Interesting, because if my information is correct, the first stocking point is many miles downstream below Chatham. I was in Long Hill Township, pretty close to Basking Ridge. Another pike maybe 18 inches long took a swipe at the plug, next cast. I was using a #11 Rapala floater. 

Upstream ust a little way, I winged a cast across the river, trying to get the plug near some wood. Mid-river a big pike rushed it, and though I could somehow feel the force of the fish's pass, hooks never got grab. The surface bulged more than a yard across. 

All of the action was right near the bridge where I parked. 

Further downstream, I hooked another 18-incher, but it got off. 

Thirty-eight minutes culminating after sunset. 

Held That Bass to the Last Moment

Mark told me it rained buckets yesterday up his way, but the ground must have absorbed it, because the river wasn't high and not off color. (I did notice on the way home that the South Branch at Long Valley was muddy.) 

We took a long hike in, and when we began fishing, I had that sense of nothingness come over me, as if the river wasn't going to give back. Even though Mark caught a seven-incher pretty quick, I wasn't convinced. But you've got to meet the river on its own terms. It's full of creatures like smallmouth bass and trout, all of them struggling to stay alive, so you've got to get in the water and be an effective predator like them. 

It didn't take too long before I broke past the spell and hooked a bass on half a Yum Dinger, a pretty good fish that got off the hook. It had taken some sense to break the worm in half. If I were just standing there, casting and reeling back, giving no thought to the fishing, taking in no perception, I'd use only the full five inches. Maybe I would never have caught my first Musconetcong River smallie, photographed above. 

Mark had gone further upstream and got into a lot of little bass he caught on a little pink plastic worm  I decided to take to the trail and walk way up. I found a stretch my head told me was too shallow. My experience and intuition told me something else, "This is the kind of spot where I might hook a big one." My head or ego allowed the feeling only on condition that I could leave the stretch fishless with no loss to him. What's more, my ego allowed me to look at the stretch and see a little #5 Rapala floater working. (What if it weren't to work?) To tell you the truth, I always play it pretty fast and loose with my ego. He knows I find ways when all he does is doubt. 

I tied on the floater. I found that without a little snap, it still jerked around in the water convincingly. That no doubt--convincingly to a bass of two-and-a-half or maybe three pounds. I hooked the fish and thought I got a snag. A moment passed and I felt a a throb. The fish was on two or three seconds, but I never budged it, it was so big. I saw a huge boil on the surface after the hook pulled. Next cast, I caught another little bass like my first one.

I went further upstream and phoned Mark. He would meet up with me soon. When he did, I was fishing a very interesting deep run, though I'd had only a couple of hits on a Senko, maybe from sunnies. I put a jig and Berkley Leech down, snagging a sucker. Quite a tussle but nothing like smallmouths fight. Mark joined in and broke out his box of nightcrawlers. Downstream, he had caught a rainbow trout on one of them. After a few trials of nightcrawler-weighted-by-split-shot and carried through the deep sluice, he hooked a big smallmouth.

"Look at the size of that thing," he said.

The fight was long and involved. A lot of drag screeching. We both saw the bass plainly in the clear water, and I was sure it was north of 17 inches. Eighteen? I didn't think it was quite that long, but we would measure it to be sure. I had my Stanley in the bag. One of the little 12-foot tapes. 

Finally, I had Mark's net in my hand and in the water. I felt relaxed and ready to lift, once Mark brought the bass over the net. That would happen in a matter of seconds. The line broke. We both saw the break in the knot. The knot had gone bad. It had held that fish until the last moment. 

 

Plenty of Fish Back There

Brian and I were going to fish one of the Newark Reservoirs today. He bailed, so I emailed Oliver. He was up to something else today with family, so I went over to the North Branch with killies leftover from the Island Beach surf Sunday. I got skunked and never posted. Not a tap. Just no fluke there, while they seem everywhere else. Maybe Fred's been catching even more of them. I know Brian caught dozens Sunday at Manasquan Inlet, I think he said, though no keepers, but he lost a big one.

It was really interesting at the 202/206 bridge. Much more interesting than I have time to go into, and I was there only an hour or so. I had a nice smallmouth take my large killie on the first cast. Once in the water, that killie was dancing around with the precision and speed of an insect, but it got caught, and then that smallmouth veered off to my left at high speed. I tightened up quickly and set the hook, hoping not to gut hook it, but I just pulled the killie free. And I kept using it while none of a few other little smallies would take it. I saw a rainbow trout, too. Ninety-four degrees out.

And then a largemouth just blundered into the scene, and I let that killie sink a little into its path. It just opened its maw, took in that big killie, kept going--while I suddenly had become aware my line had tangled on the bail I had opened. I got it free in a jiffy but that bass had dropped the bait, because it felt tension on that line.

I put on a fresh killie as if that would make all the difference. Meanwhile, I saw another, larger, rainbow trout. (I once came upon someone here in August with two rainbows on a stringer.) The fresh killie was, again, quick as an insect, and of course, this was supposed to attract a bass. Eventually, a really nice smallmouth of about 13 or 14 inches lumbered into view and I moved the killie to get it active. Yes, that attracted the bass, which stopped its approach as the killie moved away faster. I got the killie to stop, and the bass advanced again, but then the killie again moved swiftly, and instead of lunging, as you would expect of an oh-so-fierce predator, the bass lazily turned and lazily swam off into the darkness under the bridge.

I cast back under there repeatedly over the course of an hour. I was certain, after the encounter with that nice smallmouth, there were plenty of fish back there.

Trolled a Nice Pickerel

We did a lot of trolling while fishing Clinton Reservoir for three hours. I had suggested we do so after our last outing, because I had caught a lot of pickerel and bass trolling Tilcon Lake in recent years. Today, I mostly trolled my favorite Storm Hot 'n Tot that gets down 10 or 12 feet, deeper when I let out more line, though I also tried a jointed Rapala in shallows. Brian insisted on shallow running plugs, because he knows someone who recently caught bass on unweighted live herring over 20, 30, and 40 feet of water. 

We also cast rocky shorelines. I used a Senko, Brian plugs and a Chatterbait. Nothing happened this time. 

Wind was pretty heavy. I thought overcast skies would be in our favor, but perhaps the Senko was effective last time because bass tucked in close to shore to hide from the sunlight in shadows. 

After we had got pretty far down lake, Brian spoke about his favorite cove, and when we got there, I felt my confidence grow after I had got a solid hit on the Storm diver. Brian had me sit in the back and run the electric, and I had been setting the speed pretty low, now watching the line intently and feeling as if something more would happen. A minute or two later, the pickerel hit powerfully. I thought I had a nice smallmouth on, until the fish leapt three feet out of the water. Twenty-one-and-a-half inches.