Concerned that your summer “to do” list is going to interfere with your time on the water?

Not to worry.

These hot August days were made for “getting all your work done during the day” and “fishin’ early and late.”

If you’re looking for a quiet paddle on a pond or lake at a relaxing pace, or a quick and productive fishing outing on your boat, stick to sunrise and sunset.

Once the kids roll out of bed and grab some breakfast, chances are they’re heading down to the lake, especially with the daytime temps we’ve been experiencing. Mom and Dad will outfit the boat for a day, probably tow behind an inner tube or two for some fun and there go the fish, headed down to the depths.

Recreational boat traffic on some of the region’s larger lakes can be pretty significant during the dog days of August, and it can make for a tough time for an angler, particularly if you’re trolling.

You may find a quiet bay or backwater if the lake is big enough, but you’ll miss out on the solitude that many look for.

As the temperatures soar on either side of the noon hour, it’s best to leave the fish alone, anyway, especially if you’re plying the area’s trout streams. Water temperatures are extremely important to the trout, from regulating their body temperature to holding enough oxygen and when the stream thermometer inches it’s way toward 68 degrees or so, neither are working very well, and it’s time to get that yard work done and come back later.

Sure, you can still catch fish, although they might be a bit more sluggish in the warmer water. But if you’re a proponent of catch-and-release, the warmer water makes the “release” end of the statement a dicey proposition.  You’re not the only one stressed by an afternoon in the 90s; but you have options. The fish? They’ve got no place to go and no choice but to live with that 100 percent humidity. The energy they’ll use to get to your fly and the fight after they’ve taken it won’t leave them much to go on once you’ve let them go.

If you’re headed to the stream, however, to catch a few for the dinner plate, don’t worry about it, but remember, you’re going to have to get that fly right in front of their nose; they aren’t moving very far during the dog days.

So that leaves a fish-early-or-fish late scenario for a lot of anglers.

I’ll opt for fish early. It’s going to be cooler at sunrise and the overnights (hopefully, they’ve been clear and cool) have dropped the water temperature to acceptable levels. If we’re really lucky, we may have even gotten some rain overnight. And, honestly? There’s nothing more I hate than getting on the stream and slowly losing sunlight. I’ve got a hard enough time tying knots and these small flies. It gets exponentially frustrating the darker it gets. At least if I hit the stream in the dark, I know it’s only going to get better.

And later, when it gets really hot – too hot for yard work – there’s always that inner tube.

 

 

This time of year, when water temperatures are an issue on the region's trout streams, I feel more like a turkey hunter – arising well before dawn and staggering out the door to go trout fishing.

But that's what we have to do right now, since water temps generally rise steadily during the day and often by mid- to late morning have reached the high 60s and sometimes higher. That's much too high for the trout, which deserve a break from any fishing pressure, since simply surviving can be a challenge in itself.

Cooler nights of late have helped considerably, but I still err on the side of caution and would much rather leave the trout alone for some late-season opportunities when the waters have definitely cooled and the trout are on the prowl, putting on the feedbag ahead of the long North Country winter.

But right now there are certainly opportunities to get out on your favorite trout stream, as long as you do it early and keep an eye on the water temperature.

And, to be honest, it's one of my favorite times of the season.

Terrestrial time.

Tossing grasshopper, ant and beetle patterns is perhaps the most exciting way to fly-fish for trout; certainly a lot more fun that dredging nymphs well below the surface. Hopper, ants and beetles virtually guarantee explosive strikes on those days when the fish are keyed in on terrestrials, and I typically jumpstart the hopper season, casting them enthusiastically, knowing full well there are probably other, more effective ways of catching fish and the grasshoppers haven't yet appeared.

But they have now, and I've been heading out early and often, skipping the sunny mid-days when, to be honest, the hoppers are more likely to be active but the water temps aren't conducive to rousting trout. Even shortly after sunrise, when the terrestrials aren't stirring, trout will respond to any reasonable presentation.

It's delightful fishing. Strikes can be explosive and memorable, even when you miss the fish. The flies themselves are often gaudy, easy to see, with colorful names like Chernobyl Ant, Dave's Hopper, Joe's Hopper, Letort Cricket, Letort Hopper, Fat Albert and Galloup's Ant-Acid. Often, you don't even have to match what's showing up locally. Sometimes the most outrageous of patterns draw the most attention from the trout.

I even tie foam flies of my own, and they work consistently enough for me to realize that, while they don't look too good to me, they pass the eye test with the trout. And that's all that matters.

Keep an eye on the water temps, and even if you have to get out there are first light, pitch some hopper, ant or beetle patterns for some exciting surface action on the region's superb trout waters. Most of the anglers have packed it in for the season and have gone on to other waters in search of bass and pike. You'll likely have a stretch of stream all to yourself, and there's no better place to greet the morning that our outstanding trout streams.

After three days of using my boot drier last week I was pretty excited about a hike on a dirt road instead of soggy trails.  I had the good fortune to join Steven Engelhart of Adirondack Architectural Heritage on a trip into the magical Camp Santononi.  Steven and 2012 intern Charlotte Barrett were launching a new interpretive guide which Barrett wrote.  Despite downpours throughout the drive to Newcomb, Steven and I talked excitedly about the work that's been done at Santononi.  Michael Frenette, a Tupper Lake craftsman, has been working for 16 years on the restoration of the historical buildings and lots of progress has been made since I was last there in 2006.

Curiosity about this National Historic Landmark runs deep.  Donning rain gear, bug nets and great attitudes, over 20 members of the tour listened while Steven began the interesting history of Robert and Anna Pruyn and Camp Santononi, beginning at the Gatehouse.  The Gate Lodge was built in the 1905 and has its own history of occupancy by interesting employees and family members while the Pruyn family developed the compound which eventually included over 40 buildings.

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Our group set out along the dirt road which was built to travel the five miles from the Gatehouse, through the Farm Complex, to the Main Lodge.  One hundred years ago the road was groomed along both sides but now the farm fields have grown in. The forest has reclaimed the right-of-way with wild plants and trees.  The dirt roadway made walking easy and pleasant as we listened to the sound of brooks and streams that are flowing from all the recent rain. 

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The first stop at the Farm Complex was a chance to explore the Creamery, one of the stone buildings built during the era when barns, animals and gardens surrounded the homes of the Farm Manager and other members of the Pruyn's staff.  The Farm staff were committed to modernizing farming practices and the new guide gives a well-researched review of the buildings and planning that modernization required.  Unfortunately many of the oldest buildings were destroyed when the property was incorporated into the Forest Preserve in 1972.  Later the barn was destroyed by a fire in 2002.

Our hike went quickly as Steven and Charlotte and 2013 AARCH intern Nina Caruso offered stories about the history of the Pruyn family.  The forest on both sides of the road are full of the majestic yellow birches, beeches and maples that make the canopy lush and green.

The distance on such a quiet road makes it easy to feel the way the Pruyns must have felt arriving at their destination.  The first steps onto the wide porches draw you immediately to the lake side of the house.  The architecture is unique and well-explained by the AARCH staff.  AARCH also has published an excellent book about the influence of Japanese architecture on Camp Santononi (Santanoni: From Japanese Temple to Life at an Adirondack Great Camp, Keesville, NY: Adirondack Architectural Heritage, 2000.)

As rain continued to fall we were grateful for the porches.  Everyone who lives in the Adirondacks is grateful for porches.  Everyone who visits should have the experience of being on a wide, dry porch as rain falls on surrounding trees and lakes.  History and habit made me want a cup of tea.  If one had the privelege to stay for a few hours a nap, a book or a deck of cards for solitaire would be in order.

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We did not have those few extra hours to spend so were satisfied to explore the architecture of the house and the enviable boathouse.  More sunshine would have made  a swim or paddle in order to fully take advantage of what the Pruyn's enjoyed at camp.  Instead we walked the five miles back, taking in the bird calls and the work of elven rock builders.  Ten miles and 250 years round trip.

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It's inevitable. Every summer we get one or two of those scorchers – highs into the 90s and the humidity registering off the scale (or so it seems).

Now, imagine being a fish.

No, they don't have to worry about the humidity, but think about trying to drink a warm beer on a hot day. Now you're getting the idea – a trout's summer life.

Being a coldwater species, trout thrive in water temps that would make us shiver if we stood in them for very long. But those temperatures– optimum for a brookie is 58 degrees, a little higher at for a rainbow (up to61 degrees) and higher still for a brown trout, anywhere from 56-65 degrees –can be hard to find in some of our streams in the summer. Without the constant influx of cold water, as is the case on tailwater streams such as the Delaware River, trout will seek cooler waters in the summer and can become fairly sluggish. Too, as the water warms, the dissolved oxygen level drops, so not only are the trout looking for cooler water, but they'll also be searching out riffles and waterfalls or rapids for that extra air.

That's when Steve and I head to for the hills. The nativetrout streams of our area offer refuge for not only the brookies on a hot day,but anglers as well, looking for a refreshing break from the sun's heat.

These streams, many unmarked and mere trickles to start, are the perfect hangout for the summer. Shaded by the dense forest canopy and a good hike from the nearest road, they offer solitude for both fishermen and fish. But remember that the resource is fragile. While we have several stops on our summer brookie fishing tour, we'll hit one only once a year and, as usual,it's all catch and release. It's tough enough being a fish in those conditions;we don't need to be stressing them out every week by going in and catching them over and over again – or, worse, keeping them. First of all, they aren't big enough to do anything with. These aren't the state record fish that end up on the wall, but you'd be surprised at the fight a 5- to 6-incher can put up when you're pulling it out of a pool the size of your dinnerplate on a 3-weight fly rod.

The summer's long-term forecast doesn't look too bad for the trout, as long as we can maintain good flows on the rivers and keep the overnights relatively cool. Let's hope we don't see a repeat of a couple of years ago when water temperatures on area streams shot in to the mid-70s,forcing local guides to steer people away from the streams. Luckily for those fishermen, the Adirondacks are blessed with an enviable pond and lake fishery and they didn't skip a beat in terms of landing fish.

So how hot is too hot?

First, make sure you have a thermometer with you. A digital one is best because, really, one degree is important when you're talking trout.This isn't something that you can guess.

Tons of studies will tell you that there is a threshold limit for trout species, but that's not the number you should be keying in on.While a rainbow trout may be able to live in 77-degree water, chances are it's not doing well and even catch-and-release would likely lead to the death of the fish.

Summer fishing is usually limited to very early morning before the sun has a chance to beat down on the stream. My go-home temperature is 68 degrees. When we're knocking on that number, I'll put the stream rod away and maybe head to another water, an area lake, for some smallmouth action.There's absolutely no reason to stress the fish anymore than they already are.How would you like it if someone handed you a warm beer on a hot day? 

 

I have to admit,when Steve said "Let's go fish the Hudson," my mind immediately went to West Point. Not sure why, other than I remember looking out over the river and seeing the military academy while riding the train to New York City.

I could have,just as easily, thought of the chilly (OK, really cold) Memorial Day weekend we spent at Lake Tear of the Clouds, at the river's first trickle, waking up one morning, chiseling out of the tent and making our assault on Mount Marcy.Anyone who knows us knows THAT Hudson River knows it suits us much better than the wide expanses downstream. So once I wrapped my head around OUR Hudson River, the trip took on new meaning.

This Hudson River is home to browns and rainbows in the upper reaches, and that's where we would start our journey. The drive to Newcomb is a real treat in itself; you're never really sure what you're going to see. Traveling along the road, we've ofcourse encountered deer and the small things – porcupines, foxes, the occasional coyote. We've never – in 16 years of travel – seen an Adirondack moose, but if you're going to run into one, this would be one of the places do it. That said, I hope we never really "run into" one. This particular trip was uneventful, save for the scenery you really can't get anywhere else in the state.

When you get to Newcomb, as the river begins its more "river-like" appearance at Henderson Lake, and you can go left or right, depending on what you're looking for. Head upstream and you'll soon find brown trout and a native brookie population.Downstream takes you into the stocked area where New York's Department of Environmental Conservation and Essex County plant 13,000 brown and rainbow trout farther downstream in the town of Minerva.

While not purists in any sense of the word (we've hooked many a stocked fish, thank you), when we have our druthers, Steve and I will seek out the native brookies.Although small, they are feisty and will put up a great fight on a light fly rod. These headwater streams are especially fun on a hot summer day, when the "outside" temperature can soar into the 80s. Under the forest canopy, high in the peaks,it's cool and inviting – just the way the trout like it. Steve and I will hit these brookie waters once a year, playing the fish, putting them back and moving on to the next stream the next year.

In terms of tackle, I like the fly rod in these smaller streams. A simple terrestrial pattern will almost always entice a strike. For years, I fished with a small yellow and brown "thing." I'm not sure what it was meant to imitate, but I had two of them in the fly box. The only place I would pull it out was on the small native streams scattered throughout Essex County. I finally lost the last one a couple of years ago, but Steve was kind enough to tie several any imitations with big (well, relatively speaking) blobs of neon foam on top so I could see them. I think that's why I liked the yellow and brown "thing." I could see it in those dark recesses.

The day on the Hudson ends all too quickly, like many days on the small, native trout waters.While the sun is still shining in the meadows and fields, it's getting too dark for me to see anything in the thick forest cover. This could very well be whenthe fish are most active, but my usual slow strike problems are only magnified when I can't even see the neon orange fly floating in front of me.

As we walk back to the truck, I again marvel at the small stream and what it holds. We'll be back, maybe not for a couple of years, but the brookies will likely be there,waiting in the cool pools for those strange orange ants to show up. 

On paper, my game plan in most spring gobbler seasons isto take a longbeard – or, let's be honest here, a jake – with my bow.

And I'm serious. I practice religiously; everything I do related to turkey hunting is done with reverence. My shooting entering this particular season was as good as ever (translated: decent) and I was armed, in addition to the Mathews Z7, with a portable blind as well as an umbrella-type camouflage stabilizer on my bow which, in theory, would allow me to run and gun for gobblers.

And it almost happened. On the second day of the New York season, I dragged an Essex County, public land longbeard and hen – well,actually the hen dragged the gobbler – into shooting range. There were some tense moments, for sure; the gobbler bred the hen at about 55 yards, then bothbirds worked their way slowly toward my position, tucked into some cedars,standing up, my bow positioned with the camo umbrella shielding me from view.

In typical turkey-hunting fashion, my head pounded to the beat of my heart as I watched it all unfold, just as it did nearly 35 years ago when I toted – half-dragged, actually – a single-shot, Harrington & Richardson 10-gauge I used to bag my first tom.

But this was clearly a different game. Straining to peek through the holes cut in the camo umbrella, my vision blurred and I had trouble judging the distance of the birds at times. And after about 20 minutes, my arms  and shoulders began to scream for relief, which wasn't coming until I released an arrow at this beautiful strutter I was trying to follow through the fuzziness of my camo shield.

I was getting dizzy at this point, my eyes focusing on the birds then snapped back to the camo netting, then back to the birds again. But they were closing the distance, and I was thinking this may happen.

But I knew it had to happen soon. My arms were telling me that as I wavered with the bow in front of me. Balancing on my left leg, I wiggled my right foot in the leaves, simulating a hen feeding.

The strutter let loose with a knee-buckling gobble and moved closer.

Boy, am I good, I thought.

Boy, are my arms killing me, I was quickly jolted back to reality. And I hadn't even yet drawn the bow.

But when the gobbler strolled to 30 yards, it was time. And it was then I learned – was actually reminded – that, camo or not, turkeys get a little nervous when they see any kind of movement.

The hen gave me away first, putting with some disdain. And when I drew on the longbeard, he flared violently, flying down over a ridge andout of sight. I never got off a shot.

That was bad. But the good news was his hen – his lone hen– scattered with just as much terror in the exact opposite direction.

I finally relaxed my arms, placed the arrow back in the quiver, lay down my bow and waited to stop shaking. Then I hiked out of there, went home, had a cup of coffee, worked a few e-mails, planned a few phone calls for the day, checked the clock.

At 8 a.m., I headed back out.

With the Mossberg 835.

Keep in mind, it wasn't like I promised to kill a gobbler with the bow that spring. I simply wanted to. And I tried. Probably will again, within the blind next time. I can't hold full draw endlessly waiting for a bird to materialize.

When I went back into the woodlot, I gave the gobbler a wide berth, looping around below him before getting back on the ridge where it all unfolded a couple of hours earlier. A few soft yelps, and he answered with a booming gobble, the kind that says, "I'll be there in just a minute."

And he was. Breaking in and out of strut as he worked through the hardwoods, down a slight hill, just off to my left, he ultimately presented me with a 28-yard shot.

Hevi-Shot, without a doubt, patterns better than any broadhead. I toted the 2-year-old, 18-pound tom off the hill, feeling not one bit guilty.

Sometimes you need a backup plan. Especially when it comes to turkey hunting. 

We've continued to explore the Hammond Pond Wild Forest, this time heading to Moose Mountain Pond. Signs of spring are everywhere in early May. Woodland flowers, such as Trillium and Trout Lillies, are blooming. The pale ash leaves that had clung to the branches through the winter now litter the trail, pushed off by new growth. There is a cacophony of bird songs. There is also an opportunity to see some of the small animals that live in the wild forest.

From the trailhead on Ensign Pond Road in North Hudson, the trail winds 3.2 miles along the Berry Mill Flow to a lean-to at Moose Mountain Pond. There are a few steep spots, but the trail soon levels out to long stretches of relative flatness. The 6 mile round trip might be long for young children, but there is plenty to see along the way. It would have been a fun hike even if we had turned back early.

[img:IMAG0355.jpg]At the trail junction we stayed left on the Moose Mt. Pond and Lean-To trail and soon arrived at the Berry Mill Flow. Beavers have been busy here, building a dam and a lodge. Pausing to watch a pair of ducks swimming in the resulting marshy pond, we caught sight of a beaver. Unfortunately, he disappeared under the water before I got my camera out of my pocket.

The trail's abundant blue trail markers are easy to follow, except in one place approximately one-half mile before the lean-to where the trail bends to the right and the next trail marker is not easy to see. We were bewildered for a few minutes, until we discovered we needed to trust the last visible trail marker, which it turned out was very carefully placed. By looking at it head-on, my son found he could see the trail ahead. We practice spotting trail markers often, and often my son navigates the trail better than I do.

At the end of the trail, my son enjoyed climbing into the lean-to more than looking at scenic Moose Mountain Pond. Using the charcoal remains of a camp fire, he added his name to many recorded on the interior walls and ceiling of the lean-to. I enjoyed sitting by the pond. The trees had just "popped" a few days prior, unfurling a palette of greens highlighted with the almost luminescent white bark of birch trees. I noticed a large frog sitting at the water's edge not far from me. It sat unmoving, even when my son joined me, and was still sitting there when we left. Other frogs jumped into the water as we explored the shoreline.

[img:IMAG0324.jpg]As we headed back, we startled a ribbon snake that quickly slithered off the trail. To be honest, it startled me too. The only venomous snakes in the Adirondacks are the timber rattlesnakes, and those are very rare north of Lake George. The ribbon snake is a variety of the common garter snake and quite harmless, but the sudden movement never fails to catch me by surprise. My son got a good laugh when I jumped out of my hiking boots.

We stopped for lunch beside the Flow, hoping the beaver would put in another appearance. A heron flew gracefully past, always a treat to see. I spotted movement on the opposite shore and thought I saw a bird, but it quickly disappeared. I watched the place for awhile and caught movement a few more times, but the bird was always quickly camouflaged. Perhaps it was an American Bittern teasing me from his hiding place.

The Hammond Pond Wilderness Area offers accessible trails for all ages and plenty of opportunities for spotting wildlife. We have one more trail to explore in this North Hudson treasure.

When spring comes to the Adirondacks, it's a glorious sight. The bright blue sky domes deciduous trees showing hints of green. Birds sing, frogs croak and all around are the sounds of water running over rocks. Even a short hike is a treat for the senses.

We were getting a late morning start, so my son and I headed back to the Hammond Pond Wilderness in North Hudson to explore Chalis Pond. The trail, which starts on Ensign Pond Road, is only 0.6 miles long. There is an easy incline to the first part of the trail, then it is mostly flat. At the end of the trail the lovely pond opened up in front of us.

Four people were fishing on the pond, floating in small rowboats and canoes. Sitting at the edge of the pond, we watched countless young trout play in the shallow water. Chalis is a reclaimed trout pond, which means that at one point all the fish in the pond were eradicated to eliminate non-native invasive fish, most likely escaped bait fish. The pond was then restocked with trout. If you plan to fish in Adirondack ponds, please note that live bait is prohibited in most places to protect the native trout populations.

We like to watch aquatic life, and we got quite a show at Chalis Pond. Besides the trout, there were many tadpoles and gilled salamander larvae. The salamander larvae are particularly fun to watch. With their short legs and tail fins, they look like a strange cross between lizards and fish, and proved fascinating to my nine-year-old hiking partner. Salamanders are not lizards. They are amphibians like frogs and spend much of their lives near water. Later in the summer we'll spot them in wet areas and after a rain.

My son discovered clusters of frog eggs in a swampy area just off the trail. He has asked for a return trip in a week or so to see if they've hatched. For kids who like to explore nature, like mine, a springtime hike to a pond can be very rewarding.

[img:Challistrialsign.jpg]For some time I've been curious about a little spot on the map that I thought was called Chalice Pond. Chalice--like a medieval goblet or something you'd use for communion. Two guidebooks refer to it as Challis Pond. A History of Essex County, edited by H. P. Smith in 1885, refers to an early settler named Timothy Chellis who lived on a road near the area and Barbara McMartin's guidebook attributes the name to him. The DEC sign at the trailhead says Chalis Pond although the DEC website says Challis.

The name has become a hook making me more and more curious. It has some originality. I don't know the official count of Long Ponds, Mud Ponds, Round Ponds, Clear Ponds or Moose Ponds but I know of at least three of each.

The trail to Challis Pond (since that's the way you'll find it in the guidebooks) leaves the Ensign Pond Road about 2.5 miles east of Rte 9 in North Hudson. Parking is around the corner at the trailhead to Moose Mountain Pond and Bass Lake. [img:chalis1.jpg]

April 18 the trail still had a generous amount of ice so I strapped on some traction. In places where the ice had melted there were wide puddles. I delivered my annual walk-in-the-trail-so-you-don't-widen-it-and-cause-erosion sermon to the youngsters with whom I was hiking. They willingly made the mud and snow melt into instant recreation.

The trail winds along for a bit more than half a mile with nice sound effects from a stream that comes from the pond. We walked through a lot of cedar trees and eventually arrived at the big rock fireplace at the shore of an almost perfectly round pond.

To the right the outlet that feeds the little stream was tangled with logs, which made for tricky crossing. That turned out to be the theme of the route around the pond. After a short stretch along a fisherman's path there was a long stretch of very tangled blowdown that made passage very slow. I stepped over logs and went three feet down into pockets of snow that probably won't melt until July. Finally we walked on top of the downed trunks, zig zagging until we could get where we were headed.

The [img:chalisburl.jpg]reward of battling the blowdown was that we saw lots of animal tracks and bird sign. It was too early for songbirds but a woodpecker was drumming out its version of a love song. No frogs or peepers yet—there was still ice on the shady side of the pond. Too early for good fishing as well. The mammoth burl on a yellow birch was the treasure of the day.

When we came back to the campfire ring it was raining so we only stopped for a few minutes then headed back under the tree canopy. By whatever name, Challis Pond is a short trip that's manageable for very young hikers who want to carry their own pack or fishing rod.  Also amusing for anyone who's curious about ponds with unusual names. It will make a nice ski or snowshoe trip in winter. 

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