There’s something about the start of October that flips a switch in the Northeast angler’s mind. Summer’s long days and light-tackle fluking sessions are behind us. Albies are still streaking through the rips, but the chatter at the tackle shops and on the docks suddenly shifts to one thing—tog. Blackfish season has a way of commanding attention the moment it opens, and for many of us, it’s a tradition as much as it is a fishery.
Unlike other inshore species, tautog seem to cultivate a unique following. Striped bass may get all the headlines, and fluke keep boats busy through summer, but togging has its own underground culture. Maybe it’s the ruggedness of the hunt, the busted knuckles, or the way these fish demand precision on heavy structure.
Everyone I know who fishes for tog has their own rituals. Some swear by certain crabs—white leggers versus greenies, hermits if you can find them. Others fuss over rigs: Snafu for the big ones, a single hook for quick drops, jigs when the current allows. There are endless debates about leader length, hook style, and even the angle of the cut in the crab shell.
For many, the ritual starts before the boat ever leaves the dock. Bait buckets are filled the night before. Hooks are sharpened, rods retied, sinkers separated by ounce increments. Blackfish are unforgiving on gear, and showing up unprepared is a recipe for heartbreak.
Knuckles and White Chins
I’ve always said you don’t really “catch” a tog—you fight for it. The bite is subtle, often just a faint tap, but the second you lift the rod to drive the hook home, it’s as if you hooked a cinderblock. Tog waste no time in trying to bulldog back into the rocks. More than one angler has watched helplessly as line parts against barnacle-encrusted structure.
And yet, that’s what makes them so addictive. Every hook-set is a gamble—will it be another short, or will it be that slab-sided white chin that blows up your day? The big ones seem to show up in slow motion. When a true double-digit tog clears the surface, black fins flashing and mouth clamped tight, the celebration is always louder, rowdier, more genuine. These fish earn your respect.
The culture of togging is just as fascinating as the fish themselves. It’s passed down in families, from uncles teaching nephews to work a crab on light tension, to fathers showing sons the importance of patience on the hook-set. In the Northeast, I’ve met countless anglers who don’t fish much all summer, but come October, they dust off the rods for blackfish season like it’s a holiday tradition.
Even on the party boats, you can sense it. Tog regulars know each other by name. They swap sinkers, share crab buckets, and trade good-natured jabs when one angler drops a fish at the rail. There’s a camaraderie built into the fishery. Tog may be stubborn, but they also have a way of bringing people together.
Of course, part of the appeal is culinary. Blackfish are easily among the best-tasting fish in our waters, with firm, white fillets that stand up to any recipe. Tog chowder, baked tog with breadcrumbs, or simply fillets in the pan with butter and lemon—there’s no wrong way to enjoy them. I know plenty of anglers who guard not only their spots but their recipes just as fiercely.
Every October, when the air turns crisp and the leaves start to fall, I find myself drawn back to it. The ritual, the fight, the camaraderie, and the feast—it’s all part of why tautog season feels like more than just fishing. It feels like heritage.
So as you gear up this October, remember that you’re not just chasing another fish. You’re participating in a tradition. Tautog may be tough, but that’s exactly why we love them.
