A few years back I was scrolling through Instagram and I came across this account that showed a long-haired, kind of geeky-looking dude that was posting pictures of all the typical New England fish, a bunch of B-list species, along with a few I didn’t even know swam in our waters. Reading his posts, I could tell he was intelligent and obviously knew how to fish, so I cold-called him about writing an article. He told me that he’d wanted to write for years but said no one seemed to take him seriously. In the time since, Rowan Lytle has written maybe a dozen articles for me and he has become a great friend.
Rowan calls himself “Connecticut’s weirdest fishing guide”. I have fished with some heavy hitters in my day, but the more I fish with Rowan, the more I realize that he is among the very few anglers I have crossed paths with that I would categorize as elite. How he has accumulated the knowledge he stores in his fish-obsessed brain by age 25 baffles me. And every time I fish with him, not only do I learn something completely new about the sport that has consumed me through my 43 years, but he also always finds a way to make me a little bit of a better fisherman than I was when I arrived. I don’t think I could pay a higher compliment to a fishing guide. And that’s not BS, that’s fact.
Back in May he texted me out of the blue, ‘how’s your Saturday looking?’ I usually try to leave Saturdays open for family time, but I knew I was about to make an exception. For the few weeks prior, Rowan had sent me some photos of truly impressive smallmouth bass. Smallies are among my favorite species to target, yet I don’t get to fish for them all that often, so I was extra excited to do it his way. Rowan is a master of finesse fishing, which is definitely not my strong suit, throwing 3/32- to 1/8-ounce marabou jigs sounded like the perfect way for me to build on my finesse game.
Early on Saturday morning, I arrived at an unassuming train bridge and before I knew it, we were tip-toeing on the tracks, from one railroad tie to the next, water lazily streaming below. He pointed to a plume of muddy water rounding the corner and spewing out between the pilings of the bridge, “that’s from carp feeding in the cove behind us,” he said, “the smallies love to hide in that mud, so fish along the mud line.” I tied on a 1/8-ounce marabou jig and did as he instructed, within 8 seconds, I felt a fish take the jig and landed a feisty 2-pound bronzeback. A handful of casts later and I hooked a freight train that dove deep and broke me off!
Throughout that morning, we spot-hopped in Rowan’s SUV, some produced, others did not. As we approached the last spot, he promised, “We’re going to do very well here.” Pointing down a towering embankment, littered with bottles, chip bags, broken glass and building debris, he said, “You’re going to climb down there and stand near that tree.” I pictured myself tumbling to the bottom, splashing into the murky water. And then carefully (if not gingerly) negotiated the muddy, tangle of bramble and litter, and from the first cast, the bite was on fire. I’d modestly estimate that we landed 20 fish between us many of them in the 3- to 4-pound class, Rowan landed one freak that was easily over 6 pounds. On my final cast, I landed my biggest of the day, a fish that pushed past the 5-pound threshold.
On our way back to my truck, parked at the first spot, Rowan suggested that we should try for a couple more smallies before leaving. I wasn’t going to say no to that. As I climbed down the slope to the water, Rowan said, “I’m going to check something first, be right back.” Within a minute I saw him streaking back toward me on the tracks. “I’m putting the canoe in, follow me!”
In what seemed like 10 seconds, he had the canoe launched. “You’re gonna catch a carp on the fly rod” he said with just a hint of evil in his voice. “I barely fly fish!” I protested, but he insisted and I typically welcome any challenge, so off we went. Poling through flooded forests, we scanned the calm water for bubbles – the telltale signature of carp feeding. After several spooked fish, and a few missed opportunities, I placed a short and clumsy cast in the right place and watched the strange hairball fly disappear into the murk. Watching for any sign of line movement, the fly settled, but no indication of a bite followed. The bubbling ceased, “SET!” Rowan called out, the fly rod doubled and an angry carp shot out of the silt like a torpedo. A few minutes later, Rowan netted, what I can only describe as a butterball of a carp and lifted it into the boat.
This was no record-breaking fish, but I can tell you that I will never forget it. As we poled back to the launch, his afternoon charter was waiting. My stomach was churning with excitement, and still, as I sit here writing this two days later, I feel giddy, like a child. I cannot wait to do it again. Please follow Rowan on Instagram @ct.fly.angler; he’s in a class all his own.
