In 1993, when Massachusetts artist Alan J. Robinson released his limited-edition book Trout and Bass, it included 18 flies tied by the renowned Jack Gartside, who was recognized by his peers as one of the most innovative fly tiers of the modern era.
Part of Gartside’s genius was developing deadly yet easy-to-tie flies. His Gurgler and Slider topwater patterns became saltwater standards. Jack’s book Striper Strategies was described by reviewer Steve Raymond as “one of the most remarkable striper-fishing manuals to see the light of day.”
Gartside, who died in 2009, was one of a kind. He appeared on the cover of Fly Fishing in Salt Waters, making a cast while riding his large inflatable giraffe “Gerald.” When Lefty Kreh was asked his opinion of Gartside, he said, “His paint don’t dry.”
I met Gartside while helping at Robinson’s booth at a fly fishing trade show in Marlborough, Massachusetts. Robinson’s friend Dale Linder was also attending the show. Gartside was holding court, joking and tying flies at a nearby table. He invited the three of us to try fly fishing for striped bass when the weather warmed up.
On a bright June afternoon, we waded onto a Newburyport striper flat. Gartside caught one small schoolie after another while the rest of us got skunked. Not one to mince words, Gartside told me my retrieve resembled a motion he associated with self-gratification.
I was more concerned with the waves filling my boots. When I realized I couldn’t walk, I yelled for help.
“Don’t worry!” Gartside replied. “When your waders are full, you’ll reach neutral buoyancy.”
Linder had more humanitarian instincts. Luckily, he was also strong. He waded over and hoisted me up. I leaned forward and dumped out the water. I headed to shore on wobbly legs, telling myself, I don’t belong here. But we weren’t done. Gartside had another spot for night fishing.
The evening sun was slipping from from view as the tide came in. We stumbled through the grassy hummocks and sucking muck of a tidal flat and arrived at a point. Gartside walked out onto a rock jetty and started casting. Robinson, Linder, and I spread out along the shore.
I was using a borrowed 8-weight outfit heavier than anything I’d ever used. The sink tip and bulky streamer added another degree of difficulty, and I was hesitant to wade out very far in the dark, unknown waters.
I’d make woefully short casts, sit down on the sand for a while, get up, and do it again. I sweated, cursed, and caught nothing. Around 1 a.m., the agreed time to depart, I heard Robinson and Linder talking as they walked back up the beach. Then I heard a splash.
There was enough moonlight to see surface swirls of what I suspected were feeding fish. I slapped out another cast, stripped twice, and got a jolting strike. Slack flew up through the guides, but before I got the fish on the reel, a loop of line was yanked tight around my right index finger.
The rod was straight out now. So was my finger. Unaware of my predicament, Robinson started yelling, “Let the fish run, Jack! Let him run!”
I grabbed the line below the first guide, pulled, and got enough slack to free my trapped digit. There was a momentary tug of war, then the hook pulled out, and the line went limp. Robinson and Linder made a few casts, but the fish had departed to deeper water. As we reeled up to leave, Robinson said, “Well, at least you had one on.” It wasn’t much consolation.
We found Gartside standing where we’d left him. He had a fish taking drag, but it turned out to be an unremarkable striper, foul hooked in the tail. The walk back to the car held another surprise.
Gartside inflated a small rubber raft. I was puzzled. It looked like a child’s pool toy. But it became apparent that we’d need the damn thing to get back to terra firma. A wide ditch that was ankle deep on the way in was now a flowing canal. Gartside assembled a plastic paddle, handed it to me, and said, “We’ll go one at a time.” A length of thin rope was attached to the raft for retrieval.
Some experiences enlighten us. Others just remind us of the fragility of our existence. I paddled anxiously across the outgoing current as Gartside yelled, “Row a little faster, Jack, unless you want to go out to Plum Island!”
Here We Go Again
Fast forward to 2017. I’ve lived in Lakeville, Maine for 18 years. Ed Roberts, who I frequently fish with, lives half the year near Grand Lake Stream, a premier landlocked salmon fishery, and half the year in Florida. Both of us have more than 60 years in the rear view mirror, and like me, Roberts is originally from Connecticut. He’s a stalwart friend with a good sense of humor.
Among other things, Roberts time-shared a Battenkill River fishing camp with Joan and Lee Wulff. He made his living as a mechanical engineer, and he’s also an expert rod builder who works with bamboo as well as graphite. It’s not a cliché to describe him as young for his age. Forget white hair as a marker of senescence. For arm exercise, he does hammer curls with dumbbells I strain to lift.
When he captained an offshore sport boat on the Connecticut coast, Roberts and his clients fished for everything from sharks to yellowfin tuna. Now he fishes the flats when he winters in Vero Beach, Florida. He also spends a week in Rhode Island every summer, fly fishing for striped bass at night. He invited me to try it.
Wading the ocean after sundown? Fishing a channel coming out of a tidal marsh? I had my doubts. Roberts described a spot where he rarely encounters other fishermen. To get down to the water, he hangs onto a rope tied to the base of a tree. He says it’s easier than it sounds.
I was still hesitant, so he had me try the fly rod he uses; the action fit me to a T. He offered to build me an identical 9-weight. Okay, Ed, I’m in.
Into the Night
It’s June 2019—my third trip now. The long day’s drive from Maine includes the usual stop in New Hampshire for tax-free liquor. We arrive in Rhode Island late in the afternoon.
The house we rent, like our arrival routine, has become pleasantly familiar. Boxes and coolers are emptied into cabinets, drawers, refrigerator. The portable grill goes on the table out back. Tackle goes in the front room.
We sit at a small table on the front porch overlooking Narragansett Bay, decompressing from eight hours on the road. Roberts lights a cigar while I poke through fly boxes. We decide when to eat. After supper, we assemble rods, check tippets. Tackle goes back into Roberts’ SUV.
Fishing at night, we don’t attract unwanted attention to where we fish. It’s silly to think of other fishermen as interlopers, but our sense of ownership is reinforced by the solitude we have come to expect once the sun goes down. Half an hour before dark, we turn onto the familiar grass-crowned two-track. No one else is parked at the sandy dead end.
We suit up and walk in. Crossing the elevated field, we can see the incoming tide filling the back reaches of the marsh. Two herons stand motionless on a distant mud flat. The air still has the low-tide tang of salt and clean decay.
The coiled rope is where we left it hidden last year, tied to the base of a small cedar. The slope I once imagined as daunting is neither long nor steep. The rope is a convenience, not a necessity. Roberts gives it a test yank before we go down….
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Jack Gagnon was a monthly contributor and part-time editor for the Northwoods Sporting Journal (sportingjournal.com) in West Enfield, Maine for 15 years. His work has appeared in Trout, Fly Fisherman, Virginia Sportsman, Gray’s Sporting Journal, The Upland Almanac, and Sporting Classics.
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