South Coast & Buzzards Bay
By Captain Casey Allen
Focus on Finicky Albies
Time may be running short, but the 2025 season still has much to deliver for light-tackle and fly anglers. As our waters flood with a variety of small baitfish, predators like bass, blues, bonito, and albies will be in hot pursuit, providing plenty of excitement to sustain us when the action finally wraps up. Not to be overlooked, tautog will once more become a viable target in September, but things will only improve as we transition to October. For anglers seeking a change of pace, the freshwater scene should also be on fire for those targeting bass, pickerel, or trout. The fall trout-stocking program usually gets underway during late September or early October, but even lakes that don’t receive a fall delivery will have plenty of holdover fish willing to eat.
Though they’re not the only game in town, it’s hard not to focus on false albacore while they’re accessible to us. Buzzards Bay hasn’t featured the greatest runs the last few seasons, but every year is different, and perhaps we’re in for a good one this time around. In 2023, albies showed in force in the bay during early September, as usual, and things looked promising, but their numbers abruptly dropped off, and the ones that could be found were picky at best. After a disappointing lull, they made a huge resurgence during October. The problem during that time was no longer in their numbers, but the fact that they were nearly impossible to hook, regardless of which offerings were thrown. The bait was glitter-sized, making the albies oblivious to anything but the genuine article. Even foul-weather days did nothing to improve their cooperation, which was unusual.
One October day, I was anchored up tautog fishing as albies were casually sipping all around me as far as the eye could see. I tried a few different offerings—lures big and small, flies realistic and flashy—but didn’t even get a look. It didn’t take long to realize I needed to give up, but it took a lot to pay them no mind. I came across huge but subtle feeds in the same location for several days in a row, and despite their strong presence, hooking them proved irritatingly futile. It’s not unheard of to find albies in this mood from time to time, but this was something else. At that point, I wished they’d just move on and stop torturing me.
Conversations with other anglers confirmed they were experiencing the same thing, so my confidence was restored as we commiserated. If we’re lucky, peanut bunker or silversides will show in abundance rather than the tiny bay anchovies and “snot bait” we’ve seen the last few years. When the two former baits are present, albies tend to be at their most cooperative, so keep your fingers crossed.
When false albacore are in a difficult mood, there’s no silver bullet that will earn a bite, but having a variety of lures or flies in different sizes and shapes may help tip the odds in your favor. Because they’re toughest on small baits, spinning anglers should have some flies on hand to imitate minute forage that can be tied to a casting egg or other lure with a short length of light mono or fluorocarbon. My standard leader for spin or fly is 20-pound Ande mono, but in calm or bright conditions, I drop down to a fluorocarbon leader as light as 12 pounds. I’ve found that anything lighter succumbs to the albies’ small but abrasive teeth. This is most common when using flies because the fish tend to be hooked inside the mouth, resulting in the leader taking the damage.
Experiment with retrieve speed, since fast and furious isn’t always the way to get the job done. That said, sometimes burning the lure or fly (a Crease Fly or popper works well for this) along the surface will generate a reaction strike, especially when blind-casting. Speaking of blind-casting, if you’re striking out while casting into breaking feeds, you may as well attempt it since non-feeding fish may be less discriminating if a potential food item crosses their path.
Another detail to consider on tough outings is the type of bait the albies are feeding on, and whether a variety of baits are present in the area. I’ve had days where peanut bunker and bay anchovy schools were in the same general location, and the albies feeding on the former were aggressive, whereas those on the latter weren’t. I’ve also seen the same type of bait in different sizes from one school to another, with the larger bait contributing to more hookups. With a good pair of polarized sunglasses, you can easily distinguish peanut bunker from anchovies by the shade of the school below the surface. Peanuts almost always appear as a grey mass, whereas anchovies are usually red or brown. Schools of silversides may be less easy to distinguish, but they’re usually darker than anchovies. When in doubt, keep your eyes peeled for baitfish jumping from the water during blitzes. If it’s the size of a fingernail, expect to have your work cut out for you. Take some shots, of course, but be on the lookout for other bait schools to work if things don’t pan out.
It’s hard to believe we’re already approaching the end of the 2025 season, but I hope everyone was able to take advantage of the time we had, short as it seemed. The next couple of months should feature plenty of action, so I hope you’ll make the most of it and get your fix before winter.
Captain Casey Allen is an avid fly tier, fly fisherman, and a monthly columnist at On The Water Magazine. You can follow him on Instagram @captaincasey09.
Upper Cape Cod
By Captain Dave Peros
The Elizabeth Islands Aren’t Just for Albies
The scenario I am about to describe might be a dream for many anglers but, for me, it’s a recurring nightmare that gets worse with each passing season. I can’t imagine it getting any worse than last year, but I know it will this fall, and I am powerless to escape it since the horror takes place in reality and not in some corner of my mind.
You’ll have to excuse my dive into hyperbole, but if you fished the Elizabeth Islands in September and October not that long ago, you might not believe what the fall brings along our local archipelago. So, before I get into what currently disturbs me, let me give you an example of what I never (naively, I admit) thought would end.
I wish I could give you the exact year, but while the trip stands out due to the size and number of the fish we caught, we never imagined not encountering 40-plus-inch bass in numerous spots from Naushon to Cuttyhunk.
Part of the magic of the occasion was that we had every right to believe we might end up on the short end of the stick for one main reason: menhaden, a.k.a. pogies. But if you’ll bear with me, I’ll get to that after one of my typical digressions.
Even after just a few trips with Gene Bourque in his tin boat, it became clear that casting live eels would work anytime we hankered for some big stripers in the rocks, especially in the fall. The only stretch of the islands we needed to fish was the shoreline of Naushon because there were so many quality big bass around.
Eventually, we branched out to the Buzzards Bay side of the island, and it proved to be even better, allowing us to escape what we thought were crowded waters. And, due to my tendency for seeking new areas even when the old ones were fishing just fine, I expanded my horizons all the way to the end of the island chain, fishing tight to the rocks both day and night. I certainly had to learn where the boulder fields were so that I could set up a drift just outside one, but it was even more critical that I familiarize myself with the rogues, the huge boulders that lurked just below the surface at all stages of the tide.
Over the years of scribbling fishing columns and reports, I have often spoken of the need to recognize patterns and commit them to memory. On the other hand, it is equally important not to set so set in your ways that you obdurately stick with what once worked even as the evidence clearly shows that a change might be in order.
That’s the way I approached learning about the Elizabeths, taking as a warning the story of a charter captain out of Falmouth Harbor who was cruising through an area where he had no business running. It makes for a better tale to say that just as he cockily told those on board that he was familiar with every rock in Lackey’s Bay, he slammed into a rock, tearing out the bottom of his vessel. Apparently, he had a crew on board as part of a fishing-show production and the cameraman was knocked out cold.
Sure, I did my best to memorize the places where extra vigilance was necessary, and even today I still pull back on the throttle well out from where the isolated lower-unit munchers hang out. It’s important to gauge the speed of the current and wind direction, as well as becoming attuned to the vague feeling that sometimes suggest that no matter how much I want to fish an area, a twinge that convinces me to not push my luck.
I never want my name associated with the rock that the aforementioned captain struck; in fact, I often joke with folks on my boat when we are fishing near a mountain of what I like to think is granite. It carries the name of another mariner, although I have to admit that the exact nature of his error, along with the geology of the islands, are things I decided not to learn about. What I can tell you is they are quite hard and don’t play nicely with props and skegs, even if you just bump into them while drifting.
In at least one case, there is a rock leading into Tarpaulin Cove that carries the appellation Blue Rock, apparently because more than one unwitting (or arrogant) skipper left some bottom paint on it.
So, let’s connect my mental wanderings and get back to bass on that one fateful day. Gene had his typical supply of snakes, while I intended to be my contrary self and sling flies as well as a few metal-lip plugs. We had a very specific stretch of Pasque shoreline in mind, but even though we arrived before false dawn, another boat was already there and on the hook.
One way of increasing your odds of avoiding trouble is to anchor up, whether you set yourself at just the bow or both bow and stern. In this case, the two anglers were fishing pogies, so setting up on anchor made perfect sense. As we slowly passed well outside their location, we could see they were bailing fish as fast as their baits hit the water. They were shallow, so odds are that they were using livies.
If I come upon folks fishing pogies, I travel as far away as possible, even if I have the finest collection of Anguilla rostrata imaginable. The late, great fly-fishing legend Lefty Kreh had a wonderful expression when talking about how trout behave when they feed on a certain bug: “Putting a fly in there is like rolling a bottle of wine into a jail cell.”
It’s the same with pogies, and when a striper gets a taste of these oily, protein-rich fish, it’s all over.
The kicker in this tale, however, is that we moved to another of our favorite areas, caught big fish for several hours ourselves, and never saw another boat.
Years have passed since that day, and the bass fishery around the islands is a mere shadow of itself. The theories to explain what has happened are many, but in my mind, the most basic reason for the death of certain holes and drifts is the prevalence of chumming and chunking with those evil pogies by charter, commercial, and recreational anglers. Water temperature, pollution, the lack of lobsters and other crustaceans that stripers love, along with factors that nobody has yet uncovered also have to be considered.
No doubt there are still diehards who just can’t get the magic fishing for stripers in these waters out of their blood. Eels still work, and if you can get your hands on some menhaden, locate some fish, and feed them their “crack,” you can have a good day in the fall. Two years ago, there were schools of pogies down the Elizabeths, and I can still recall them stacked up in Tarpaulin as they were herded and charged by big bluefish, with nary a bass to be found.
So, after all that, you might be wondering where the roots of my nightmare are found, but it’s pretty simple.
I still like to fish the Elizabeths for bass in the fall and I will never stop, even if I experience a string of days like I did last October, when we cast spooks, swimmers, soft plastics, and jigs, and never caught a striper, schoolie or otherwise.
Meanwhile, over my shoulder I could see boats racing back and forth, up and down, from Woods Hole to Cuttyhunk, searching for albies. I could only shake my head as I passed Lackey’s or Tarpaulin and witnessed boats piled on top of each other, so close that their lines could easily hit another boat as they surrounded a single school of fish.
One day, I watched a flyrodder who loves to hang outside the madding crowd by himself, blindcasting current seams and edges where he has caught fish over the years. He was clearly enjoying himself just casting and hoping for an eat, but soon boats began to stream west after beating Surf Drive, Nobska, and the Hole to a froth. One by one, they formed a circle around his boat, with a few casting but most simply watching. In a couple of cases, they got so close that a 50-foot cast would have reached the water on the other side of his boat.
People who fish for albies and understand their habits know they are highly adept at running contours and pinning bait, at which point they go in for the kill. The Elizabeths harbor good funny-fish action because there is so much shoreline to set up their assaults, along with rip lines and strong currents.
Unfortunately, when fishing my favorite shorelines for bass, whether they are boulder fields, mixed weed patches and sand bottom, or small bowls with distinct points at each end, my boat must have a sign on it that lures the funny-fish fools in. After all, if I am casting, there must be something going on, right?
I am left with a sinking feeling that so many newcomers know the Elizabeths as albie or bonito waters, having never fished there for bass.
Two years ago, thanks to Bob Lewis, I had the opportunity to fish with Captain Scott Hamilton, who plies the water between Palm Beach and Jupiter, Florida. For a number of years, Bob traveled in June to that area of southeast Florida to fly fish for albies, blackfin tuna, mahi, jacks, and other species with Scott. Every time he returned from one of these vacations and told me about the experience, I could almost feel how good it had been.
Scott is the nicest guy imaginable and a real straightshooter. He made it clear that he wanted to fish for striped bass, not albies. In early July, we had a long phone conversation and he flat-out said that albies are a perfect gamefish and he never grows tired of them; however, that day, he wanted to try his hand at chucking flies at bass.
As an aside, while setting us up to fish a corner around Robinson’s, I spied some fish breaking behind me and, sure enough, they were albies. Suffice it to say that Scott casually changed gears from casting flies for bass and summarily hooked and landed albies on his first five casts. He used a floating line with a 6mm foam creation of his own that imitates a wounded pilchard (but in this case mimicked a peanut bunker just fine).
I have made fits and starts putting together an article on that trip, though I have the perfect title, Humble Pie, since I learned so much from fishing with Scott that day, the most important being that I really didn’t know as much as I thought.
Now, before anyone starts spouting that the Florida albie fishery is totally different than ours since they chum the fish up and get them in a lather before casting a fly into the action, Scott admitted that this is true, at times. But, he also has trips where the fish are as fussy as ours, and he really appreciated how cooperative the little tunny were before we turned our attention to a great day of bass fishing.
It was the best day of fall striper fishing I have enjoyed in years, and I had to laugh when he echoed what I had said, half in jest, a week or so earlier when responding to a question from Jimmy Fee for an article he was writing.
To wit, “What do you do when faced with finicky albies?”
“Go fishing for something else,” I said … like stripers, the fish that made the Elizabeths famous in the first place.
Captain Dave Peros is a pioneer of light-tackle and fly fishing down the Elizabeth Islands, and a longtime contributing author and columnist at On The Water Magazine.
Outer Cape Cod
By Captain Mike Rathgeber
The Best Part of the Season!
As the days get shorter, the warm summer southwest winds shift to more chilly and dry north and northwest winds. Summer is fading into the rearview mirror and fall is ushering in some pretty fantastic fishing here on the Outer Cape. So, what’s so great about fall fishing on the Outer Cape?
Answer: Many, many things. We still have summer-like weather but no summer crowds. Water temperatures are usually at or near peak. Lodging gets cheaper too, so a fishing trip is easier on the budget. The charter and party boats are all still running, too.
Bluefish are here big time, and with the higher water temperatures keeping their metabolisms high, they are feeding around the clock. We see more bluefish blitzes along our beaches in the fall, so surfcasting from Race Point down to Long Nook Beach can be very productive. Anglers who work swimming plugs, poppers, and metal lures do well when the blitz happens. For best results, cast past the blitz and rip the lure through it as fast as you can. The lure needs to resemble a small, panicked fish trying to get away from the frenzy as fast as it can.
Striped bass begin their migration south back to the Chesapeake Bay and Hudson River to hunker down for the winter and spawn in the spring before they migrate north again. The first real cold snap, especially if it occurs on a full moon, will get bass heading our way, fattened up from a summer’s worth of feeding on pogies, sand eels, mackerel, and herring. Fall bass are usually very heavy for their length, but keep fish only between 28 and 31 inches. Any fish that isn’t in the slot should be released as quickly and gently as possible.
Bass use a variety of routes in their southern migration. Some hug the shoreline from Boston to the Canal, while others take an offshore route and show up at Beach Point in the bay as well as the stretch of water from Wood End Light to Race Point. From there, you can go along the oceanside beaches from the Ranger Station to Head of the Meadow beach and catch them from the beach as well as from boats. The same tackle that works for bluefish works for bass; often, they are mixed together during a feeding frenzy. Drifting live baits of mackerel, pogies, or herring can also be very effective in the fall months.
The most exciting thing about fall fishing on the Outer Cape is when giant tuna move into the bay in September and provide fishermen the opportunity to catch one very close to home. Their location changes by the day. They can be anywhere from the Fishing Ledge in the middle of the bay to Pamet or Wood End Light; at times, there’s even good fishing in Provincetown Harbor and off Beach Point. Fishing with live mackerel, herring, pogies, whiting, or small bluefish is unquestionably the best way to catch a giant tuna in the bay. If you don’t have the specialized equipment it takes to fight and land a giant tuna, it’s best to charter a boat and let the experts handle all the details.
Fall brings a short window of opportunity to target bonito in our waters, and they are usually caught along wherever bluefish and striped bass are feeding. You’ll know when you have hooked one as the fight is significantly more robust than a striped bass and even a bluefish. A member of the tuna family, these fish are good eating if bled out and iced down immediately after landing.
Bottom fishing for flounder and tautog also gets better as water temperatures come off their summertime warm peaks and begin to cool just in time to get these cold-water fish moving and feeding. Look for rocky bottoms and bring clams or green crabs for tautog.
The breakwater jetty at Provincetown’s inner harbor is a great place to try and catch tautog and flounder. Unfortunately, the out-of-control cormorant population in the harbor has all but decimated the flounder population around the breakwater. Moving away from that area and fishing channel edges or mussel beds off Pamet is a better choice.
As you can see, the fall season offers many opportunities to catch a variety of species while still serving up decent weather, along with no summer crowds, and reduced lodging expenses. What more could you need to come out and see what you have been missing?
Mike Rathgeber is captain of Cee Jay Fishing Charters, a party boat out of Provincetown, MA, and a monthly columnist at On The Water Magazine.
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