Anglers go elbow-to-elbow on opening day
By Stan Grossfeld, Globe Staff
RIVERTON, Conn. - In the pitch black before dawn, there's a light bobbing along Mountain Road. On closer inspection, it's a child wearing a miner's hat, clutching a fishing rod with one hand and his father's hand with the other. It's 4:45 a.m. on opening day of the fishing season. The sleepy duo are silent, their boots crunching in the dark. The light eventually reveals dozens of shadowy figures already in the clear, chilly waters of the Farmington River.
"They are committed," says Mike Casale, a fisherman sipping coffee at the Riverton Volunteer Fire Department, headquarters of the Riverton Fishing Derby. "Maybe they should be committed."
Just before 6, a handful of latecomers scamper down the river banks trying to squeeze in with the elbow-to-elbow anglers. They are met with glares and sarcasm.
At the top of the hour, the fire siren wails, signaling the start of the derby. Before the single blast ends, there will be several trout hooked; that is guaranteed. The river is stocked to the gills by the state and the local merchants - 400,000 fish statewide and roughly 100 more by the merchants. The fish are hungry. They are well-fed at trout farms and then released into the wa ters, in some cases just days before the April 18 opening.
The scene is surreal. Fishermen line up on the rocky banks of the river, facing their fellow anglers, sporting waders in the river, 20 yards away. If they were wielding muskets instead of fishing rods, it would look like a Revolutionary War battle.
For the last 62 years, the fishing derby has celebrated the opening of trout season. The Hitchcock Chair Fishing Derby started in 1956 and has attracted as many as 30,000 people. Each year the company stocked the river, put up a tent, and gave out free doughnuts, pie, coffee, and hot chocolate. The winner got an $800 leaping trout rocking chair from the famous furniture company, which closed three years ago. That has put a damper on things, as has the economy.
"It's a shame the Hitchcock Chair factory is gone," says Jennifer MacNichill, who watches from the bridge with her dog, Calvin. "It used to be such a draw. Guys would come to fish and women to shop."
Still, with clear skies and warm weather, a festive air prevails. The firehouse serves breakfast starting at 4 a.m. and the cook makes trout-shaped pancakes for the kids. Some anglers had their two-trout limit within minutes. Others stayed all morning catching and releasing.
"I got a rainbow and a brown trout," says Joe Beaudoin of Wolcott, Conn., who has been fishing here for 23 years and says this day is an American tradition. "My dad brought me, I brought my kid. And they'll bring their kids."
Tangled tales
The bridge on Mountain Road is jammed with spectators, most of them fishermen.
"We get a few laughs every year," says Scott Crossman of Harwinton, Conn. "We come for the first 10-20 minutes and watch this and then we go upstream and fish for ourselves.
"Someone will catch a fish and then it'll begin to swim upstream and get tangled up with other lines, or worse, someone will cast over and their line will get hooked up with someone on the other side. So then it's like, who's going to unhook the line?"
The tie-ups never lead to fisticuffs, fishermen say. But sometimes they try a person's patience. Keith Szmajlo is standing knee-deep in the river, casting into a watery hole. Across the banks, a man with no sense of etiquette is casting into everything but fish. After several tangled lines, Szmajlo talks politely to him through clenched teeth, before being forced to move on.
"People who can't fish shouldn't be using lures," he says. "He snagged me once in the boot and my buddy once in the neck.
"Still, I look forward to this all year. It's a great day."
But mostly there is goodwill and a spirit of cooperation. The fishermen stop and cheer when Nathan Kowalczyk, 14, of Farmington, his rod doubled over, pulls in a 24-inch rainbow trout, good for first place in the under-16 category and a hand-carved stool. Kowalczyk, wearing dark sunglasses, is treated like a rock star as a friend carries his fish the one block to the fire station, where it is weighed on the old General Store's meat scale.
There is good-hearted banter between Yankee and Red Sox fans who fish side by side. This village is equidistant between New York and Boston. Fishermen say this is better than Opening Day in baseball, because it is active and not a spectator sport.
Chris Hrenko of Berlin, Conn., says the camaraderie is the reason he comes here every year.
"The fishing is good, but the best part is being up here with the guys," said Hrenko. "Once you get married and have kids, usually the fun stops. I'll be partying till I get home Sunday, then I'll deal with the butt whuppin' I'll get from my wife."
At the Old Riverton Inn, just a long cast from the river, most of the men are having breakfast at 9 a.m. after a beer and vodka party on the front porch the night before. Innkeeper Pauline Telford reserves rooms each year for the same group of fishermen.
"They are good people," she says.
She also considers it a moral victory that they no longer clean their trout in the rooms.
Leslie DiMartino, owner of Riverton General Store, says her business is mostly men.
"If we had to depend on women, we'd be out of business," she says.
Catch of the day
In the last hour before the 10 a.m. contest deadline, Pat McNamara, using a Thomas Buoyant golden green lure, brings in a 9-pound-14-ounce, 25-inch rainbow trout to win first place and a stenciled flying trout rocking chair donated by Still River Antiques.
"I got it at the beaver hole - it's just a hole in the river," McNamara says, smiling broadly. "I started when I was 5. I'm 51 now, that's a lot of years. We've never missed opening day. It's almost like Christmas Day. I look forward to it."
Several fishermen tell him to get the fish mounted.
"I've already got one rainbow and one brookie mounted," says McNamara. "Money being tight this year, I don't know if I can afford it. It's a lot of money to get a fish mounted."
He's going to give it to a friend, whose mother is a good cook.
"They're gonna stuff it with crab meat, wrap it in tin foil, and throw it on the grill," he says. "That's a nice meal."
But the biggest winner of the day is a guy who never entered the derby. Jay Sklenka, 40, of Stafford Springs, Conn., found a quiet spot in the river to fly fish with his dad.
"We've been doing this together since I was 6 years old," he says. "It's just awesome being out with my dad. We have never missed an opening day. It's like a holiday. We look forward to it all year long."
As the temperatures pushed into the 60s, Sklenka landed a 10-pound-14-ounce rainbow trout as his 66-year-old father cheered him on. Sklenka, who wore a Red Sox insignia above his waders, took some good-natured ribbing from Gary Cassetti of New Haven, wearing a Yankees hat.
"A Red Sox guy gets a fish like that? It's early in the season, but we are getting our butts kicked. I'm not showing it, but it's really bothering me," Cassetti mutters before walking away toward the other side of the river.
By Stan Grossfeld, Globe Staff
RIVERTON, Conn. - In the pitch black before dawn, there's a light bobbing along Mountain Road. On closer inspection, it's a child wearing a miner's hat, clutching a fishing rod with one hand and his father's hand with the other. It's 4:45 a.m. on opening day of the fishing season. The sleepy duo are silent, their boots crunching in the dark. The light eventually reveals dozens of shadowy figures already in the clear, chilly waters of the Farmington River.
"They are committed," says Mike Casale, a fisherman sipping coffee at the Riverton Volunteer Fire Department, headquarters of the Riverton Fishing Derby. "Maybe they should be committed."
Just before 6, a handful of latecomers scamper down the river banks trying to squeeze in with the elbow-to-elbow anglers. They are met with glares and sarcasm.
At the top of the hour, the fire siren wails, signaling the start of the derby. Before the single blast ends, there will be several trout hooked; that is guaranteed. The river is stocked to the gills by the state and the local merchants - 400,000 fish statewide and roughly 100 more by the merchants. The fish are hungry. They are well-fed at trout farms and then released into the wa ters, in some cases just days before the April 18 opening.
The scene is surreal. Fishermen line up on the rocky banks of the river, facing their fellow anglers, sporting waders in the river, 20 yards away. If they were wielding muskets instead of fishing rods, it would look like a Revolutionary War battle.
For the last 62 years, the fishing derby has celebrated the opening of trout season. The Hitchcock Chair Fishing Derby started in 1956 and has attracted as many as 30,000 people. Each year the company stocked the river, put up a tent, and gave out free doughnuts, pie, coffee, and hot chocolate. The winner got an $800 leaping trout rocking chair from the famous furniture company, which closed three years ago. That has put a damper on things, as has the economy.
"It's a shame the Hitchcock Chair factory is gone," says Jennifer MacNichill, who watches from the bridge with her dog, Calvin. "It used to be such a draw. Guys would come to fish and women to shop."
Still, with clear skies and warm weather, a festive air prevails. The firehouse serves breakfast starting at 4 a.m. and the cook makes trout-shaped pancakes for the kids. Some anglers had their two-trout limit within minutes. Others stayed all morning catching and releasing.
"I got a rainbow and a brown trout," says Joe Beaudoin of Wolcott, Conn., who has been fishing here for 23 years and says this day is an American tradition. "My dad brought me, I brought my kid. And they'll bring their kids."
Tangled tales
The bridge on Mountain Road is jammed with spectators, most of them fishermen.
"We get a few laughs every year," says Scott Crossman of Harwinton, Conn. "We come for the first 10-20 minutes and watch this and then we go upstream and fish for ourselves.
"Someone will catch a fish and then it'll begin to swim upstream and get tangled up with other lines, or worse, someone will cast over and their line will get hooked up with someone on the other side. So then it's like, who's going to unhook the line?"
The tie-ups never lead to fisticuffs, fishermen say. But sometimes they try a person's patience. Keith Szmajlo is standing knee-deep in the river, casting into a watery hole. Across the banks, a man with no sense of etiquette is casting into everything but fish. After several tangled lines, Szmajlo talks politely to him through clenched teeth, before being forced to move on.
"People who can't fish shouldn't be using lures," he says. "He snagged me once in the boot and my buddy once in the neck.
"Still, I look forward to this all year. It's a great day."
But mostly there is goodwill and a spirit of cooperation. The fishermen stop and cheer when Nathan Kowalczyk, 14, of Farmington, his rod doubled over, pulls in a 24-inch rainbow trout, good for first place in the under-16 category and a hand-carved stool. Kowalczyk, wearing dark sunglasses, is treated like a rock star as a friend carries his fish the one block to the fire station, where it is weighed on the old General Store's meat scale.
There is good-hearted banter between Yankee and Red Sox fans who fish side by side. This village is equidistant between New York and Boston. Fishermen say this is better than Opening Day in baseball, because it is active and not a spectator sport.
Chris Hrenko of Berlin, Conn., says the camaraderie is the reason he comes here every year.
"The fishing is good, but the best part is being up here with the guys," said Hrenko. "Once you get married and have kids, usually the fun stops. I'll be partying till I get home Sunday, then I'll deal with the butt whuppin' I'll get from my wife."
At the Old Riverton Inn, just a long cast from the river, most of the men are having breakfast at 9 a.m. after a beer and vodka party on the front porch the night before. Innkeeper Pauline Telford reserves rooms each year for the same group of fishermen.
"They are good people," she says.
She also considers it a moral victory that they no longer clean their trout in the rooms.
Leslie DiMartino, owner of Riverton General Store, says her business is mostly men.
"If we had to depend on women, we'd be out of business," she says.
Catch of the day
In the last hour before the 10 a.m. contest deadline, Pat McNamara, using a Thomas Buoyant golden green lure, brings in a 9-pound-14-ounce, 25-inch rainbow trout to win first place and a stenciled flying trout rocking chair donated by Still River Antiques.
"I got it at the beaver hole - it's just a hole in the river," McNamara says, smiling broadly. "I started when I was 5. I'm 51 now, that's a lot of years. We've never missed opening day. It's almost like Christmas Day. I look forward to it."
Several fishermen tell him to get the fish mounted.
"I've already got one rainbow and one brookie mounted," says McNamara. "Money being tight this year, I don't know if I can afford it. It's a lot of money to get a fish mounted."
He's going to give it to a friend, whose mother is a good cook.
"They're gonna stuff it with crab meat, wrap it in tin foil, and throw it on the grill," he says. "That's a nice meal."
But the biggest winner of the day is a guy who never entered the derby. Jay Sklenka, 40, of Stafford Springs, Conn., found a quiet spot in the river to fly fish with his dad.
"We've been doing this together since I was 6 years old," he says. "It's just awesome being out with my dad. We have never missed an opening day. It's like a holiday. We look forward to it all year long."
As the temperatures pushed into the 60s, Sklenka landed a 10-pound-14-ounce rainbow trout as his 66-year-old father cheered him on. Sklenka, who wore a Red Sox insignia above his waders, took some good-natured ribbing from Gary Cassetti of New Haven, wearing a Yankees hat.
"A Red Sox guy gets a fish like that? It's early in the season, but we are getting our butts kicked. I'm not showing it, but it's really bothering me," Cassetti mutters before walking away toward the other side of the river.