Fall Run Blitz: A Northeast Gale Delivers

I woke up naturally yesterday at 4:30am, and lay in bed for a moment listening to the wind rattle the windows. This was it—the kind of morning that separates the fair-weather anglers from those who know that sometimes the worst conditions produce the best fishing. The fall run is in full swing on Cape Cod, and every northeast blow this time of year holds promise. I grabbed my gear and headed out into the darkness.

Into the Gale

I hit the beach by 6:15am during false dawn, that eerie twilight when the world exists in shades of gray and navy blue. The gale-force winds immediately slammed into me as I crested the dune, nearly knocking me backward. Thirty knots, maybe more—the kind of wind that stings your face with salt spray before you even reach the water’s edge. The surf was angry, rolling in with that distinctive autumn fury that gets every striper fisherman’s heart racing. This was Cape Cod at its most raw and beautiful.

The Search

I began my walk down the shoreline, rod in hand, scanning the horizon. At this time of year, birds are everything. Gulls, terns, even cormorants—they’ll lead you right to the fish. Striped bass and bluefish push baitfish to the surface during their feeding frenzies, and the birds know it. They dive and wheel over the chaos, picking off easy meals. Find the birds, find the fish. It’s surfcasting gospel during the fall run.

The beach stretched out before me, empty except for the roar of wind and waves. Every surfcaster knows this feeling—the solitary search, the anticipation building with each step. The conditions were brutal but perfect. Northeast winds push bait tight to the beach, and big surf creates the confused water that bass use to ambush their prey. Somewhere out there in the foam and fury, fish were feeding.

Birds Don't Lie

I walked maybe 300 yards when I saw them. Gulls. Not just a few scattered birds, but a concentrated flock diving frantically over the water’s surface extending about fifty yards offshore. My pulse quickened. I quickened my pace, jogging now, closing the distance. As I got closer, I could see the water boiling. Striped bass had corralled a school of baitfish against a gravel bar, and they were massacring them in the suds and wash right at my feet. The bait was getting crushed from below by the bass and picked off from above by the birds—a feeding frenzy in full swing.

I already had a large 3oz Guppy Pencil Popper tied on. No time to waste. I made my cast into the chaos and began my retrieve. Three pops of the lure and my rod doubled over—fish on.