A Late Winter Adventure on the Upper Cape

There’s a feeling that’s hard to describe — the one you get when you’re heading to a new piece of water, gear in the truck, and the anticipation building like it did when you were a kid. No expectations, just pure excitement. That’s exactly how I felt pulling into the parking lot shown below at around 3 p.m. on Tuesday afternoon.

Before I even reached the water, I spotted a decomposing Bass Pro Shop hat and a Coors Light can in the parking lot. Trash bag was already in my hand. Into the bag it went. I’d carry it with me for the rest of the trip.

The Walk In

The trail through the conservation forest toward the pond is something special. Winding paths beneath towering white pines, gorgeous beech trees catching the afternoon light, and carpets of bright green moss decorating the forest floor. It’s the kind of walk that makes you feel lucky to be alive.

I also picked up several dog poop bags left along the edge of the trail. You know the ones — bagged up by well-meaning owners and then somehow abandoned trailside. Lauren and I have a running joke about this: people must believe in the “poop fairy,” some mythical creature who swoops in and handles the rest. Yesterday, I was the poop fairy. Happily.

The Cove

The trail eventually spilled out onto a beautiful sandy beach facing The Cove — a wide open flat with no one in sight and complete silence. I waded out onto the flat and began working my black inline Rooster Tail spinner — the same one that produced the day before.

I waded and fished north for a solid stretch. Nothing. No bites, no follows, no signs of life. The spot was gorgeous but the fish weren’t cooperating.

The Narrows — and a Detour

I decided to move and make the hike through the woods toward The Narrows — a skinny channel that looks electric on a map.

The walk through the conservation land to get there was its own reward.

The temperature was hovering just above freezing, but the sun was strong and the wind was nearly nonexistent. It felt crisp and clean and alive — the kind of cold that refreshes.

But when I arrived, getting down to the water was another story entirely. A steep, brushy cliff stood between me and the channel with no clean way down. I stood there for a moment, considered my options, and turned around.

The Point

The decision to push north to the Point turned out to be the best one of the afternoon. The hike took me back through stands of white pine, past rhododendrons and more beech trees, the ground softened by that brilliant green moss — the kind of mossy carpet that only shows up in old, undisturbed forest.

When I arrived at the point, I knew immediately it was right. A rocky promontory, clear water at my feet, and a bottom that dropped off dramatically just beyond casting range. I was standing in two feet of water. According to my Navionics app, I was casting into 40 feet. Structure, depth — everything a holdover rainbow trout could want.

About five casts in, a fish hit. I missed it. But that bite changed everything — it confirmed what the spot was already telling me. I wasn’t leaving.

The release was even better — the fish shot toward the shallows behind me, paused for just a moment in ankle-deep water, then turned and powered out into the deep blue.

The Walk Back

The return hike was cold in the best possible way — the kind of cold that settles into your bones after a long afternoon outside and makes a warm truck feel like a gift. Somewhere along the trail I passed a man sitting quietly reading a book, bundled against the chill. I tried to say hello. My words came out somewhere between a sentence and a mumble — slightly frozen jaw, slurred speech, full Clark Griswold-lost-in-the-Christmas-tree-lot energy. He was gracious about it.

Back at the truck, heater on full blast, I sat for a moment and took stock of the afternoon. One beautiful rainbow trout. Miles of incredible conservation land. A parking lot and trail cleaner than I found them. Not a bad way to spend a Tuesday afternoon.

Tight lines!

Ryan

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