Make a Place for Northern Pike

The fishing doesn't have to end just because the trout season has.

The mandated trout season traditionally comes to a close in October, and for many, it marks the end of fishing until spring. I often scramble to capitalize on warm days when the sun pulls up the late bloomer bugs and the idea of landing a trout against the colorful backdrop of late fall feels nostalgic and romantic. But the stunted daylight often means sneaking away from chores on the weekend, which I manage with only occasional success. 

While most Vermont rivers are now open to fishing year round, the bite is often too slow for me to get truly excited, and by Halloween, trout fishing is pretty much done.

That’s when my attention turns to bigger, more eager fish: Northern Pike.

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In 2016, I joined a small group of outdoors writers on a trip to a remote lodge in Saskatchewan. I was the youngest and the least experienced by far, but the pike were so plentiful that even I was able to land a few over the 40-inch mark. (Hat tip to Scott Gardner from Outdoor Canada for putting the trip together. It remains one of the most memorable of my fishing life.) 

This big Northern Pike was pushing 50 inches.

It was on that trip where I tied my first fly – an ugly little streamer of Schlappen and marabou that I nicknamed the Tiger Lunker. Pike must experience pity, because the one that ate it seemed to wink when I released it back into the cold water of the lake. Kudos to Scott for sharing his vice and several bags of tying material, not to mention lugging it all the way to the hinterlands in the first place.   

The first fly I ever tied. Cree River Lodge, Saskatchewan.

But it was only a few years ago that my brother Reuben convinced me to chase Northerns in our backyard. Local guide and friend Chuck DeGray was instrumental those first few seasons. As a self-proclaimed pike addict, he was happy to enable our budding taste for the game.

And what a game it is. 

In the northeast, pike can be had on a fly in late fall, when the water has cooled and the fish are putting on the feedback before winter. Northerns will hunt in shallow edges and reed beds, ambushing their prey as they fin by.

When they take your fly, they are usually trying to destroy it. I’ve seen them chase a fly with such gusto that they push a wake of water in front of them like a toothy submarine set to ramming speed. They aren’t jumpers like landlocked salmon or sprinters like bonefish, but they are powerful, and will take drag when they beeline for deep water. 

A 7- or 8-weight rod with backbone is necessary for these fish, and you’ll want heavy duty mono bite guards — or better yet wire — to avoid having your fly clipped off by one of their many dagger-like teeth. Once boat-side, a pike will generally cooperate, but a long-necked hook remover will keep fingers safe from a sudden thrash of the head when removing the fly.  

A rod that will turn these powerful fish is one thing, but having something that can throw 6 to 10 inches of buck tail, craft fur, and flash is another. We’ve gotten into using wiggle tails, which don’t look like they should work as well as they do. It’s hard not to duck when that fly rips past your ear.

Recently, Reuben procured an Old Town canoe, oars, and two motors – one electric trolling motor and one gas-powered outboard. It’s been a game-changer for us to be able to putter around pike-filled waters trying our hand at the late-fall bite. 

Reuben readies the Old Town at the Memphremagog boat ramp.

One day stands out among the rest.

Reuben and I were fishing Lake Memphremagog, a wide glacial lake that straddles the border with Canada. We were working along the lea side of the lake, guiding the Old Town thirty or so feet from where the reeds thinned and the water darkened. It was warm for November and gray clouds loomed over the lake in a blanket of low pressure.

Reuben was at the stern. A proud captain of a vessel he had scouted and researched for months. Years maybe. It’s hard to tell with him sometimes. Just when I think I have him pinned, he surprises me with a new idea. And unlike mine, they’re never half-cocked or far-flung. He’s a grounded person. The type of guy you want to know. The type of guy who other guys would kill to have as an older brother. And although I couldn’t see him from my place at the bow, I could feel his sense of accomplishment as he maneuvered the electric trolling motor through its settings to get just the right speed for the first few casts of our early morning expedition.    

We meandered along the reed edge, riding a gentle current with minor course corrections from Reuben. We started getting some takes and landed a couple smaller pike.

We took a handful of smaller pike on our first pass, all were less than 24 inches.

But with the canoe parallel to the shore, each seated and half twisted to our right, getting a good cast was tricky. With the conditions in our favor and the bite seemingly on, we decided to run the edge again. 

This time I manned the oars while Reuben fished. I am no guide, but I was able to push the boat along the reeds at an angle, giving Reuben a slightly better casting position. The quarters were close enough, and the light just right, that we could both see his fly as it pulsed off the edge of the reed bed and into the deepening water.

Watching someone expertly work a streamer in water where predators lurk is exhilarating. Reuben is particularly good at it. Like a puppeteer with a marionette, he worked the fly with deliberate focus, turning feathers and fur into fins and flesh. With every cast, the tension mounted. They were there, and we knew they were hungry. 

Not all days spent in pursuit of pike are successful. Some you get skunked. Most are cold and rainy. Out on a lake, there’s no shelter from the elements, and no easy casts. It isn’t for the faint of heart. But Chuck has a rule of thumb: for every three hard days you put into pike fishing, you get one memorable day back.

Our hearts must have leapt when we saw the fly jump sideways in the water, rammed by something dark and swift. But they stopped simultaneously when it disappeared into the mouth of a large northern. Reuben’s strip set sent the pike racing for deep water, bisecting the canoe and sounding directly behind us. It’s not every day you see an 8-weight candy caned to the cork. Reuben held on with both hands while I spun the canoe around. After a few blitzing runs, the pike acquiesced and we were able to land it. 

I’ve watched my brother catch fish my whole life. It’s something of which I never tire. And while I don’t recall the final measurement, it certainly one of the best pike Reuben has landed, which is saying something.

Reuben and his three-foot long Memphremagog pike.

As he held it up for a quick picture, his grin beaming from behind his burly beard, I felt like a kid again, and for a time, forgot all about trout.