OUTDOORS JOURNAL: Dave Sherwood

In search of poor man's tarpon

Copyright © 2006 Blethen Maine Newspapers Inc.

When Waterville resident Jim Thibodeau talks about shad, you'd better listen.

Thibodeau has landed 102 shad so far this season -- exactly 101 more than I, and likely more than any other single fisherman in Maine.

That may not seem too impressive to the layperson, but realize that shad have only returned to the river in the past seven years or so, since Edward's Dam was removed, and only in fishable numbers recently.

Last Thursday, Thibodeau and I spent eight hours on the Kennebec River in Waterville fishing for shad. For the uninitiated, shad are laterally-inflated herring, almost as big around as a pie plate, with mirror-like scales that look like chinks of armor.

They are sometimes referred to as the "poor man's tarpon," or "poor man's salmon," for their acrobatic tendencies and relentless fight. On the Connecticut and Delaware Rivers in southern New England and Pennsylvania, their return from the ocean each spring is celebrated by parades, festivals and hordes of fishermen swarming to the river banks. Shad are anadromous, meaning they spawn in freshwater but live most of their lives at sea.

For all their fanfare and popularity, shad are an elusive fish. Fishermen are always made to look foolish by fish, but even biologists acknowledge that their habits are extraordinarily difficult to pinpoint. Despite our best efforts, not a single fish has entered the lift in its first two months of operation.

But their lack of cooperation doesn't mean the fish aren't in the river.

Thibodeau, who fishes almost every day in the river below the dam, said he has caught shad within 100 yards of the base of the fish lift trap door, and almost everywhere else in the river.

"You never know where they're going to be. They may be here one day, then down there the next," he told me as we motored north on the Kennebec Thursday from the Water street boat launch.

The heat was oppressive and the sun relentless last week.

"Best time of day to fish for shad is right as the sun gets down below the treeline," he said, pointing at the west bank.

I looked at my watch. It was just after noon. The sun was directly overhead.

"So why are we fishing now?" I asked him.

Stupid question. Thibodeau is retired from the Merchant Marine, and nearly every second of his free time is devoted to fishing, or tying flies. If not fishing, then what?

He handed me a small, bright pink fly, from his box of thousands.

"Try this. You never know what they're going to hit, either. They might take this for an hour, then want something else all together later on," he said.

We cast sinking lines in the river, in places that Thibodeau had caught shad in the past month. In less than an hour, Thibodeau hooked a shad. It vaulted into the air, then fell flat on its side, sounding a little like a belly flop and leaving a trail of whitewater in its wake.

I watched the battle unfold from the bow of Thibodeau's canoe, and quickly stripped in my line so as not to get tangled in his. As my fly came through the water past his fish, I felt a sharp tug on my line.

A second fish went airborne.

"They're crazy. You never know what they're going to do," said Thibodeau, shaking his head as my shad tail-walked down the river.

Five minutes later, we both released our hard-earned fish into the river.

For the next six hours, neither of us would hook another.

"That's shad fishing for you," said Thibodeau.

By 7 p.m., both Thibodeau, 65, and I, 27, were sunburnt, hot, hungry and tired -- with only three fish to show for ourselves. The sun was advancing towards the treeline, but not quite there yet.

The fishing was showing no signs of improving, and besides, my dog had been inside the house all day, my wife away on business. It was time I went home.

"Take me in, Jim," I said.

"You sure? This can be the best time of night," he said.

I told him I was, but that I'd call him the next day to find out how many shad he'd caught after I'd left.

The next day, I called around 10 in the morning, as promised.

"How'd you make out," I asked, wincing on the other end of the line.

"Yeah, you missed it. After you left, I got three, one 22, one 20 and one 18 inches, and I lost another one," he said. "Boy, were they ever active, they were running around and chasing each other in the shallows, spawning. They were all over the place. Sorry you missed it."

He and I both.

I guess I wasn't listening hard enough.

Dave Sherwood -- 621-5648

dsherwood@centralmaine.com 

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