Bob Littlefield and I approached the Salmon River in Pulaski, New York, via coach and a surpentine Route 13. We travelled north and west from Rhode Island to fly fish for migrating salmon and hungry steelhead trout in shallow waters, over greasy tan stones and sharp slate. We were thirsty for Pulaski’s Salmon River, where pavement parallels a river, mirroring her bends, affording occasional gravel lots to park and throw trash, and access miles of strong fishing. Each afternoon, after fishing, we tucked his 40′ Prevost Royale Coach behind breweries fine and fair, and a restaurant with endless icy vodka. Expectations would exceed our skills but hope and thirst are what drive anglers.

Bob and I left a decent striped bass migration, where fish could be landed into November, from beaches and kayaks if weather and menhaden came to agreement, to break our shared streaks of misses and land a big Pulaski salmon. His Royale Coach easily handled the ride from Connecticut’s endlessly under construction traffic nightmares to New York’s open lanes, affordable diesel and much improved scenery despite a protracted drought leaving deciduous leaves limp and tan. Upstate New York, as it is known, is pretty, rural and rough in patches. Its terrior shares much with interior Maine, with lovely red barn scenes and vistas of corn unharvested in November. The road weaves and rolls with a pretty river teeming just now with salmon aching to spawn and steelhead trout searching for their potential offspring. The Salmon is largely shallow in October, after months of skies denying her water and carpeting her with leaves from oaks, maples, birches and expansive beech trees. The trick is to walk her with patience. Rivers always provide, but not always for everyone.

Bob Littlefield searches for the sound of salmon in Pulaski, NY

Saturday was a travel day. We camped, and I use that term quite looslely, in Lakeville, NY at Heritage Hill Brewhouse and Kitchen. Bob is a member of Harvest Hosts, which helps campers stay at breweries and vineyards. Fresh beer and home cooking with no driving after both. With rolling green fields and pens of happy goats, the people were welcoming, the buttermilk friend chicken looked amazing and their beer was beyond exceptional. Try the 20 East. Please. And maybe bring a four pack back for me.

But we are fishemen first, so we focused on rigging single egg patterns, leader situations and 75# barrel swivels to fool steelhead but I had a gut level need for a rare cheeseburger and then there was the beer. Bob sipped a Devils Indulgence stout that stood against any fine stout as I ordered a bacon blue burger in honor of my friend Paul Caval. Dark and thick, the stout cemented a pint glass but drank easily. Chocolate was in the background, maybe some bitter coffee too but on the way down, it was pure delight. I consumed a 40 East; at 7.8% it fueled my motivation to break our Salmon River curse and get to fishing. So we followed dinner with a second Devil’s Indulgence and a Peak A Brew Imperial Stout which was nothing shy of amazing. Everyone was friendly. “I don’t know you, but you sure look familiar,” one patron said to another. It wasn’t the commonality of our faces, it’s just that we’re all human. We wound our way through a back country downhill waltz to the Prevost before the party really took off because real fishermen get up early.

After breakfast of chicken eggs, some type of eggs made from plants and three days worth of bacon for me, we steamed north to the fishing grounds, stopping for the night without fishing, in the railroad stop town of Clay, NY. Freight Yard Brewing has movie star potential, right there by a road’s edge and the rail line. Camo was Sunday best fashion and patrons were kind. With 40′ of bus, it’s best to check the parking details before rolling in. “Park between the six bay garage and the Dumpster.” Freight Yard Brewing could use a marketing manager. It’s a fine room with real rural American history and a story to tell and we were hungry to hear about it over a beer and dinner. They don’t serve food and the beer was a let down. Octoberfest was discounted in the take out cooler, which is never a good sign a week before Halloween. We were out after one round. Delerious from a lack of calories and hops, I succommed to Bob’s vegan diet and inhaled a plate of things meant to look like other things I wanted to eat, washed it down with some icy vodka and called it a night next to a Dumpster. Unaccustomed to a third round of fermented potatoes, I rolled in my sleeping bag to visions of fifteen pound salmon and a 20 East. I heard tractor trailers rolling through the night because real fishermen barely sleep.

Pulaski, fluoro and fish between my legs

After a bold portion of yesterday’s bacon and an imposter breakfast meat situation for the driver, we left the Dumpster behind and pushed ahead for Pulaski, New York’s rural Las Vegas. Tackle, ice, filleting and smoking services, laundry, gas, beer, all an angler might need is within reach of a road shoulder. On my first trip, with Guy Ipolitto, we fished the Douglaston Salmon Run for a fair day rate. We bought access to early arriving fish before they fell for the masses upstream. We caught nothing. The Pulaski region relieves Lake Ontario of her salmon as they navigate this tributary in a hustle to find safe gravel to lay their eggs between a labyrinth of floating flourocarbon and number six laser sharpened hooks. The closer you are to their arrival, on the river and calendar, the better your chances are of catching and releasing one, or dragging a few hapless and very much alive fifteen pounders, with a caIllous length of abrasive plastic cordage wound around their pale gill plates while sinched tightly through their mouths. It is a gross, unrespectful slow death for beautiful fish. I applaud those catch and release fishermen and women. The abundance of salmon and trout, treacherous wading and potential for taxidermy level trophies beckons anglers from all over the country. Some anglers abandon all respect for water and fish to pitch McDonalds wrappers and Bush Light cans (is there anything more useless than Bush Light?) next to parking lot trash bins. For our few days on the water, we met all good people and while we tried to talk fish, they asked about the Royal Coach. I politely interjected to speak of the 20 East IPA.

Bob Littlefield walks a skinny NY farm pond

Eager to reverse the curse, we fished Sportsman’s South, relatively early. After coffee, fresh fruit and toast. Collectively, we own every last piece of fishing gear yet still were a bit surprised by such early conditions. Casting in two feet of quick water, watching salmon move around our legs as we secured split shot for the hundreth time while wishing we brought extra anything, Bob, who oftentimes relaxes among Florida’s lower zip codes by this month, thinking more of bonefish than frostbite, looked over.

“What’s the water temp?” “Cold,” I replied. “Screw this.”

I managed to lose two fish and Bob, the most casual cold water fly fisherman I’ve ever encountered, came up empty, which clearly was a heaven sent sign that the bus needed checking. We waded back, past a pile of cardboard wader boxes cast into the shallow woods.

Todd’s best catch, a beech leaf

Our thirst was real

It was only that night, parked behind the Spook Hill Bar & Grill, that he admitted he twice barely avoided going for an unplanned swim. Reliving the details over a double garlic, cheese-less pizza and a ruby red cheese burger bartender Courtney McNeil Cascanet just walked past the grill, in a room that bleeds Syracuse orange and camo remains in first fashion place, we met more good people, even one who drank Bush Light cans. I’ve met plenty of excellent anglers in my time. I’m unsure if I’ve met a better bartender. Courtney managed three orders simultaneously with ease while giving gruff back to some longtime regulars while watching everyone’s drink levels. I enjoyed a local IPA and as Bob enjoyed several vodkas, so we had time to talk about fish and fishing gear while Bob had more vodka and a woman slid onto someone else’s seat, who was too polite to say what he thought about her blatant rudeness and Bob had another vodka while I decided we should not fish the farm pond next to the Royal Coach at night while Bob had a vodka so we called it a night at 6:30 because real fishermen get up early.

SpookHill and the Royale Coach

After being skunked at sunrise in a split level dried up farm pond, we made a relatively early assualt on the Salmon just south of Sportman’s South, then again, after some solid counsel at Fat Nancy’s Tackle Shop we fished beneath an old bridge, next to an old man, beneath an old beech tree. I caught every piece of ledge, three trees and developed an attitude.

The tree that made me surrender

Bob barely averted a tip over as two guys to his east traded time catching fish and smoking cigarettes. I made the case that I really needed to try Heritage Hill’s buttermilk chicken and that the beer I bought to bring to my lovely wife somehow was consumed. We baled.

Bob sets up for grilling

Our last night was thankfully at Heritage Hill, where we learned “open” on Harvest Hosts does not mean “open” at the restaurant. Fortunately, the honor system guard house sold farm beef so I was spared another chickpea meal with a brilliant steak, grilled taters and chili pepperes. So basically, Heritage Hill is where it’s at and we didn’t catch any fish. Again. And we will return, not exaclty triumphantly but hungrily. Like that first salmon, I really need to try the buttermilk chicken tenderloins.

The Salmon River bar hopping coach