Notes from the Tackle Room: The Road to Cape Pogue

The road to Cape Pogue is breathtakingly beautiful, winding through an unspoiled landscape of dunes and heather and cedar trees, always with a water view.

Notes from the Tackle Room: Zen and the Art of Fly Tying

Many of today’s saltwater flies look so real that you’d swear they were actual baitfish. Space-age synthetic materials that closely imitate the color and sheen of live bait, plastic eyes, epoxy heads, and the talent of hundreds of skilled professional and amateur fly tiers combine to create a vast choice of excellent flies that fool multitudes of game fish.

Notes from the Tackle Room: Tin Boat Tales

Ever since Wampanoags launched canoes in pursuit of whales, fishermen have been pushing the envelope by trying to catch big fish from small boats.

Notes from the Tackle Room: That Feeling in The Gut

For pure pulse-racing, adrenaline-surging angling mayhem, the narrow channel known as The Gut has no equal when false albacore or “Little Tunny” invade in late summer and early autumn.

Notes from the Tackle Room: Anthiers Bridge

Notes from the Tackle Room: Long Live Lobsterville

"The hike from Lobsterville to Menemsha and back on the gravel and sand beach has been called the ‘Death March’ by the few who have survived.”

Notes from the Tackle Room: The Great Ponds

It was late in the evening on June 4, 1955 and Kib Bramhall needed a Vineyard fix.

Notes from the Tackle Room: Devil’s Bridge

The tide was just starting to flow east when Stuart Hunter and I skidded my nine-foot tin boat down the cliff at Pilots Landing and rowed toward Wash Rock, where terns were working over breaking bass. We dropped anchor up-current, the hook held and we were in business, casting metal into the action from our miniature craft.

Notes from the Tackle Room: Poucha Pond

Lying at the southern end of Chappaquiddick’s inland waterway, Poucha was historically a freshwater pond, sealed by a dike that included sluiceways and a herring run.

Notes from the Tackle Room: Fall Faithful

When I arrived at the beach on November 3, 1979 this message was scratched into the dirt of the parking lot: LUCIANO WAS HERE, 22, 28, 36.

That was Luciano Rebay’s way of telling us that he had beached three large stripers on his annual Election Day pilgrimage to the Vineyard from Columbia University, where he was a brilliant and popular professor of Italian literature. On the Vineyard he was renowned by those who knew him as a skilled and dedicated surf fisherman of unbounded energy and enthusiasm.

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