You could call it love, you could call it devotion, but when it comes to striper fishing, writer Steve Culton is flat-out obsessed. Why else would set out to catch one every month of the year? From beneath a sketchy New Jersey highway overpass in January to all-night sessions off of Rhode Island’s Block Island in June, Culton was there, flogging away. His reward was a bad case of “striper thumb” and something he called, “The Streak.” You could call it love, you could call it devotion, but when it comes to striper fishing, writer Steve Culton is flat-out obsessed. Why else would set out to catch one every month of the year? From beneath a sketchy New Jersey highway overpass in January to all-night sessions off of Rhode Island’s Block Island in June, Culton was there, flogging away. His reward was a bad case of “striper thumb” and something he called, “The Streak.”

Words: Steve Culton

JANUARY

If the sport of flyfishing conjures up images of anglers casting in waters uncorrupted by civilization, my January destination destroys them with industrial cruelty. Even driving to it is depressing. The last half-mile is an intricate warren of one-way streets, railroad crossings, graffiti-covered New Jersey barriers and chain-link fences. Gearing up beneath a stack of highway overpasses only multiplies the sense of urban blight. Sketchy characters materialize from abandoned buildings and I bravely tell myself I could chase off an unfriendly with a wading staff.

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