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Welcome to Trout House!
The home of hand made tin-fish mobiles.
Southern Grand Slam Mobile FreshWater Mobile Northern Grand Slam Mobile
Trout House creates one-of-a-kind, hand crafted saltwater and freshwater fish mobiles made from hand-pressed tin. Each fish is hand
cut and painted to look like your favorite fish. For those fisherman that like to fish the flats, the Southern Grand Slam Mobile highlights
the three trophy fish that anglers try and catch in a single day: the bonefish, tarpon and permit. For fisherman up North, the Northern
Grand Slam Mobile consists of the bluefish, striped bass and albacore. If streams and rivers are more your thing, the Freshwater Mobile
is a beautiful reminder of a perfect day on the river with the Rainbow Trout, Brooke Trout and Brown Trout. We are always adding new
fish, so if you don't see what you like to catch, let us know and we'll make it for you! Young fisherman or old, Trout House mobiles make
a perfect gift that you won't find anywhere else. Tight Lines!
The Southern Grand Slam Mobile is made up of bonefish, permit and tarpon. $175
The Northern Grand Slam Mobile consists of bluefish, striped bass and albacore. $175
The Freshwater Mobile sports brown trout, brook trout and rainbow trout. $175
Don't like those combo's? Choose your own! Five fish per mobile. Fish range in size from 9 inches to 12 inches long.
You can also order individual fish for Fishtmas Tree ornaments. Fish are $30 each, or four for $100.
To order your Trout House fish mobile, call 917-586-3710 or email your request to trouthousefish@gmail.com
The Northern Grand Slam Mobile includes Albacore, Striped Bass, and Bluefish.
The Southern Grand Slam Mobile is made up of permit, bonefish, and tarpon. For the fisherman that boats those three fish in a day,
you have some serious bragging rights. (As an obsessed fly fisherman, I personally do not have those bragging rights.)
The Freshwater Mobile is made up of the Rainbow Trout, the Brown Trout and the Brook Trout.
FISHING BLOGS
Fly to Water
FISHING WEBSITES
Westport outfitters The best fishing outfitter in Fairfield County.
bonafidebonefishing.com
Americanangler.com
Smallmouthbassflies.com Great flies for small mouth bass fishing.
larryschmid.com Larry makes the most unbelievably beautiful hand carved wooden casting plugs. You have to check these out.
bonafidebonefishing.com
Americanangler.com
Smallmouthbassflies.com Great flies for small mouth bass fishing.
larryschmid.com Larry makes the most unbelievably beautiful hand carved wooden casting plugs. You have to check these out.
"Fly rods, like skis, are things to moon over, bridges between dreams of action and action itself."
-Charles Gaines, The Next Valley OverTrout House. All Things Fish.
E: trouthousefish@gmail.comP: 917-586-3710
My Favorite Fishing Stories
There is a wonderful fishing quote that I came across a number of years ago is a book whose author is long forgotten, but it sums up my compulsion for fishing:
"Fishing is casting a petition into the unknown, and the eternal wonder of it all is that anything could be down there, ready to bite."
That sentiment has kept me casting long after I had consciously recognized that there was no fish within hundreds of miles of my location, and long after my back, neck and arm had given up warning me what kind of trouble I would be in tomorrow. But as fisherman, we live by the rule of "one more cast". And on rare occasions, that last cast is the petition that gets signed by a fish that at least gives us something to talk about when we get home, or put in our favorites file to revisit on some cold wintry night. This is one such story.
Three miles off the coast of Connecticut in Long Island Sound rises Faulkner's Island. Commissioned by President Thomas Jefferson in 1802, Faulkner's Island is the second oldest lighthouse in Connecticut. Running perpendicular to the ebb and flow of the tides, the long rocky reef that extends off of the western end is subject to strong currents that make for perfect holding spots for large bass and blues. On this evening, the water was clear as gin, and as smooth as a mirror. The tide was on the ebb, maybe two hours down. By all accounts, it was a perfect set-up for a career fish. But I had been casting a huge clouser on a 9 weight with an intermediate sink tip for over two hours without a sign of life above, or below the water, and it was getting time to go. I had promised my wife Julie I would be home before company arrived, about 45 minutes from now. So, one last cast. I pulled anchor, and quietly maneuvered my boat, aptly named "Where's Daddy?" by Julie, to within 50 feet of a large boulder sticking out of the water right on the rip line. Last cast. Last cast. Two false casts, a strong double haul, and the line shot through the guides, the fly landing two feet behind the giant rock. The take was faster than immediate. That fish must have been waiting open mouthed for the fly to land. He hit so fast and so hard that it almost took the rod out of my hands. It bolted over the rip and took off for deeper water. Knowing I couldn't turn the fish around, I reached back with my left hand and hit the button to raise the motor. At this tide I would clear the bar with maybe six inches to spare. Deep into my backing and still running hard, the fish peeled line off my reel at will. As the boat cleared the shallowest part of the reef and the water began to deepen again, my happiness, as any fisherman will attest, was greatly lifted, and I began to let out a series of noises to express the absolute perfection that this moment held. Beautiful evening, calm water, and the scream of the reel in my ears. My joy, however, was short lived, for suddenly, the fish's behavior changed radically. Instead of trying to get away from me, he turned, and started swimming directly towards me, and then turned again, and with even greater urgency, began swimming in tight circles. For anyone who has spent any time fishing the Southern flats, this is familiar behavior when sharks key in on your prize. That bone or permit could suddenly care less about the line it's attached to. It begins swimming in panicked, erratic circles as it tries to outrun and out corner the bigger threat to its existence, and if you want to bring the whole fish to the boat, and not just the front half, there is only one solution. Back the drag all the way off, and give the fish some running room.
I was sure this was a striper in excess of 30 inches. What kind of larger predator could possibly see a fish of this size as a meal, especially in Long Island Sound? I took all of the drag off and watched as my line ran in circles. With the boat bearing down on the action due to the current, I was now only 30-40 feet from where this underwater battle was taking place. I strained my eyes to see under the water when the trajectory of the line again changed dramatically, rising straight up. A huge swirl 6 feet in diameter pushed up the surface of the water, and my line fell limp, sinking lifelessly to the bottom. I was glued to the fading signs that marked the end of the fight. Seconds ticked by, and then, another ripple, growing bigger, more pronounced, until the head of my fish broke the surface. It was once big, easily a 25 pound striper. Now, however, it was a 12 1/2 pound stripper because the whole back end was missing. The fish's front half fluttered along in circles, its swimming spurred on my muscle memory still vainly trying to escape what had already consumed most of it. I quickly stripped in my fly, and cast back to the swimming head. If I could line the fish, I might be able to snag it. I desperately wanted to see the radius of the bite. I threw the fly directly over the head, maybe 15 feet past, and began slowly stripping it in. As the fly neared the head, the water underneath began to darken. There were no clouds in the sky. Whatever had eaten this fish was coming back. But it would preserve its anonymity. The water around the head began to bend downwards in a giant funnel, and with a swirl that resembled the start of a whirlpool, the fish head and my line was sucked silently underneath the sea. Stunned, I slowly stripped my severed line back in again, the premature end clicking against the eyes of my rod and falling on the deck in defeat. The water returned to its calm state, erasing any sign of the fight that took place. I waited a few minutes, hoping to see a hint of the anonymous monster. Nothing. Somewhere, close by, was something huge yet invisible, something capable of creating a 6 foot hole in the ocean without being seen. I lowered the engine, fired it up, and turning west, headed towards home, back in time for dinner.
There is a wonderful fishing quote that I came across a number of years ago is a book whose author is long forgotten, but it sums up my compulsion for fishing:
"Fishing is casting a petition into the unknown, and the eternal wonder of it all is that anything could be down there, ready to bite."
That sentiment has kept me casting long after I had consciously recognized that there was no fish within hundreds of miles of my location, and long after my back, neck and arm had given up warning me what kind of trouble I would be in tomorrow. But as fisherman, we live by the rule of "one more cast". And on rare occasions, that last cast is the petition that gets signed by a fish that at least gives us something to talk about when we get home, or put in our favorites file to revisit on some cold wintry night. This is one such story.
Three miles off the coast of Connecticut in Long Island Sound rises Faulkner's Island. Commissioned by President Thomas Jefferson in 1802, Faulkner's Island is the second oldest lighthouse in Connecticut. Running perpendicular to the ebb and flow of the tides, the long rocky reef that extends off of the western end is subject to strong currents that make for perfect holding spots for large bass and blues. On this evening, the water was clear as gin, and as smooth as a mirror. The tide was on the ebb, maybe two hours down. By all accounts, it was a perfect set-up for a career fish. But I had been casting a huge clouser on a 9 weight with an intermediate sink tip for over two hours without a sign of life above, or below the water, and it was getting time to go. I had promised my wife Julie I would be home before company arrived, about 45 minutes from now. So, one last cast. I pulled anchor, and quietly maneuvered my boat, aptly named "Where's Daddy?" by Julie, to within 50 feet of a large boulder sticking out of the water right on the rip line. Last cast. Last cast. Two false casts, a strong double haul, and the line shot through the guides, the fly landing two feet behind the giant rock. The take was faster than immediate. That fish must have been waiting open mouthed for the fly to land. He hit so fast and so hard that it almost took the rod out of my hands. It bolted over the rip and took off for deeper water. Knowing I couldn't turn the fish around, I reached back with my left hand and hit the button to raise the motor. At this tide I would clear the bar with maybe six inches to spare. Deep into my backing and still running hard, the fish peeled line off my reel at will. As the boat cleared the shallowest part of the reef and the water began to deepen again, my happiness, as any fisherman will attest, was greatly lifted, and I began to let out a series of noises to express the absolute perfection that this moment held. Beautiful evening, calm water, and the scream of the reel in my ears. My joy, however, was short lived, for suddenly, the fish's behavior changed radically. Instead of trying to get away from me, he turned, and started swimming directly towards me, and then turned again, and with even greater urgency, began swimming in tight circles. For anyone who has spent any time fishing the Southern flats, this is familiar behavior when sharks key in on your prize. That bone or permit could suddenly care less about the line it's attached to. It begins swimming in panicked, erratic circles as it tries to outrun and out corner the bigger threat to its existence, and if you want to bring the whole fish to the boat, and not just the front half, there is only one solution. Back the drag all the way off, and give the fish some running room.
I was sure this was a striper in excess of 30 inches. What kind of larger predator could possibly see a fish of this size as a meal, especially in Long Island Sound? I took all of the drag off and watched as my line ran in circles. With the boat bearing down on the action due to the current, I was now only 30-40 feet from where this underwater battle was taking place. I strained my eyes to see under the water when the trajectory of the line again changed dramatically, rising straight up. A huge swirl 6 feet in diameter pushed up the surface of the water, and my line fell limp, sinking lifelessly to the bottom. I was glued to the fading signs that marked the end of the fight. Seconds ticked by, and then, another ripple, growing bigger, more pronounced, until the head of my fish broke the surface. It was once big, easily a 25 pound striper. Now, however, it was a 12 1/2 pound stripper because the whole back end was missing. The fish's front half fluttered along in circles, its swimming spurred on my muscle memory still vainly trying to escape what had already consumed most of it. I quickly stripped in my fly, and cast back to the swimming head. If I could line the fish, I might be able to snag it. I desperately wanted to see the radius of the bite. I threw the fly directly over the head, maybe 15 feet past, and began slowly stripping it in. As the fly neared the head, the water underneath began to darken. There were no clouds in the sky. Whatever had eaten this fish was coming back. But it would preserve its anonymity. The water around the head began to bend downwards in a giant funnel, and with a swirl that resembled the start of a whirlpool, the fish head and my line was sucked silently underneath the sea. Stunned, I slowly stripped my severed line back in again, the premature end clicking against the eyes of my rod and falling on the deck in defeat. The water returned to its calm state, erasing any sign of the fight that took place. I waited a few minutes, hoping to see a hint of the anonymous monster. Nothing. Somewhere, close by, was something huge yet invisible, something capable of creating a 6 foot hole in the ocean without being seen. I lowered the engine, fired it up, and turning west, headed towards home, back in time for dinner.
