Where: The beach
When: Sunday
Conditions: Overcast, slightly windy
Flies used: Clousers
Species pursued: Sea run cutthroat, resident coho

Song of the day: "Barracuda," Heart

"You planned this, didn't you?"

I smiled.

"Yup."

For the past 2 hours, we worked down a narrow stretch of beach, picking off members of this year's crop of resident coho, along with equal numbers of sea runs.

Though the setting was familiar, my approach was different, and so was I.

Dedication to something completely new usually comes at the cost of less time spent doing anything else. Even some of the things you love. Such has been the case this summer--I had mistakenly thought I could balance old and new but my obsession with spey and steelheading got the better of me.

I tried, but I couldn't overcome myself, much less the river's hypnotic influence.

"Where are they?"

"They HAVE to be here."

"I won't know if I don't try."

The constant push and pull of doubt and resolve shackled me.

I HAD to know. And the easiest way was to keep going back.

If I didn't catch anything, I reasoned it was because I wasn't good enough--not far enough out, not enough line control, not deep enough, not a small enough fly.

"Enough" became as elusive as my quarry. One could argue that they are one in the same.

And without either, I lost any motivation to write.

After all, how much failure can I dispense and how much of it can you read before we all get tired of it?

Yet in spite of what might be construed as resignation, I assure you that I won't be giving up on the two hander, or steelheading.

Rather, I've decided to blend elements of them into what I love the most:

The beach. :)

Today was more experiment than expedition: we wanted to see if two handers had a place in the salt, particularly at high tide.

Given the inconsistency of this year's beach fishing, however, we were doubtful of any success.

It felt good to be wrong. *Shout out to Yuhina: take a close look at the rod!*

With light speys in hand, we advanced down the shore, unhampered by the lack of backcast room.

At first it was a few little guys, mainly rezzies.

A good sign of things to come this winter.

Further down, we noticed something more substantial working some bait.

And coming our way.

"About 65 feet out," I told myself.

Out of habit, I looked behind me.

"That'd be tough with a 9-footer," I thought.

Not the case with this stick.

I threw an anchor down and wound up.

The clouser sailed out, landing where I judged the fish could see it.

Strip...strip

Strip.

"He's gotta be there."

Instinctually, I hunched over, focused on feeling for any hesitation.

I slowed the retrieve down.

"He HAS to be...

...there!"

From hookup to landing, the cutthroat reminded me of why I love the beach so much.

And while I'll always come back.