Where: The Sound
When: Sunday
Conditions: Calm, sunny
Flies used: Epoxy head patterns, bunny flies, clousers
Species pursued: Sea-run cutthroat, Coho

Song of the day: "Money Talks," AC/DC

"That is crazy."

On one hand, I couldn't agree more.

On the other? It's simply a matter of dedication that, at times, bleeds slightly into obsession.

In just a handful of hours, I would be knee-deep in the salt, fishing that oft-times critical period between darkness and daybreak.

For the moment, I was at a wedding, of all things, entertaining questions (and comments) about my weekend habits.

But soon the time for Q&A would be at an end and the shooting head let loose.

"Are you even going to sleep?"

"Probably not," I said, shaking my head.

By the time we got home, it was more like "not."

With only two and a half hours before heading out, I forfeited the opportunity to sleep in favor of a quick tying session and last-minute equipment preparations.

No rest for me.

Such is the sacrifice of a fishing dork like myself.

Before long, the hour was nigh.

One of the great benefits of leaving so early is being able to get to your destination with practically no fuss.

In the witching hours of the early morning, I drove down a road here, made a turn there, went down another road and... :)

By then, it was neither fully dark nor quite yet light--the mirror image of that last bit of visibility that trails after dusk.

I wasn't the only soul to drop by this particular shore and as I pulled up to the other car, I saw a pair of eyes peer over the windowsill.

The expression was much like mine--"Aw, ...."

Not that it mattered, really. The beach had ample room.

Nonetheless, my competitive side got the better of me and I rushed to suit up.

As I did so, the door opened. And I cringed.

"Gonna fish in the dark?"

"Might as well, it won't be dark for long."

I was committed to keeping answers short--the window of opportunity was too small to be detained by idle fish-chatter.

"Been here the past few mornings?"

"No, I haven't been here for a long time."

With that, he went about his business and I my own.

I ran over my pack one last time, making sure I had everything I needed and then hit the trail.

It was challenging--I couldn't give my eyes the chance to adjust, else I'd be too late and yet I couldn't go too fast for fear of injury. In the end, my zeal got the better of me and I sped up, teetering on the edge of taking a tumble as I scrambled in the near darkness.

Finally, as the silver-blue light gave way to amber, I knew it was time.

Unhooking the fly from the stripping guide, I pulled line from the reel, working the shooting head past the tip.

In that peachy-golden glow heralding a new day, I cast my fly into a practically perfect rip, happy in the knowledge that being "crazy" has its perks.

The tide pushed out, not just sustaining the rip, but enhancing it.

"It's now or never," I thought, my fly pausing in the current.

"Now" it is.

The chunky little coho succumbed after a few minutes. After unhooking him, I looked up to see if I had any time left to try and find another.

About 10 minutes.

I re-started at the top of the rip, working down current. By now, the bar I had been standing on was fully revealed and the current softened. Despite the degrading conditions, I combed the area, following a gut feeling that there was one more shot--I had been lucky thus far, after all.

My gut was right about the additional hook up--a similarly-sized silver grabbed my fly, erupting from the shallows upon feeling the Gamakatsu's sting.

But luck is fickle and I watched as the Lady unbuttoned the feisty coho during its second air show. A reward, I suspect, for the heroic effort it displayed during those few, slow seconds we were connected.

Fittingly, the sun rose over the water, calling an end to the dawn session.

The magic hour behind me, fishing took a different tone.

Not that that was a bad thing, mind you.

Definitely not a bad thing!

It seems you can't leave this beach without the obligatory flatfish...

As the tide slacked out, I reeled in, heeding the call of the day's other obligations.

Crazy isn't so bad if this is how you define it...

Where: The Sound
When: Sunday
Conditions: Calm, overcast, later windy
Flies used: Clousers
Species pursued: Sea-run cutthroat, Resident Silvers

Song of the day: "Lookin' Out My Back Door," Creedence Clearwater Revival

The tinny beeping of the alarm roused me from my troubled sleep.

Not more than a few hours beforehand, I had slumped into what has probably been the crummiest bed I've ever slept in my entire life.

Despite the grogginess and the typical congestion one experiences from a bit too much fun with fireworks, I would not be kept from the day ahead.

Several wrong turns and a quarter tank of gas later, I found my way to the launch.

"Just in time," I thought, pulling up to the familiar face to say good morning.

"Hi Jon!"

"Morning, Roger."

A day of fishing the South Sound from a boat, an admittedly rare occasion, became even more so given who I was about to spend the tide with.

I hadn't fished the area in a couple of years and even then, didn't know much about it save for a few productive spots.

Sadly, living in Seattle, combined with my affinity for the middle Sound wilted any further interest I might have had in exploring the southern territory more thoroughly.

By happy circumstance, however, I had the fortune to fish with one of the area's experts and experience the South Sound in the way I've always suspected it should be.

It might have been another day of fishing for Roger, but for me, it was an opportunity to compare notes and confirm or deny my assumptions about the differences between fishing from a boat and from the beach.

Starting at a nearby spot, we discussed the things we look for in a good beach, a few features of which were present at our current location.

As if to validate our conversation, we managed to land a few fish before moving on.

Throughout the rest of the day, I took note of how he handled the boat, the depth of the water he fished, which tides he preferred, etc., making mental checkmarks against things I also did and tucking away little nuggets to try out on subsequent outings.

That's not to say I didn't do much fishing, on the other hand. :)

And neither did Roger. It's not much of a picture because what you don't see is the chunky cutthroat he's releasing.

At the bottom of the tide, we decided to work back. The hope was to hit a few more spots on the way in, but the increasingly gusty wind wouldn't have it.

Forced to call it a day, we returned to the ramp.

I thanked Roger for his hospitality and slipped away, retreating to my thoughts about the day behind me.

I had concluded that there was still an intimidating amount of things to learn out there.

And I smiled.

Because that just meant more fishing. :)

Where: The beach, Cedar River
When: The last few weekends
Conditions: variable
Flies used: Clousers, Pat's Rubberlegs, Shock & Awe
Species pursued: Sea-run cutthroat, Resident Silvers, Trout, Suckers

Song of the day: "Numb," Linkin Park

Haven't been doing much lately, at least in terms of catching.

I didn't think the AK thing would have burnt me out as much, but I guess it did.

Despite my lazy attitude of late, I managed to force myself outside over these past few weekends, doing a few things here and there.

Like catching suckers in the Cedar.

And fighting these guys off for hours while looking for some residents and cutthroat.

Even spent a morning dinking around with a few of my spey setups (and a single hand Skagit line on the rod in the foreground).

And, to my shock, found a few cutthroat dinkers on a beach that's normally devoid of fish this time of year. Let's just say it was one of those "fish while you have the chance" situations. :)

As you can see, there's really been nothing to write home about--I've found myself daydreaming about a return trip to AK and, of course, the upcoming pink salmon season.

In an effort to stem my jonesing, though, I'll once again be headed out to the beaches this holiday weekend. Let's hope the trip produces something big or plentiful enough to shake the cobwebs away...