Where: The Sound
When: Saturday and Sunday
Conditions: Calm, overcast then sunny, humid
Flies used: Clousers
Species pursued: Coho

Songs of the day: "Dancing With Myself," Billy Idol

From time to time, the words echo in my head.

"Sometimes you have to go with your gut."

My father, as I'm sure most fathers have done with their children, shared this bit of parental wisdom with me many years ago.

Though I've since forgotten the context, the words' meaning has seen much use since that day--usually as a remedy for my tendency to overthink fishing plans.

Such was the case this past week.

I had come to regard fishing for pinks with mixed feelings; the AM zoo can only hold its luster for so long. And while fishing for them from the boat last weekend was fun, it wasn't as enjoyable as I thought it'd be.

It was time to move on.

Such a thought didn't come without its doubts, however.

Questions clouded my resolve.

What if the run wasn't over?

What if the silvers aren't in yet?

Moreover, my thinking opposed one of fishing's strictest rules: Don't leave fish to find fish.

Logically, there was no reason to abandon the humpies--reports have been consistent and there wasn't any solid evidence that silvers were around.

Rather than continue the internal debate, I stopped thinking and appealed to my gut.

It said, "Go."

So I did. Logic 0, Gut 1

There wasn't any real buildup to it, no string of porpoising fish as most of us have grown accustomed to this past month.

If anything, it was a hookup resulting more from hope and a little bit of luck.

I was on the edge of a rip, looking for any sign of life.

Out of the corner of my eye, a medium-sized splash.

"Too far," I thought.

But not far enough to totally dissuade me.

I stood up in the Power Drifter, stripped out as much line as I thought I could chuck and threw my clouser downcurrent.

I knew it was futile. Or unlikely, at best.

My feelings on the matter were different, however. I fished the seam as if it were loaded with resident coho--I had convinced myself that there were silvers in the slick.

Just as doubt began to creep in, it was rudely pushed aside.

Something crushed my fly and bolted, spooking another fish in its path.

For all its cartwheeling and mad dashes, it couldn't shake the SC15 and before long, a nice native coho and I were face to face.

With doubt having been replaced by satisfaction, I slipped the nate back into its world.

Now go make more of you!

After that, I was pretty much done--rowing against a tide take its toll and for some reason, some homemade creme brulee and a nap sounded better than enduring more rain. :)

But as they say, the tug's the drug and by nightfall, I was itching for another fix.

Rationale had taken the weekend off and intuition was subbing.

This time, the boat was out of the picture--I wanted to get home by noon.

Ironically, the choice was obvious for this go around.

I packed accordingly and set the alarm.

The next morning, a boat ride.

Followed by this sunrise.

A rip had predictably formed within casting range and I went to work.

The air was surprisingly chilly, a sign of things to come, I'm sure.

I worked up current, tracing the rip's edge.

A bump.

Immediately followed by a grab.

"Well, well, well," I thought.

What have we here?

Who said lightning doesn't strike twice? Logic 0, Gut 2!

Pinks may not be done, but it looks like I'm done with them, thanks to some fatherly advice. :)