Where: The Beach
When: This past weekend
Conditions: Chilly, breezy, overcast, rainy
Flies used: Clousers
Species pursued: Sea-run cutthroat

Song of the day: "What's My Age Again?," Blink 182

The itch was getting unbearable--the prior weekend forced me to remain indoors, partially for health, but primarily due to blustery weather.

Ironically, chum weren't the focus while I bided my time tying flies, the wind howling through the alleyway, whistling as it raked across the windowpane.

Instead, I had cutthroat on the mind and as the weekend gave way to Monday, thoughts of catching a few more of them haunted me as the work week plugged by.

Mercifully, Friday came quickly and my plans would soon come to fruition.

There's been a beach of been meaning to get to for some time, a place I'd long since abandoned as my list of favorite spots grew and my focus shifted to other quarry. But cutthroat were the soup du jour and I knew of no better place to find them and to ease the suffering of having to go two weeks without wetting a line. :)

The following morning I crept along the shoreline, amazed at how the place had somehow escaped time's passing. Everything was exactly as I remembered it from years ago--the clear water, the impossible-to-fish high tide and, as if on cue, the jumping cutthroat.

When last I visited, I was in my 20's. Though that may not seem so long ago, the change from then to now is all too obvious. Somewhere along the way, I picked up more rods than I need, more lines than I can spool and more jackets and waders than I can wear. To justify all this, of course, I developed some skill and acquired experience, or so I thought.

Back then, things were much simpler--a floating line, some poorly tied flies and a 5 weight was all I needed to play the game.

I wondered when the fun in that had given way to everything else.

The real question was if I'd get it back today; if the beach would be as generous as it had been when the focus was on the important things.

A response was quickly issued. A few minutes after the jumper, I was into a fish. The little trout came in, kicking and screaming as it were.

Soon after, Don hooked a nicer cutthroat and periodically, as we covered teh beach, the fish would remind us of their presence, jumping here and boiling there.

For all intents and purposes, life was good.

Though the action wasn't necessarily on fire, it was consistent, and whether it was the fact that being back here had put me in an especially good mood or that I was catching up on lost fishing time, I was having a ball.

It was almost like going back in time. :)