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. :)

Song of the day: "Creep," Stone Temple Pilots

"The beaches have been good for cutthroat lately."

"That's what I've been hearing. Sounds like I need to break away from my attempts to find a steelhead and head back to the salt."

Over the next few days, I contemplated that idea. And by mid-week, the insane workload cresting over my cubicle walls turned contemplation into decision.

I picked up the phone and a familiar voice answered.

"So I've been thinking about what we talked about."

He laughed.

A few minutes later, I had a general plan laid out.

It was time to head back to the beach.

The first beach, an unlikely spot to find cutthroat, was surprisingly productive. Too bad my ability to keep them buttoned failed miserably.

Figuring I'd outworn my welcome, I moved to my list of usual suspects.

I didn't find any giants, but what I did find was a familiar sense of satisfaction. For whatever reason, cutthroat caught in the fall seem to be much more vibrant than those caught during any other time of the year and landing some this weekend reminded me of why I look forward to this season.

One of the few things that make the rain and cold bearable!

They may lack size, but they make up for it in beauty!

A sign of things to come...

It never ceases to amaze me how many of these critters cling to cutthroat.

A reward for making one more cast. :)

Song of the day: "Everybody's Fool," Evanescence

I wish I had something good to write about, but for me, steelheading is a less than productive pursuit, at least in terms of steelhead. :)

If anything, I would say "low" is a good word to use in describing how the past few weekends have been

Low numbers of steelhead.

Low, clear water.

Low temperatures.

Ironically, motivation and determination are the only things that aren't on the low side. :)

So Don and I have been plying the usual runs, trying to sneak our flies past the hordes of zombie pinks choking the river.

Here are a few pics summing up how that's been going:

The swimming dead.

End of the road.

Our first official taste of fall.

Almost time...

Good layering and a quick smoke will do wonders when temps get down to freezing.

And when that fails, the Colonel's got your back!

With any luck, the past few days' rain will raise most of those aforementioned lows. :)

Song of the day: "Just Dropped In (To See What Condition My Condition Was In)," Kenny Rogers & The First Edition

"Now why am I telling you all of this?"

I was trying to digest everything he'd been saying for the past few minutes and his question disrupted my train of thought.

All I could muster was in response was a less-than-intelligent, "Ummm..."

"Fish the change up."

I nodded, understanding the logic behind his methodology and filed the advice, along with the details comprising it, in the back of my head for later application.

Ironically, "the change up" is what brought me to his shop, not so much in search of guidance but more for a change of venue.

A spring and summer spent exclusively in the salt had entrenched me in a rut I needed desperately to climb out of.

It was time for a break, time to slow down.

It was time go steelheading.

Not the most productive way to spend the precious weekend hours if you look at it from a numbers perspective. Then again, I've come to find the reward in steelheading lies more in its meditative qualities than the tailing of said quarry.

Swinging a fly through a run is the ideal balance to the frenetic pace of beach fishing--no hauling, no strip-strip, no wide, intimidating expanse of water.

Just cast, swing, step, repeat. A rhythm that takes you from first light to noon in the blink of an eye. And despite the sudden passing of time, you feel no more exhausted than you would be from taking a 6 hour nap.

That's what ran through my head the previous weekend as I plied the rips, no tugs to my name save the usual suspects:

You guessed it!

No outing is complete without one of these, either.

A week later, I stood in the shop, a morning of swinging behind me. Luck had been generous--I had gone 0 for 2. Shameful, I know, but I had them on long enough to enjoy the fight, at least.

New lines in hand (heh, I know, I can't help myself!) and several pearls of wisdom later, I emerged from the shop, rejuvenated: I had peered over the edge of rut and found fresh air.

Would I be back for more?

You bet.

Songs of the day: "Wanna Be Starting Something," Michael Jackson

The hunt for coho continues.

Unfortunately, the crazy weather over Labor Day weekend and a not-so-ideal schedule from this past weekend has frustrated my efforts at finding more silvers.

Skunkings were avoided with the barest of saves.

Underscore "barest" in this instance.

I was convinced that my last outing would yield solid results; the tide window was perfect and the weather favorable.

But after working a quarter mile of beach, with the only signs of life coming from herring and sandlance schools cruising lackadaisically in the currents, I had started to lose hope, much less interest.

As the sun peaked over the cliffs, I sped up the pace, figuring I had only half an hour left of prime time.

The tide cooperated and brought a rip within range and as I worked it's outside edge, I felt a tug.

"Could it be?"

Nope. But then again, I'm not complaining!

Moments later, the sun flooded the landscape, bathing the Sound in late summer brightness.

Given the lack of activity and my willingness to play the odds, I called it a day.

I looked at my watch, figuring it hadn't been more than a couple of hours.

8:47.

That could only mean one thing for this particular lazy Sunday morning:

Back to sleep! :)

Let's hope this weekend produces something better!

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. :)

Songs of the day: "Here I Go Again," Whitesnake; "Jump Around," House of Pain; "3AM Eternal," KLF

Sentiment seems to be circulating that this year's pink run has yet to ramp up.

If that's the case, I'm hoping that this past weekend got things started.

It certainly hasn't been red hot as in past years, notably '05 where, by this time in August, the insanity was in full swing.

Nonetheless, fishing this weekend was pretty good.

Nothing like a double to start the day. And yes, that's a chunky resident silver Jeremy's holding...

Pinks on the switcher!

After messing around before slack, we decided to try something different to help overcome certain...physiological shortcomings. ;)

Ah, much better!

A definite improvement!

Unfortunately, the big incoming tide overcame us, putting the fish out of reach.

The next morning, the alarm went off at its usual, ungodly hour and within minutes an 5 Hour Energy bottle sat on the counter as I gathered my things and headed out the door.

The crack of dawn came, prefaced by the sound of notably large splashes.

"It turned on about a quarter to six yesterday," Mark said.

"About the same time farther north," I replied.

There, in the first minutes of morning light, we threw lazy loops, not so much in an effort to catch fish but to abate our anticipation.

And then...

5:39. Like clockwork.

5:45.

5:50.

6:18.

6:27.

Things were steady, almost ridiculous before a 20 minute dead stretch.

Mark even hooked a silver.

Not long after, he tussled with this bad boy--and won!

Just as I was about to reel in and take a break things got interesting again.

7:09.

7:15. "Blue House loves Pink Salmon." :)

7:19.

7:29.

A few more and they slipped away into the slack tide.

If this is the beginning, I wonder what the middle will look like!

Songs of the day: "Knights of Cydonia," Muse; "Know Your Enemy," Green Day; "Haunted," Evanescence

I haven't been holding out on you.

Sometimes, my 9-5 life gets the better of me and precludes me from writing about the things I enjoy.

Worse yet, it gives me a case of writer's block from time to time.

So it has been the past couple of weeks.

In fact, I'm still dealing with the writer's block problem.

Fortunately, I can rely on the following pictures to address that issue.

Enjoy...

It starts earlier than this for us...

Three hours into our day.

You have to love this time of year.

The obligatory flatfish...again.

I just thought this was kind of a cool pic.

The preferred way to start the morning.

Followed by a few casts before the sun fills the sky.

Another pic I liked.

Watch out for these guys--their wake can be pretty nasty.

Here we go again.

First of the day.

On again!

My turn!

Did I mention that was a double?

Of course, his fish had to be bigger than mine--here's a closer look.

That's better!

Is it me, or do we keep getting up earlier?

Never mind, it isn't me.

What? They like pink?

I guess they do.

Yup, they really like pink!

We've been up for how long? Time for a break!

Yum.

Are they ready yet?

Can I have my chair back? :)

"Hey, check it out!"

FMBWA: Fisheries Management By Walking Around

Ah, the circus.

The circus is fun!

Good times.

Off you go!

Bonk!

Dead quiet this morning...

No matter...

...it'll happen when it happens.

As most things do.

Double the fun!

Going out on a good note...

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...

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. :)

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...

Songs of the trip: "Take It On The Run," REO Speedwagon; "Here I Go Again," Whitesnake; "Mud On The Tires," Brad Paisley; "Pepper," Butthole Surfers; "Clubbed To Death," Rob D; "Where It's At," Beck; "Silence (Tiesto Mix)," Delerium, featuring Sarah McLachlan

After a couple of years of staying local, the itch to do something different had finally won out.

It was an easy choice, actually. Affordable air fare, a friend who knew the local fishery and having the appropriate equipment already in my possession made this trip a no-brainer.

And besides, I needed something to do for my birthday weekend!

In summary:

Alaska is beautiful.

The marauding swarms of hungry bugs are not.

The fishing is different, but not enough to prevent you from using a lot of your basic beach skills successfully. The differences are subtle and figuring them out is not so subtly rewarding. :)

There's something different to do every month during the late spring through fall--I would/will go again if I get the chance.

And now, for the photo show:

A little in-flight scenery...

...leads to a not-so-scenic landing. Oh well, I guess that's what Gore-Tex is for.

Ummm...welcome to Alaska!

The first fish of the trip--not more than 2 hours after landing!

This guy again! This time with a nice-sized dolly.

Creek fishing here is pretty good, too.

Especially if you have the right fly!

No that isn't a bear in the left background, it's a horse. We could have used it on the hike down here...

Then again, a 2.4 mile hike in waders and full gear is a small price to pay for this view...

Yup, that's a glacier!

The bugs suck--literally. But only after they give you a nasty little bite.

Now that's what I'm talking about!

One of many caught under the bridge.

The eagles like fishing under the bridge, too!

Another good dolly.

You can't deny the sculpin.

The same goes for these finned frisbees--not a bad fight on a 5 weight, though.

Man down!

No, I didn't catch it but I did get a chunk of it to take home.

Glaciers are cool--no pun intended.