Chester Allen's Watery Planet

What is fly fishing anyway? And does it matter?

One of the pleasures of outdoor writing -- whether it's an outdoor column in a newspaper or my thoughts on this blog -- is hearing from readers.

Nothing is more boring than listening to yourself, so I'm always happy to get comments and e-mails. I've learned a lot -- and made some friends. Even the sarcastic comments have value -- as some of them get me to thinking....

One reader, who seems like a nice guy, can't resist commenting when I write about using a strike indicator -- actually a Thingamabobber bobber -- while nymphing in rivers. I don't always use an indicator -- sometimes I tie my nymph leader onto the shank of a grasshopper fly or Elk Hair Caddis -- particularly when the fish are shallow and very active.

Anyway, this guy wrote this a while back: "I'm not putting that style of fishing down, but it isn't fly fishing."

Really?

Even if I'm casting a fly tied to a tapered leader tied to a floating fly line which is spooled onto a fly reel which is attached to a fly rod? Just putting on that tiny bobber makes it something else?

If that is so, what is fly fishing, anyway?

 Good grief, writing that sentence reminds  me of watching the start of a "Sex and the City" episode -- the part where the star sits at her computer and types out just that kind of question. However, I promise to never discuss my sex life on this blog -- or anywhere else on the doggone Internet.

Was it fly fishing when I hooked this cutthroat trout last fall as it stole salmon eggs out of a chinook salmon redd?  Is is fly fishing to fish barbless egg flies or use bobbers or even use plastic lines?

Let's get back  to what is fly fishing....  I suspect we all have slightly different ideas about what is fly fishing and what is not. But I also suspect those ideas have changed over the years.

For example, I'm pretty sure my anti-bobber commentator fishes with a graphite or fiberglass rod, with a plastic-coated line and a modern nylon leader. He may also fish nymphs -- but without a bobber. He probably even casts a dry fly on the water when he can't see a fish.

Is he fly fishing? Sure. But he would not be considered a fly angler on certain English trout streams I've been lucky enough to fish. Nymphing is not allowed, and anglers can only cast dry flies to sighted, rising trout or, in a pinch, grayling.

My anti-bobber commentator might have gotten some frowns if he arrived onstream with his modern tackle about 70 years ago. Back then, most fly anglers used split bamboo rods. And all fly anglers used silk lines and leaders made out of stretched insect guts.

Those anglers in the 1930s and early 1940s may well have frowned on what we happily use today. They may have thought it cheating to have such snazzy, modern stuff that made it easier to cast, hook and play fish. 

There are still some anglers out there -- delightful cranks -- who refuse to cast a graphite rod or use synthetic materials while tying a fly. Never mind that a steel hook is not found in nature. 

I think each one of us figures out exactly what is fly fishing. For me, if it is a tied fly, tied onto a leader that is tied onto a fly line that is attached to a fly reel that is mounted onto a fly rod, well, it's fly fishing. 

But does all this painful analysis really matter?

I like to to hang out with any group of anglers, and I really like talking to those who fish for winter steelhead with hand-tied jigs suspended under foam bobbers. These anglers don't fret about whether their tackle is socially acceptable to each other. They're just into cooking up jigs that fool winter steel.

I don't fish winter steelhead -- during the rare times I can pull my slacker self away from Puget Sound sea-run cutthroat -- with bobbers and jigs. But those anglers casting bobbers and jigs on long spinning rods are just as skilled -- in their own way -- as the fly anglers swinging wet flies.

To me, angling skill is something to be admired -- whether it is in the form of plastic worm tapping on the bottom 30 feet under the water or a dry fly alighting on the swirling surface of a Deschutes River back eddy.

Actually, some of the most skilled anglers out there are those that fish plastic worms for bass. Those anglers are mad scientists, homegrown biologists and safecrackers rolled into one package.

In the long run, I believe that fishing is fishing is fishing, and no legal, sporting method is somehow better than another.  I do believe that fishing single, barbless hooks and releasing all wild trout and salmon is the right thing to do. I also believe that fishing an artificial fly or lure is more sporting and easier on the fish.

About 95 percent of my angling addiction -- mainlined almost daily -- involves fly fishing. I'm sure that's not a shock to anyone who has browsed through the ramblings and ravings on this blog. Why? Fly fishing, for me, is the most effective, most fun, most beautiful and most interesting way to pester fish.

But I don't feel that much different from the kid winching in bluegills on a Spiderman rod and reel.

Now, where are my Thingamabobbers?

Puget Sound sea-run cutthroat trout still not sick of chum fry

As I sat down to write this, I wondered whether all of you are getting sick of hearing about sea-run cutthroat trout and coho salmon chowing down on chum salmon fry along Puget Sound beaches.

I know that the fish aren't sick of tender, nutritious baby chum. In fact, the migration of chum fry from streams, rivers and tiny, tiny creeks into Puget Sound is really hitting high gear. I'm finding big schools of chum fry along most South Puget Sound beaches. I frittered away an hour of my morning watching pods of chum fry swimming out of an inlet stream into salt water.

Here's the best photo I could manage:

If you look carefully -- this photo is not so great -- you can see the white mouths of these baby chum salmon sipping plankton as they mill around just outside of a Puget Sound feeder stream on Wednesday.

I was sitting by this tiny stream -- a kid could jump across it without a running start -- because I was waiting for the falling tide to start at the same Eld Inlet beach I fished during Tuesday's Blunderfest.

I wasn't there to take revenge on the trout. I just knew that a lot -- thousands and thousands -- of chum fry would be swept along into rips and current seams and dropoffs, and I wanted to be there to see it all. And, yes, I hoped to catch a cutt or two -- and maybe a coho.

But the clouds ruled the fish.

Sometimes I forget how much impact the weather has on Puget Sound fishing. Banks of clouds rolled in and hid the sun -- even drizzled a little rain -- and then went on their way. When it was cloudy, the cutts got bold and ripped on the chum fry. But whenever the sun came out, the cutts dropped a little deeper in the water and the bite just died.

It was kind of cool. Whenever the sun came out, I'd sit on the beach -- being careful to avoid sharp barnacles -- and watch the flowing water go to sleep. I did try throwing a sinking line, but the cutts just turned off under that big, burning ball in the sky.

Then a bank of clouds would arrive, and the fish would just pop on the chum fry.  Big, swirling boils appeared in the rips and current seams, and the fish were silly for Bob Triggs' Chum Baby fly.  I hooked three fish during three cloudy episodes, and each cutt hammered the fly.

These fish are so beautiful and strong. They are wild and everything a hatchery trout is not. 

Puget Sound sea-run cutthroat trout are just gorgeous fish....

After the three cutts, I didn't feel a big need to keep hooking fish. There was a time when I would keep fishing and catching and releasing until the trout stopped biting, but those days ended a few years ago. Maybe this is a sign of approaching geezerhood -- I'm 48 -- but I choose to think of it as a rare case of personal growth.

Now it's enough to let a few go, take pictures and watch the clouds cover the sun and uncover the sun.

Of course, I'll probably scuttle out to another beach tomorrow to cast a fly on moving saltwater and hope for a hit from a cutthroat trout or coho salmon.

Soon enough -- in a month or so -- the chum fry will be racing for the Pacific Ocean, and the cutts will start eating sculpins, sand lance, anchovies, little herring, all the weird little krill and crustaceans that roam Puget Sound and marine worms.  And then we'll miss the tiny chum, as they bring some of the best sea-run cutt fishing of the year.

No, I'm not sick of the chum fry season. And neither are the cutts and coho.

Sea-run cutt outing in near-perfect conditions turns into an epic blunderfest

I toured a few favorite Eld Inlet beaches Tuesday evening during the rising tide. I usually fish these spots during a falling tide, so I wasn't sure what I'd find out there.

At first, I thought I hit the jackpot. Tuesday evening was cloudy, warm and drizzly. Plenty of water was moving into Eld Inlet, and a nice current ran parallel to the beach. 

Oh, it looked good out there. Trout-O-Rama seemed like a sure deal as I rigged up my rod.

Even better, thousands of chum salmon fry dimpled in a current seam about 50 feet offshore.  Some meaty, swirly rises roiled the water well offshore, and it looked like coho salmon or sea-run cutts were following the chum fry onto the beach as the tide rose.

Chum salmon fry dimple the calm water near an Eld Inlet beach Tuesday night. I didn't notice the inshore chum fry -- and feeding sea-run cutts -- until it was too late.

It was just perfect.

I started casting for the fish chasing bait about 70 feet or so offshore. I had my rod strung with my new clear intermediate line -- which casts like a howitzer -- and I started booming our long casts for the outside fish.

I started really getting into it, and I expected to hook a nice fish or two. These beaches usually fish pretty well during the falling tide -- little points of beach and coves create nice rips. Cutts  -- and some coho -- stack up on the seams.

Still, these beaches get a fair amount of fishing pressure, and the fish can be a little picky and spooky -- and kind of sneaky. I should have remembered that.

So, I was busily booming out my longest casts of the year so far, and feeling good. Now, my longest cast would make a lot of fly anglers laugh -- I am no Lefty Kreh -- but I felt like I was doing the right thing. My fly -- Bob Triggs' Chum Baby -- kept landing in the seam right in the middle of dimpling chum fry.

Trouble was, I wasn't hooking any fish. This went on for more than an hour. Then I finally noticed that fish were no longer boiling and swirling outside. Bajillions of chum salmon fry were out there, but the cutts were not.

I was about thigh-deep in Puget Sound water at this point -- and I'd been wading and fishing this long beach for almost two hours. Actually, I'd reached that point where I was flogging the water.

Then I heard a splash right behind me. I'd heard those splashes for a while, but I figured they were the gulls and bufflehead ducks that were hanging out along the shore.

Finally, I turned around -- but only because I had to wade ashore and find a bush. Sea-run cutts -- some big ones -- were whomping chum fry in shallow water right off the beach. The fish were zooming around in foot-deep water -- behind my back. 

I can only imagine how the whole spectacle looked. Fly angler -- feeling smug about his long casts -- fires out his line toward the middle of the inlet, even as feeding fish go nuts behind his back. Well, if you saw a guy doing just that on Eld Inlet Tuesday night, it was me. It was a perfect Blunderfest.

I quickly made a cast toward shore, and a nice cutt hit the Chum Baby on the third strip. The fish dug for deep water -- and then came off. I stripped in line and gave the fly a quick look as it sank in the water. It looked fine to me.

I cast a few more times -- and hooked another nice cutt. It wiggled off.

Then the beach went dead. It was getting dark, and it was time to grope my way up the trail to the Subaru -- my flashlight was back in the car. So, I reeled in and looked at the fly. 

The hook point was broken off. The fly had probably ticked a beach rock during one of my mighty -- and futile -- casts.  Seeing that broken point was the perfect ending to a perfect session of bunglement.

I expected to see a skunk on the hike back to the car, but I didn't. One was probably walking along right behind me.

 

Saying goodbye to an old friend I've walked all over for years

Nothing is stranger than walking a well-loved trail for the last time -- and knowing it is the last time.

The Brown Farm Dike Trail -- a 5.5-mile loop around the Nisqually National Wildlife Refuge -- is closing for good on May 3. The trail, which is built on the old dike that turned the Nisqually River delta into farmland decades ago, will be torn down this summer to restore the wetlands.

May 3 is the last day to hike the trail.

The McAllister Creek fishing access -- a  great sea-run cutthroat trout hole -- will vanish this summer when the Browns Farm Dike Trail is demolished -- and a saltwater marsh is restored.

All this is a good move. The Nisqually River has some of the best wild trout, salmon and steelhead spawning habitat in South Puget Sound, and saltwater marshes are perfect places for little fish to get used to life in salt water. Restoring this huge chunk of land into a huge tidal wetland is a fantastic move for wild fish and improving water quality in Puget Sound.

Yet, tearing down the dikes means losing hundreds of acres of freshwater wetland, a prize sea-run cutthroat fishing access spot on McAllister Creek and one of the best wildlife and bird-watching hikes in South Puget Sound.

So, I walked the trail this evening and said goodbye. It was strange to walk past some ancient apple trees -- in full bloom -- and know those flowers won't turn into fruit. Alder and big leaf maple trees along the dike are exploding into full leaf, and they're about to die. A lot of songbirds will lose habitat as well. It was kind of like knowing the future -- and I didn't like it one bit.

But this is a great chance to restore a big chunk of Puget Sound to how it looked -- and worked -- before pioneers arrived on the scene and got busy "improving" things. Hundreds of acres of saltwater marsh will be great news for shorebirds, ducks, fish and all sorts of native plants and animals. The Nisqually National Wildlife Refuge plans to build a boardwalk over the restored marsh, and I can't wait to walk over a salt marsh teeming with life.

I also can't wait to fish for bigger runs of bigger salmon, steelhead and sea-run cutthroat trout.

So, my walk had a sense of loss -- and a sense of a happier future. 

The 5.5 miles of the Brown Farm Dike Trail has been my own personal refuge for more than a decade. It's a 10-minute drive from my office -- 15 minutes from my house -- and it was a place to get away from the daily weirdness of working at a daily newspaper. My daughter Courtney first hiked that trail with me when she was in first grade. Now, she's a university freshman. So many years, so many good times....

My heart keeps telling me that the Nisqually Refuge -- a place I've loved for years -- will never be the same. And my head keeps telling me the refuge is going to be so much better. Still, I left with the feeling of walking all over a good friend.

Walking the banks and looking for wild trout on a roomy Deschutes River

Balsam Root is in full bloom in the Deschutes River Canyon right now.

I got out of the Subaru Sunday morning and took a big breath of dry, sagebrush-scented Deschutes River Canyon air.

I took another big breath, pulled on my waders, grabbed my rod and started walking. Just 24 hours before, I was immersed in the PowerBait-scented craziness of Opening Day. Lots of people, lots of boats, lots of socializing -- but not much elbow room and no fishing.

Now, 24 hours and 200 miles later, I found myself slowly walking along my favorite river on the planet -- and scanning for fish. It was blustery and chilly when I left Hood River an hour earlier, but it was warm, windless and lonely in the Deschutes River Canyon near Maupin.

I suspect that plenty of anglers were upstream pounding the Warm Springs to Trout Creek stretch, which opened on Saturday. That section of the river has more trout per mile than the section just downstream of Maupin -- probably because it's closer to the dam outflow, has more shoal water and probably more trout food.

I can't wait to fish the upper part of the Lower Deschutes, but that can wait a week or two.

The Deschutes River near Maupin is still great -- especially when the water is lonely. I suspect this was one of the last quiet weekends on this part of the Deschutes. Whitewater rafting companies are getting cranked up -- I saw a few rafts going downstream -- and that means weekend crowds in Maupin.

There can never be too many wild trout in my life, and I decided Sunday morning to hike an unfamiliar section of the river and prospect for redsides rainbow trout. I'm trying to learn more parts of the river upstream and downstream of Maupin, and there is no better way to learn this river -- any river -- than to put on polarized sunglasses, get up high on the bank and start that slow walk.

There is no worse way to learn a river than to float along in a driftboat -- and I love my driftboat. I think the sheer pleasure of drifting a river makes it hard to stop, get out and prospect a long bank for trout. Long walks taught me where Deschutes trout live, what they like to eat and when they eat it.

Walking  a tall bank is fun. The osprey-eye view reveals riffles, dropoffs, current seams, foam lines -- and the shadowy shapes of trout.  Happily, I found trout rising to crippled Grammon caddisflies in a small, foamy eddy -- the fish looked like black shadows in the clear, greenish water.

I bungled a few casts while figuring out the eddy currents, but one silly fish -- OK, a nice silly fish -- tipped and sipped my size 14 olive X-Caddis. The fish charged through the eddy and put down all the other trout, but my head was buzzing along with my reel.

This gorgeous, turbocharged Deschutes River redsides rainbow is in perfect shape -- and fooled me into thinking a bigger -- but not better -- fish was on the line. They are the world's prettiest trout -- at least to me.

A good start to the day made me want to scamper along the bank and find more rising trout, but I resisted temptation and kept to a slow walk -- and lots of slow looks. I was looking for spots that always hold trout -- especially spots that are a little walk from the road -- or down a steep, nasty bank.

Learning a river is almost as fun as fishing a river. I've fished the Deschutes like a maniac since the early 1980s, but I'm still learning new spots. And this river changes from year to year, and some of my favorite spots now only exist in my memories.

 Yet, sometimes the spots come back after vanishing for a year or two or three. Backeddies can get washed out during high water, and it takes the river a few years to rebuild them.

I explored both sides of the river, so there was more hiking than fishing. I ran a size 14 bead-head pheasant tail through some current seams and dropoffs, and the trout are really looking for caddis pupa and mayfly nymphs. Lots of takes -- and the usual blunders and small successes of a typical nymphing session.

I dream of becoming an ultra-focused, ultra-efficient nympher, but rising fish often tempt me away from dedicated staring at my Thingamabobber. I did turn over a few underwater rocks in fast, rocky runs -- and found quite a few salmonfly nymphs near shore. I tied a Brooks Stone on and ran it through a deep, rocky run right next to the bank, and one nice fish walloped the fly, hit the current seam and came off.

My thoughts wandered as I walked, took notes and made casts. One fish will stick in my mind for a long time.

I cast the bead-head Pheasant Tail into a seam just below a bend in the riverbank, and that fat little Thingamabobber -- I swear I don't get any money from that company -- vanished. I set up, and the fish rocketed into the seam and headed downstream.

I was into my backing -- and expecting to see an 18-inch or better rainbow trout -- when a smaller fish wallowed at the surface. It was one of those 14-inch long Deschutes River speedster trout that are in perfect condition and know how to use the currents. I always think of those fish as the muscled sprinters -- 200 meter sprinters -- of the trout world.

Yellow-and-green Balsam root bloomed along the banks and on the steep canyon sides, and I frittered away some time shooting photos. I love this river when it's lonely and fishy, and that's happening right now.

But it won't stay that way for long -- salmonfly madness will be in full swing in a month or less....

PowerBait, hatchery trout -- and a 6-year-old angler's laugh

William Neer, who spent opening day with his father and grandfather, shows the smile of a hooked angler

I got up early this morning and headed for the water -- but not to cast flies for sea-run cutthroat trout in Puget Sound, a redsides rainbow on Oregon's Deschutes River or a Columbia River smallmouth bass.

I was up early for one of my own fishing traditions -- to report and write a newspaper story about the opening day of lowland lake trout fishing in western Washington.  At first glance, opening day seems to be awash in bottles of PowerBait -- that weird, Day-Glo paste that floats and makes hatchery trout eat like a hungry dog -- boat ramp mishaps and too doggone many anglers in too little space.

All that weirdness is part of opening day, and it's part of why I don't cast a line on opening day.

But, if you take a closer look, opening day is better and nicer than it seems.  It's a day where families often fish together, and that is pretty much a good thing.

It's a day where people leave video games, televisions -- and even the Internet -- inside. They get up early and go out into the morning chill to do pretty much the same thing our ancestors did hundreds -- even thousands -- of years ago. Our ancestors didn't have high-tech line, outboard motors or neon-green PowerBait, but they did use hooks and weights -- and sometimes painted themselves bright colors. 

And it's a day where you might meet someone like 6-year-old William Neer, who was at western Washington's Summit Lake with his dad and granddad.

William got to spend a very cold morning out in a boat with dad Mike Neer and granddad Bill Neer, but he didn't seem to mind the ordeal. In fact, he was delighted.

And why wouldn't William be happy? He got to fish with his dad and granddad -- surely a trip he will remember for the rest of his days -- and he caught most of the fish trolling a Mepps spinner while the grownups fly fished.

"I want to go fishing again because it's fun," William said as he held up the family catch.

Watching William grin -- and hearing him laugh -- reminded me of my first fishing trip with my dad and brother 41 years ago. We were on California's Kern River, and I got to use my brand-new Zebco rod and reel. I didn't know diddly about fishing, but I sat on a footbridge and kept pushing that cool button on my reel.

I liked seeing the line zip downstream. I didn't know that I was sending my salmon egg on a perfect drift to a slot swarming with trout. I caught fish after fish, and I was as hooked as those hatchery trout.

I mostly fly fish these days -- and I favor wild trout -- but I'm more hooked than ever.

Watching William reminded me of sitting next to my father on that bridge, and how he laughed every time I hooked a trout. 

Watching William smile reminded me of taking my daughter Courtney -- now a university freshman -- fishing on Oregon's Deschutes River, Willamette Valley crappie ponds, Columbia River smallmouth bass reefs and Florida mangrove flats.

 In my mind, I kept hearing Courtney's burbling giggle, my father's laugh and the sound of time sliding back and forth.

Opening day is more than meets the eye or ear -- even if you don't cast a line.

New Olympic Peninsula fly-fishing guide is a quiet journey with a thoughtful angler

I wonder whether Doug Rose, author of the new, completely updated "Fly-Fishing Guide to the Olympic Peninsula," ever has a famous scene from "The Wizard of Oz" roll through his head while fishing.

You know -- the part when Dorothy, the Tin Man, Scarecrow and the Cowardly Lion creep through the dark, spooky woods chanting "Lions, Tigers and Bears -- Oh My!"

But Rose's version of the chant might go something like this: "Cutts, Steelhead and Salmon -- Oh Yes!" Rose, who guides almost year-round, knows the Olympic Peninsula like few others.

And, after reading the new version of "Fly-Fishing Guide to the Olympic Peninsula," it's clear that Rose's life follows the rhythms of the Peninsula rivers and tides.

I had the pleasure of meeting Rose when he spoke a year or two ago during a meeting of the South Sound Fly Fishers. He's pretty soft-spoken and modest, but he knows his stuff. I learned a lot during the meeting, and I learned a lot reading his latest book.

Rose's writing is a lot like his speaking. He tells little, interesting stories and manages to teach us a lot -- without making it seem like he's teaching at all. I had a distinct sensation that I was fishing with a good friend.

Each part of the book -- from cutthroat trout on the Queets River to summer steelhead on the Hoh River to brook trout on Price Lake -- carries his relaxed voice, which is full of history, stories and love of the water.

The book is also a fishing guide, and readers get a priceless survey of fly fishing the Olympic Peninsula. Rose shares his knowledge of northern Hood Canal, the Grays Harbor and Chehalis River area, the Strait of Juan de Fuca, the classy world-famous steelhead rivers and on and on and on.

My copy of the book is already a little tattered, and there are Post-It notes on sections about rivers and bays and lakes I'd like to explore. I know I have to make another trip to fish the rainbows on the Elwha River before that terrible dam goes down, which, happily, looks like will happen before the scheduled 2012 deadline. 

But the truth is, I'd have to spend the next 30 years living on the Olympic Peninsula -- and fishing like a maniac -- to see and do and savor all the water in this book.

Luckily for all of us, Rose has already done that -- and continues to do just that. This book joins that select company of regional fishing guides that every angler must have.  Rose is to the Olympic Peninsula as Craig Mathews is to Yellowstone National Park and Dave Hughes is to Oregon's Deschutes River.

Rose is also a guide, and he specializes in walk-in trips, which suits his quiet personality. I can't imagine a better day than walking and fishing with Doug Rose -- and I have to make that happen. After all, as ski filmmaker Warren Miller used to say, "Do it now, as it will just be more expensive when you do finally do it."

To contact Doug, call 360-374-2635 or visit his website at www.dougroseflyfishing.com. Rose has a terrific blog on the site, and it's worth a daily visit.

Yeah, Rose is a wizard -- of a place far better than Oz.

Sunset with the sea-runs -- despite a meddlesome seal -- is a good way to end the day

Tuesday evening's wonderful sunset lit up a nice South Puget Sound sea-run cutthroat beach.

It wasn't enough to fish the falling tide yesterday morning, so I skedaddled out of work in time to fish the evening falling tide at another South Puget Sound beach.

I hadn't fished this beach since last fall, and I was looking forward to casting into the classy rip that forms off a tiny point during the falling tide.  This beach can be hit or miss, but it's usually good for a fish or two.  This part of Puget Sound is famous for strong tidal currents, and it's fun to stand on the beach and watch marine life sail by in the river-like current.

The flow was strong enough Tuesday night to send big red rock crabs spinning along the bottom like prickly Frisbees. The current also pushed a bunch of sand lance -- they looked like 4-inch-long eels wiggling around -- and chum salmon fry into the slow pocket alongside the rip.

I frittered away valuable fishing time trying to get photos of the sand lance and chum fry, but my shaky photography skills weren't up to the task. So, I just shot a few photos of the sunset, which was fantastic.

The whole evening felt more like June than April. It was warm -- it was 74 degrees when I arrived at 5 p.m. -- and the scents of freshly mown grass and meat grilling on barbecues mixed with the muddy smells of low tide. Lawnmowers roared in nearby backyards and yelling kids rode clattering bicycles on the nearby road.

This beach isn't on a pristine section of Puget Sound, but it's amazing how many great cutthroat -- and resident coho -- live near residential or commercial neighborhoods.

I imagine that just about every South Puget Sound beach is rocking with sea-run cutts right now, as they've showed up at every beach I've fished this week. I didn't see any fish boil or swirl in the rip when I got to the beach, so I walked a little ways upcurrent to fish a dropoff.

It's a cool spot. A shallow, shellfish-studded ledge suddenly drops off into the deep, mysterious channel created by the jump-across stream that flows into this Puget Sound inlet.

I strung a sinking line -- it's my new favorite weapon on a sunny day -- and tied one of Bob Triggs' Chum Baby flies to a 3-foot-long leader. A short leader is a good idea when fishing a sinking line, as it keeps the fly from wafting up toward the surface.

I cast the line into the river-like current and the fly washed downstream over the two-foot-deep ledge  -- and into the dropoff. A cutt whacked the fly on the third cast, and it felt big -- for a second. Then a 10-inch-long cutt splashed the surface.

  There is no such thing as a bad sea-run cutthroat trout in my fishy world. The trout was small -- but beautiful -- with bright silver flanks, razor-cut, clean, white-tipped fins and hundreds of inky black spots. 

This 10-inch-long sea-run cutthroat trout hooked Monday evening was a study in small-scale perfection.

Cutts -- all of them small -- hit my Chum Baby every few minutes.  The water level kept dropping like my 401-K balance, and the rip become sharply defined.

Then a couple meaty swirls -- the kind that make your heart roll over in your chest -- showed in the rip, and I moved downcurrent about 50 feet. I got a big strike on the first cast -- but the fish wiggled off. It could have been a big cutt -- or one of those ambitious youngsters.

Then a dark object came bobbing down the current. It looked like a floating football, but it was a seal's head. The seal slipped right into the rip, stared at me for a second and then swam around for a while. 

Naturally, the cutts were gone, and so was I.

I didn't really mind. The western sky was a constantly changing watercolor of yellows and blues, the breeze was summer-warm and I could think of a thousand worse ways to end my day.

By the way, I got a note today from my friend Bob Triggs, who is the inventor of the fabulous Chum Baby fly. Triggs, who is an Olympic Peninsula fly-fishing guide out of Port Townsend, said he is giving clients discounts during the Hood Canal Bridge closure in May and June.

Actually, it's a screaming deal. Triggs will take two fly anglers on walk-and-wade trips for the price of one. The idea is give anglers a good reason to take the ferry or do the longer drive. Truth is, it's always worth the time and effort to fish sea-run cutts and summer steelhead with Bob Triggs.

For more information, send Bob an e-mail at [email protected] or call 1-866-793-3535 or 1-360-385-9618.

Fishing a new sea-run cutthroat trout beach on an early morning falling tide

This sea-run cutthroat trout was the only fish I hooked off a new beach Tuesday morning -- although there were lots of fish swirling and flashing in a very nice rip.

PUGET SOUND -- I left the house before dawn on Tuesday, and it was warm and balmy enough to feel like summer.

I wanted to try a new beach -- one that I've fished a couple times this year with more hope than hooked fish.  I've mostly fished this beach on the rising tide, and I've seen quite a few swirling, boiling fish -- but I've never hit Trout-O-Rama.

So, I decided to fish the beach on the falling tide this morning. I was hoping that the low light of early morning -- plus a falling tide -- would interest more fish in my fly. 

Figuring out a new spot is one of the things that make Puget Sound sea-run cutt fishing so seductive to me. Each beach is an elegant puzzle -- and the puzzle pieces change with the seasons and the weather. No beach is ever a sure thing -- sea-run cutts wander all over Puget Sound, and yesterday's hot beach can be stone-cold today.

I do know one thing that is always true: You can't catch fish unless you go fishing. And the more you go fishing, the more you learn about fishing. 

And I was on fire to see swirling, boiling sea-run cutts -- and feel one or two whack my fly. I was away from sea-run cutthroat beaches for 10 days while I was knocking around some of my favorite Oregon haunts -- and I missed those fish a lot. I also missed the sharp -- yet musty -- scent of a Puget Sound beach, the squeaky grind of beach pebbles under my feet and the rhythm of the tides.

An e-mail from my friend Greg Cloud last weekend got me thinking about how important it is to find new sea-run cutthroat beaches to fish. Both of us fish a very special section of Puget Sound -- we each found it in different ways. We now fish it together every few months. Here's what Greg wrote about this beach:

"Chester, I am hanging my rod up for a while.  I know that is a shock,  but I have caught and released so many fish this last week....  I know I've caught and released so many fish that I've caught the same fish on back-to- back trips.  Markings don't lie.  I just feel that I shouldn't do these any more harm right now.  It's a super-great fishery but catching the same critters day after day is not what this fishery needs to have... especially from me.  This is a micro-fishery.  Sooner or later, I will  have mortally hooked fish and some have been close.  My take on the situation:  Got to let the fish go their own way for a while.  Food for thought.  God, I love this stuff but in my mind it's time for a rest -- to let them go their own way." 

Greg, who is a retired biologist, is one of the best anglers I've ever met, and he grew up fishing South Puget Sound. Greg fishes hard, but few people understand and love Puget Sound -- and the fish -- like Greg Cloud.

I don't fish this particular beach that often -- it is kind of a treat for me, and I don't want to take it for granted. And I also love finding new spots.

I've fished Puget Sound like a maniac since 1996, and I have found about 10 beaches that offer exceptional sea-run cutt fishing -- if the conditions are right and the fish show up.  I know of many other spots that hold fish, and I love to explore new water -- to maybe add to my list of Top 10 beaches.  

I know that there are probably hundreds of good sea-run cutthroat trout spots in Puget Sound -- it's a huge body of water -- and I suspect some of those beaches get fished once or twice a year at most. My searches always start while I'm driving around Puget Sound -- or gazing at a good map.

Each search is a new addiction, and they never really end. There is always more to learn.

So, it seemed like a good idea to get out before dawn on Tuesday morning and explore my newish beach during a falling tide. According to my tide table, I would have flowing water until about 10 a.m.

 The beach was gorgeous. Shells and barnacle-crusted pebbles crunched under my feet -- it sounded like a giant bowl of Rice Krispies. Fallen trees poked into the water, and a small, jump-across stream sent clean, clear water into the Puget Sound. Clams squirted as I walked to the water's edge.

The falling tide created a rip where the beach juts into the Sound, and fish swirled in the seam between fast and slow currents.

I cast into the rip and stripped in my Chum Baby fly. About 30 casts later, I changed to a olive sparkle Woolly Bugger. I changed back to the Chum Baby about 20 casts later, as I saw cutts chasing chum fry through the rip and into the slow water near the bank.

I hooked one beautiful cutt and took a quick photograph as the fish glided to me in knee-deep water.

That was the only fish I hooked on my dawn patrol -- although there were quite a few cutts in that rip, and I showed them quite a few different flies and retrieves.

 The fascinating, frustrating, addicting mystery continues, and I couldn't be happier.

Columbia River smallmouth bass bite heating up with the weather

This handsome, chunky Columbia River smallmouth bass inhaled a Woolly Bugger stripped in a deep slot between two reefs during a warm session Sunday evening. The bass bite is improving with the weather, but it may be a good idea to bring along a sinking line to the river.

HOOD RIVER, ORE. -- I'm more likely to fall into a rut than other anglers.

My latest rut -- and angling blunder -- was stubbornly sticking to my time-tested strategy of fishing Columbia River backwaters for spring smallmouth bass. I guess this is an example of a little knowledge being really dangerous.

The bass usually rumble into the backwaters -- those lakes between the railroad tracks or highways and the main Columbia river -- to spawn by the middle of April. The backwaters warm up faster than the main river, and the smallmouth arrive to bask in the heat and enjoy their version of a lust-filled, fight-filled tropical vacation.

But the many cold spells this spring have the bass bouncing back and forth between the backwaters and the main river  -- and driving me crazy. A warmish day or two pops up the water temperature and I start seeing -- and hooking -- smallmouth in the backwaters. 

Then a cold front blasts into the Columbia River Gorge -- like the one we enjoyed on Monday and Tuesday -- and the bass vanish.

I never thought about stringing a sinking line onto my fly rod and sending a fat little rubber-legged Woolly Bugger into harm's way on the deeper ledges just outside of the backwaters.  I can see all the bass experts out there smacking their foreheads in unison, but there it is.

Anyway, warm weather -- it hit a delicious 80 degrees in Hood River Sunday afternoon -- rolled into the Gorge Friday, and the bass seem to be staging just outside of the backwaters. The main river along the rocky banks ranged from 50 to 52 degrees on Sunday afternoon.

I know all this because I loped off to the river on Sunday afternoon in hopes that the hot sun had seduced the bass back into the backwaters near Hood River. Well, I didn't see many bass in the shallows, and I decided to take a walk along the rocky banks of the main river.

The water levels have dropped, and an exposed rock reef poked out from the bank near where the river flows into a favorite backwater. Better yet, another reef -- still under about two feet of water -- made a big dark spot just off the tip of the exposed reef.

This is a good summer spot, but I figured the bass might be using the rock reefs -- and the dropoffs to deeper water -- as their waystation between trips to the backwaters.

I strung my full-sinking line, tied on the rubber-legged Woolly Bugger -- and started covering the water between the dry and sunken reefs. I made enough casts to start my brain lollygagging about some nearby kite boarders -- until my line stopped and that electric current ran down my fly rod.

A nice smallmouth bass!

A few more bass whacked my flies -- when I wasn't losing them to the rocks -- as the sun slid toward the Gorge rim. It wasn't Bass-O-Rama, but it might be in a few days if this nice weather sticks around.

In the meantime, I'll keep my rut-prone mind open, my  sinking line handy -- and my eyes on those Columbia River nearshore rocky reefs.