Chester Allen's Watery Planet

Deschutes River Salmonfly Madness is over, but redsides rainbows still biting

MAUPIN, ORE. -- When I was a high-school senior way back in 1979, Mr. Acosta -- my U.S. Government teacher and a spectacular human being -- told me that being late was a bad habit.

Well, I'm sorry Mr. Acosta, but being late is better -- at least for Deschutes River Salmonfly Madness  -- than being on time.  

I lashed the Subaru the 60-odd miles from Hood River to Maupin Saturday morning with a good feeling about the day. It was already 80 degrees when I left Hood River at 10:30 a.m., and it would be a lot hotter in that big, basalt heat trap that is the Deschutes River Canyon.

But heat -- and an upstream breeze -- is good news when you're arriving late to the Deschutes River Salmonfly Madness.  The warmth gets the salmonflies -- and golden stoneflies -- scrambling around in the bankside trees and grasses. The big bugs are looking for sex, and a lot of them fall out of the tree and blunder into the water.

The main salmonfly and golden stonefly emergence -- when they crawl out of the water like the big, lumbering prehistoric creatures that they are, and then climb out of their skins and emerge into big, lumbering, prehistoric creatures that can fly -- is over. 

And that first, maniac day or two when the big, wild Deschutes River redsides trout discover dumb protein falling into the water is long gone -- probably during the Memorial Day weekend.  Deschutes trout go bonkers when they finally realize the biggest, fattest bugs of the year are EVERYWHERE. Trout boil on bugs -- and artificial flies -- along the banks, rip up tackle and drive hordes of anglers into Madness.

The hatch rockets upstream a few miles a day, and Madness is now probably up near the Warm Springs area. In Maupin, the trout and steelhead fishing capitol of Oregon, Madness has toned down into quiet glee -- at least part of every day.  The river was far from deserted Saturday afternoon, but there was tons of room for everybody.

And, like I said, the big hatch of salmonflies and golden stonefiles is quieting down.

But thousands of the big bugs are still hanging out on bankside trees, romancing each other, lumbering out over the water to lay eggs -- and just falling into the water.

The trout, which are now hungry again after stuffing themselves a few days ago, are ready to eat more big bugs -- especially on a hot afternoon and evening.

And it was hot.

I started sweating when I got out of the car and started untangling the mess my floating line had made of itself. How can a carefully spooled 6-weight line turn itself into a tangle on a reel? I don't know, but I want it to stop.

Heat waves shimmered off the Subaru's hood, and heat waves probably started shimmering off my head after I saw two nice trout walloping stoneflies down the bank.  The bank down to those trout -- which were hanging out in the shade of an overhanging alder tree -- was steep and rocky and scary. But a nice foam line burbled along the bank, and I could see big boulders submerged in the deep water.

This is the kind of water my friends John and Amy Hazel, owners of the Deschutes Angler fly shop in Maupin, tell everyone to fish during salmonfly and golden stonefly time. John and Amy push their way past thickets of blackberries, inch down steep, rocky, rattlesnake-infested banks -- and inch their way along the edge of the river, where they fearlessly throw flies where few flies have been thrown before.

And a little shade -- in the form of trees or the early evening -- is really nice.

Here's a quote from Amy on their website's fishing report:

"Drive past all those guys standing on a nice gravel flat and casting toward the middle of the river. Look for the Death Water!"

And those two fish whacking golden stoneflies falling into the river from the tree were in Death Water. I inched my way down the bank looking and listening for rattlers, and I then had to inch my way along the 18-inch-wide rocky ledge along the rushing water -- but with a nice foam line! -- to cast to those fish.

I hooked the first fish, a strong 16-incher that rocketed off like a 22-incher and showed me what the backing on my reel looks like, on the second cast. A few minutes later, I hooked -- and immediately lost -- the second fish. Two guys were standing on the top of the bank watching me, and I almost fell into the river when they started talking to me. I didn't know they were up there.

A Norm Woods Special fooled this Deschutes River redside rainbow trout Saturday afternoon.

So, I spent the day hiking upstream, drinking lots of water and inching my way down steep banks and through green, leafy thickets. I didn't catch a fish on every cast, but I caught enough fish to make me very, very happy. All my afternoon fish were in the shade, and my best trout of the day came when that blowtorch sun dipped below the canyon wall and put the entire section of river into shade.

That fish was rising just below a tree located on a steep, rocky bank. Big bugs were falling out of the tree -- the evening breeze was helping with that -- and trout were lined up in the foam line. I bungled a couple of fish, and then an old warrior walloped my fly and zoomed downstream.

This nice Deschutes River redsides hooked on a Norm Woods Special Saturday evening shows why they're called redsides....

I eventually landed that fish, and after taking a couple of pictures, decided that it was getting late, and it was a long walk back to the Subaru. I also had this beautiful vision of an ice-cold chocolate milkshake from The Oasis floating around in my trout-addled mind.

I started the hike back, and I stayed on the easy trail.

I didn't know what time the Oasis closed, and I didn't want to be late.

Eager panfish save the night for a bumbling bass angler

I had planned to spend Thursday evening pestering Puget Sound sea-run cutthroat trout during the incoming tide. But the warm and humid afternoon -- the air felt thick -- got me thinking about largemouth bass whacking popping bugs burbling across a glassy lake.

So, that's where I found myself an hour later. The lake looked like a mirror, and the water smelled like a mix of wet mud and the weird --almost fruity -- scent of panfish.  This little lake is a pretty popular spot, but most anglers fish it for hatchery rainbow trout -- and ignore the nice largemouth bass, bluegill and pumpkinseed sunfish that knock around in the weedy shallows.

In fact, holdover rainbow trout were lazily rising -- stringing rings along the water -- to a nice hatch of big midges. I might have been tempted to hook one or two of those fish myself -- setting up on a trout porpoising on glassy water is one of the elegant moments in fly fishing -- but my trout gear was at home.

I noticed lots of dinner-plate-sized clearings on the bottom -- mostly in shallow water near the shore. All the mud and weeds and junk had been cleared away, and I knew bluegill and their colorful cousins -- the pumpkinseed sunfish -- had created nests on the bottom. Little male bluegill and pumpkinseeds each patrolled their own nest, and I knew they would whack any fly dropped in their territory. 

But I wanted to hook the females, which tend to run a little bigger. I cast my fly -- a bead-head Cate's Turkey variation -- to the deeper, weedy water just a few feet away from the shallow nests. The weeds in this lake create green forests that blanket the bottom and reach for the surface. I felt like I was floating over a submerged patch of thick woods. 

After a few casts, my line tightened, and a fat little pumpkinseed was Frisbeeing around the float tube.

Pumpkinseeds are as gorgeous as a tropical fish on a Hawaiian reef. Blue streaks decorate their faces, their bellies are bright orange and a tiny red dot decorates that little tab on their gills. Pumpkinseeds never get very big, but they are super aggressive, fight hard and taste really good when filleted, rolled in cornmeal and dropped into hot oil.

I decided to keep four or five fish and have a lakeside dinner. My camp stove and cooking gear were in the Subaru -- and it's funny how often I bring kitchen stuff along when I'm fishing warmwater lake in early summer.

It looked like this fish was about to lay her eggs, but I kept her anyway. Panfish -- such as bluegill and pumpkinseeds -- are very good parents, and they can easily overpopulate a lake and start stunting out. Keeping a few panfish for supper is actually good for the lake. And the fish are a delicious, guilt-free meal.

This is a great time to take kids or new anglers fishing. Just about every lake or pond in western Washington and Oregon -- and the rest of the United States as well -- has hungry panfish. The fish hang out in big schools around weedbeds, sunken trees and boat docks.

I kept four fish in the little mesh bag that hangs in the water from a ring on my float tube -- and then rerigged for bass. A foam popper -- I learned to tie it when a good angler named Gene Trump created a little tutorial on the Westfly.com website -- was soon plopping into the the nooks and crannies along the shoreline.

In this lake, the bass often spawn right after the panfish, so I suspected the bass would be shallow and jumpy and aggressive. And late spring is the best time of year to fish for shallow largemouth bass.

Gene Trump's popper worked great -- four bass took it down in 90 minutes of casting -- but operator error bungled the hookset every time. I have a bad habit of setting with my rod -- as if I were fishing a dry fly for trout.  It's best to just keep stripping line until you feel the fish when a bass whacks a floating popper. Setting up with the rod is a dumb move.

Yeah, I yanked that popper right out of the gaping mouths of those bass. I'm always a little jumpy and squirrelly on the first trip or two when fishing poppers for bass. I do wish I had hooked at least one of those bass, as this lake grows thick, hefty fish with green sides and pearl-white bellies.

After a while, I started watching the bluegill and pumpkinseed nests. The fish each had a nest, and there was a lot of fin-flaring and tail-chasing whenever another male got too close to the clean gravel. I lost track of time while gazing at the little fish, and it was soon time to get out, clean the fish and fry up the little fillets.

Bats were flapping over the lake as I waited for the oil to heat up, and it was still light at 8:45 p.m.

I love this time of year -- especially the long evenings with thick, moist air -- and the electric tugs of amped-up panfish.

A big falling tide uncovers some beautiful, fishy secrets on a Puget Sound beach

This photo of a small -- yet gorgeous Puget Sound sea-run cutthroat trout -- shows the intensity of the current during Wednesday's big minus tide. Fishing a Puget Sound inlet is much like fishing a river under these conditions.

Fishing a new Puget Sound sea-run cutthroat beach is an addiction.

I fish a new beach on a rising or falling tide -- and maybe catch a couple of fish -- or maybe not. Even as my feet crunch on beach gravel on the walk back to the Subaru, I wonder how the beach will fish on a different tide or different weather.

The intensity of the tide -- whether the water level will fall six feet or 14 feet -- makes a huge difference, as a tide that drops more exposes more beach and changes the location of rips, current seams and dropoffs.

So, a beach can even look very different from tide to tide, day to day or week to week. 

Sometimes, I like to fish a beach from the start to end of a falling or rising tide -- especially if the tide involves big drops or rises in water. Big swings in water level show a beach under lots of different conditions  over 6 to 8 hours.

I wanted to do just that today at a beach that I"m getting to know, but I didn't have the whole day to lollygag around on the beach. I did have about three hours.

High tide was at about 8 a.m. and low tide was at about 4 p.m., and the water level was expected to drop a whopping 16.6 feet! It was one of the lowest minus tides of the year. I love big minus tides -- you see all kinds of weird marine life -- such as nudibranches that look like swimming blobs of Jell-O -- and clams squirt water on the waders as you walk around.

I decided to fish from 10 a.m. to 1 p.m. I brought along a bottle of water and sunscreen, as it was bright and sunny. Sea-run cutthroat trout tend to like darker, drizzlier days, but they still have to eat on sunny days.

Casting was good -- but catching was slow -- during the first part of the tide. The tidal current was really starting to zip along, and a lot of stuff was zipping by in the current. Chunks of kelp, sticks, fir cones and other things washed along.  Fishing a Puget Sound inlet during a strong tide is much like fishing a river -- the current can be that strong.

The nice rip that usually forms off the point and creek mouth of this beach was barely a ripple when I arrived, but the dropping water level soon formed that fishy seam between fast and slow water.  Just upcurrent, the water rushed over a shallow ledge and dropped off into a little channel the creek gouges into the shelly beach. A standing wave forms over the deeper channel when the current rushes from shallow to deeper water.

My first fish of the tide -- a beautiful little 10-inch long sea-run cutthroat trout -- whacked a Williams Point Sand Lance. This fly, the creation of noted sea-run cutthroat angler Les Johnson, is one of the best flies for imitating these eel-like fish.

Different kinds of bait appeared along the beach -- and vanished just as quickly -- as the water level plummeted. A big back eddy forms and disappears and appears again as the water level drops, and lots of baitfish get trapped in the slow, swirling currents.

I saw sand lance, sculpins, a small school of herring and a good sprinkling of chum salmon fry, which are started to get pretty big. Chum fry time is about to end.

As the tide rolled out, the rip changed all the time. Sometimes it was one big seam, sometimes it was two rips that joined together into a V-shape and sometimes it almost vanished. 

Watching the ever-changing water reminded me of really good jazz music. The version of "My Foolish Heart" on the live Oscar Peterson tribute album kept dancing through my head as I cast. Roy Hargrove's trumpet is so liquid and smooth on that piece.... 

The beach kept changing, and the fish kept moving around. At one point, I was casting my fly into the V-shape, but the trout weren't biting. I heard a splash upcurrent, so I walked back up the beach and fished a new set of tiny standing waves at the dropoff -- and found the fish again.

Confession: I didn't catch any big fish, but I did manage to lose a couple nice ones. I'm really, really good at bungling the best trout of the day.

It was hard to leave the beach at 1 p.m. Everything had changed so much during my three hours in the water. Yet, the beach was always a set of rips and dropoffs.  I'm starting to believe that sea-run cutts drop down an inlet in waves during a falling tide.  I suspect the fish drift down with the current, and then stop at rips and other current breaks to feed.

On this day, I noticed a couple waves of smaller fish, and I stopped casting as the little cutts splashed around in the rip and chased bait in the slow water. It was so good to see smaller sea-run cutts in the saltwater, as they'll be the next group of bigger fish in a year or two.

I've fished sea-run cutts in Puget Sound like a maniac since 1996, and the mandatory catch-and-release rules have made a big improvement in the fishing. I see more fish and more big fish every year.

One cool thing happened just before I left. A mob of crows hassled an adult bald eagle out of a tree and pestered that big, ferocious bird for hundreds of yards down the inlet.  Why is it that crows pick a squabble with any hawk or eagle or owl? Maybe they're protecting their nests or their young -- or maybe it's just fun for them.

It's a rare day when I can spend an entire tide on a beach, but it's pretty easy to carve out three hours or so to watch the elegant dance of the tides. There was a lot more beach exposed to the bright sun when it was time to go, and I walked back to the car over areas that had been covered with water -- and holding cutts -- just an hour or so before.

 I'll go back to that beach Thursday evening to watch the incoming tide cover up that big, shelly, pebbly beach -- and perhaps uncover a few more secrets.

Fooling myself at the fly tying vise instead of fooling trout

So, I sat down tonight and started a chore that I've been putting off for the past three weeks.

Somehow, I lost my little box with Blue Winged Olive mayfly imitations while fishing Oregon's Deschutes River near the tiny, trout-happy town of Maupin a couple of weeks ago. The vest pocket that usually holds this box -- it's directly opposite from the vest pocket that holds the Pale Monrning Duns, so I feel like a mayfly gunfighter -- was empty.

My heart pounded, my head spun and the search was on. I only had about 300 or so dry flies, emergers, spinners and cool little nymphs -- tied down to size 24 -- in that box. I kept thinking about all the tiny Sparkle Duns I tied each rainy night for a week last winter. 

Replacing all those flies -- and I need all those flies, as Blue Winged Olives hatch just about year-round -- would mean hours at the fly-tying vise. And it would be my perfect luck to trip over a rocking hatch of these bugs sometime this summer and not have one fly to match what the trout were gobbling down. 

That said, I probably won't see a Blue Wing Olive hatch until September, but you never know what a summer rainstorm will bring.

I pawed through my tackle duffle bag and trout vest, but that little box -- neat little rows of neat little flies tied over hours and hours -- was gone.

So, I sat down after dinner and started tying quill-bodied Sparkle Duns. This fly is my secret weapon of second resort when the trout are tipping and sipping during a thick Blue Winged Olive hatch. 

My secret weapon of last resort is casting one of Craig Mathew's hackle spinner out there. It's amazing how often a spinner will fool trout rising to emerging mayflies. I think the fish think -- as much as they can think -- that the spinner is a cripple. Then again, I've seen lots of spinner falls at the same time as hatching duns.

I'm sure most of you know this, but a dun is a winged mayfly that has just broken out of the nymphal shell and is floating on the surface of the water. A spinner is that same bug that has molted its skin a few hours before and is now ready to have the only sexual act of its life and then lay eggs on or under the water's surface.

Adult mayflies only live a day or so, but, hey, what a way to go.

Anyway, I sat down, got out the materials -- I have to soak the dried quills from rooster feathers in water to make them bendy and pliable again -- and started to tie size 16 flies. I always start with the biggest size in a series of flies -- and then work my way smaller and smaller.

I tie Blue Winged Olive quill Sparkle Duns in size 16 all the way down to a silly size 22. But I've seen too many days when the trout wanted to sip down every size 22 dry fly on the river to complain.

I tie like a madman all winter long -- it is a way to thumb my nose at a dark, drizzly Northwest night that begins at 4:45 p.m. and doesn't end until 8 a.m. And I slowly, slowly fill up my boxes. I always tie Blue Winged Olives first, followed by midges, March Browns, Skwala stoneflies, caddis and then onto the weirdness of salmonflies, golden stoneflies, hoppers, beetles, ants and even craneflies.

Yeah, it's nutso, but it gets worse. I have to tie my trout nymphs, emergers and streamers. Then come the sea-run cutthroat trout flies -- which I do cast even during the worst of winter -- then bass flies, weird experiments and so on.

All the boxes get filled, and then those neat rows of flies start vanishing into trees, underwater snags, a crowded drying patch on my vest, the greedy fingers of my partner Heather -- who does not tie flies --- and so on. Every now and then, one of those flies ends up  in the mouth of a trout.

So, I spend a lot of the summer and fall tying flies to replace the flies I have lost -- but still need. All this would be exhausting -- if it weren't so much fun. 

But I was dreading tying all those tiny Blue Winged Olive flies. So, I gritted my teeth, put on my geeky fly-tying glasses and started cranking out bugs. I tied two dozen Sparkle Duns in size 16 and one dozen in size 18 before dinner.

After dinner, I went out to the Subaru to get my wader bag. The car is pretty new, and my wader bag is pretty old and damp and musty.  When I pulled the bag out -- it was open so my waders could dry off and add their special perfume to the car's interior -- my Blue Winged Olive box fell out.

I was delighted -- my head actually spun for a second -- and then wanted to kick that box across the road. I got over that in less than a second -- but I then wanted to kick my own butt across the road. That, happily, is impossible, but I've proved for years that I can whack my own skull on just about anything.

I went upstairs to my fly-tying desk and looked at the neat rows of new flies -- about three hours of work. Then I realized that I had some extras for the long season. Suddenly, I felt smug and prepared and competent.

Then a size 16 Tiemco hook that had fallen to the carpet stabbed me in the toe. Luckily, the hook was barbless.

Two states, two smallmouth bass and way too much wind....

This evening bass was a nice way to end a long, windy day of chasing Columbia River smallmouth over two states. This bass -- and a few others -- happily chomped flies just a mile or so from home. 

HOOD RIVER -- The words "two" and "too" pretty much sum up most of my big Memorial Day Weekend smallmouth bass fishing extravaganza on the Columbia River.

My partner Heather joined me on Sunday, and we left Hood River in search of shallow-water smallmouth bass. Heather is a good angler, but she's also an angler who likes action early and often. I love catching fish, but I'll also happily rattle around a lake or stream trying new things and losing track of the day.

Our first stop was on the Oregon side of the river. It was a new place for me -- and Heather -- but things got off to a great start when a PIG of a smallmouth took a swing at her little crankbait. 

Heather likes to fish with a spinning rod for smallmouth bass -- especially when we're walking rocky banks and there is little or no backcast room. Anyway, a big smallmouth gets Heather pumped.  Heather spotted another big smallie cruising nearby, and she pounded that stretch of water for a long time.

But the fish were wise to us. But we kept casting -- and the west wind kept getting stronger. One gust caught my fly line and pushed it at a near-perfect right angle to my rod.  We worked our way out onto a sloping point, and I picked up two small male smallmouth -- each  about 11 inches long -- on an orange-and-olive Woolly Bugger.

Then the wind started really howling, and we retreated to Big Jim's hamburger stand in The Dalles to calorie up and regroup.  The Columbia Gorge and Yakima, Washington are among the last bastions of old-fashioned hamburger stands in the Northwest -- Miner's in Yakima is worth a long detour even while on a fishing trip.

Another angler pulled into Big Jim's while we were there. He was from the Young Gun school of fly anglers. I know this because he was wearing trendy, big-lensed  polarized sunglasses that looked a lot like the sunglasses my mom wore in Southern California during the late 1960s.

The Young Gun looked like he'd just come off Salmonfly Madness on the Deschutes River. There were salmonfly patterns stuck to his dashboard and a fully-rigged fly rod was sticking out of his pickup bed. I wondered whether he shot off the river and drove 30-odd miles for a burger break before bombing it back to Maupin -- and more Salmonfly Madness.

But why drive past The Oasis in Maupin to eat at Big Jim's? Both cook up great burgers, but why make the drive? I wanted to ask the guy, but he looked dazed and tired, so yet another fishing mystery will remain a mystery.

We love Maupin, but the crowds of Salmonfly Madness -- on Memorial Day weekend no less -- scared us off. We'll pester Deschutes redside rainbows next week. Besides, chasing smallmouth bass on the Columbia River is its own -- lonelier -- form of madness. And chasing smallies in a roaring west wind is pretty crazy.

We decided to cross over to the Washington side and fish one of the big backwater lakes. These lakes were formed when railroad grades or highways were built along the river. Culverts and bridges allow river water -- and bass -- to flow in and out of the lakes.

We got to our spot -- which we hoped would be in the lee of the ripping wind -- and found the wind coming from the north instead of the west. It looked like the complicated twists of the Columbia and the many side canyons and steep cliffs  channeled the wind in the perfect direction to muck up the fishing.

It didn't help that I waded too deep onto the edge of a flat and spooked a whole bunch of nice bass. Heather discovered an army of ticks in the nearby brush, so she retreated to a nearby grassy area -- which was just about windless -- to enjoy the sun.

"Take you time...." Heather said as she headed for windless, sunny Nirvana.

But the wind -- too much wind -- kept howling over the water. So, after an hour or so,  finally realized I was just practicing casting in a terrible wind and not having much fun. So, we headed back to Hood River.

Later -- about an hour before dark -- the wind died in Hood River, and I scrambled down to the river. Packs of male smallmouth bass were thick in the shallows, and they happily ate Woolly Buggers and float poppers until it was completely dark. 

The bigger females should follow the males into the rocky shallows in a day or so....

I keep wondering if we should have stayed close to home Sunday instead of hitting the road to two states, two fish and too much wind....

Tying up a storm before the Memorial Day weekend fishing storm....

I was wandering around on Washingtonflyfishing.com -- a very good Internet board for Northwest fly fishing -- and mentioned that I'm getting ready for marine worm swarms in Puget Sound. 

 It's still mostly chum salmon fry along the beaches, but summertime brings big swarms of marine worms -- and they seem to be craziest around the full moon. Why, I don't know.

I also mentioned that I'm trying to tie a fly to match a bunch of chinook salmon fry that were recently released from a local hatchery and are now flipping around Capitol Lake -- a lake right next to Washington's state Capitol. The little chinook are headed out of the lake to Budd Inlet and, eventually, the Pacific Ocean.

But they've got to get past prowling schools of sea-run cutthroat trout and resident coho -- well, that's my theory anyway. I haven't seen a bunch of cutts walloping on chinook fry, but I don't fish Budd Inlet very much. It's the most urban and industrial inlet in my part of South Sound.

So, I've tied up some chinook fry flies. Confession: the flies steal -- with both hands -- from Bob Triggs' Chum Baby fly, Doug Rose's Keta Rose and Les Johnson's Williams Point Sand Lance.

Borrowing from such brilliant flies seems like a good idea to me, but the fish will make the final decision.

Here's a shot of the fly, which may bomb for all I know: 

It's easy to see the influence of the other flies. I put a dab of 5-Minute Epoxy on the head for durability -- and because it makes it look cool -- at least to me. I'm pretty sure this fly will work one time or another, but who knows whether the cutts will think it's a chinook salmon fry.

If it doesn't work, I'm sure the Columbia River smallmouth bass will wallop it off the rocky reefs on early mornings this summer. I sometimes feel guilty about running off to pester the smallmouth when my partner, Heather, is running off to take care of fruit trees.

But I forget all about guilt at the sight of boiling smallmouth bass along the rocky banks.

I suspect I'll hit the Columbia smallmouth pretty hard during the three-day weekend. It's a big river, and it's not hard to find some elbow room. I think the real trick will be driving from Olympia to Hood River.  I'm going to hit the road as early as I can tomorrow, but I'm going to put survival ahead of a fast trip.

I hope all of you have wonderful outdoor plans for the weekend -- and please drive safely!

Anyway, here's a photo of my Dumb Protein marine worm fly:

The Dumb Protein -- named in honor of my what my friend Greg Cloud says whenever fish are eating smaller creatures -- is just a variation of a Woolly Bugger, but it does match the red-and-black worms that pop out in Puget Sound from time to time.

Greg told me about the emergence, and I went down to the spot the next day with this fly -- and the fish climbed all over it. It's also a good searching fly in late spring and summer. 

I'm no genius when it comes to tying flies -- but modifying Woolly Buggers to imitate dumb protein -- in the form of a marine worm -- is a no-brainer. These worms rocket through the water really, really fast.

And here's a shot of Greg Cloud's Olive Marine Worm fly, which is another riff on Woolly Buggerville:

Cloud trims the hackle from the bottom and top of the fly. This fly is a long-time winner in South Puget Sound. It's also a pretty good crappie fly. 

I wish I could dream up brilliant flies for all my fishing, but I can't. Luckily, there are brilliant fly tiers out there, and they constantly push the boundaries. I tend to like flies that are pretty simple to tie -- but I'll jump through a ton of tying hoops for a fly that seduces fish. 

I've still got to tie some more smallmouth bass flies for the long weekend -- those Columbia River rocks are hard on flies.

I'm tying some poppers and hoping for lunging, boiling, swirling strikes early and late in the day -- on all three days....

In rhythm with a falling tide and a setting sun

The soft light of Wednesday's long, slow sunset and falling tide caught this angler as surely as one of Bob Triggs' Chum Baby flies hooked this wild sea-run cutthroat trout.

PUGET SOUND -- Another evening, another falling tide -- and another quick trip to a favorite beach.

I didn't have big expectations or hopes Wednesday night -- the tide would only drop about six feet, which is pretty soupy by South Puget Sound standards. And fishing Tuesday night was far from good.

But the sky promised a beautiful sunset, and it is far better to cast a line for wild sea-run cutthroat trout than to watch television.  So, there I was.

This is one barnacle-studded beach, and the gritty, crisp sound of my footsteps made me think of walking on a floor covered with Rice Krispies.  There wasn't a lot of current, and I like a lot of current, which creates rips -- the seams between fast and slow water.

But it still looked fishy. The water was glassy -- it was the first really calm evening in several days -- and feeding chum salmon fly dimpled along the entire shoreline. Hundreds of thousands of 2-inch-long baby salmon were gobbling plankton as fast as they could open and close their mouths.

Where were those chum fry 24 hours earlier? Puget Sound inlets and bays are mysterious places. Anyway, thousands of chum fry were on the beach this evening.

Then a sea-run cutthroat trout -- or maybe a resident coho -- sliced through the shallow water near a modest rip. The fish looked just like a tiny torpedo running through the water.

All of a sudden I felt really good. No one else was on the beach, and that big sky, big water and golden, slanting sunlight washed through my mind.  I tied on one of Bob Triggs' Chum Baby flies -- I use about four dozen of this pattern during the April-to-June chum fry migration -- and started to cast.

A little cutt -- silver and olive and glowing white on the belly -- jumped the fly on the second cast, but that trout was the only fish in the weak rip. I looked down the beach a few hundred yards and saw the Madrone Spot.  It's a little point that gets sharper as the water levels fall on a dropping tide, and there is a big madrone tree -- with peeling red bark and twisted trunk -- above the high-tide mark.

The setting sun lit up this handsome Puget Sound sea-run cutthroat trout Wednesday night.

I crunched down the beach and eased into the water -- about shin-deep -- and started to cast. I cast the Chum Baby upcurrent, and let the sinking line carry the fly deep. I started stripping in the fly -- a fast strip, strip, strip -- and my line stopped.

 A stubborn, bottom-digging throb bent my rod, and I started reeling in the slack line. This was a good fish, and I didn't want my loose line to catch on the bottom rocks and shells. A tangled, stuck line means the fish will surely take off on a surging run and snap the leader.

The fish -- a solid, chunky sea-run cutthroat trout -- jumped twice. That trout jumped high enough to slow down time. I can still remember seeing my fly line ripple in the air. The sun was setting, and a soft, golden light made every droplet of every splash shimmer.

A few minutes later, the trout was at my feet, and I snapped a few photos while I held the leader with one hand. The last sunlight of the day glowed around the sleek fish. This is the time of year when Puget Sound sea-run cutthroat get fat and strong and sleek on a rich diet of chum fry, sand lance, crustaceans, marine worms and even smaller herring.

Marine worms -- slaves to the cycles of the seasons and the full moon -- will soon erupt in massive hatches on Puget Sound inlets, and the sea-run cutts will go nuts. But chum fry are still along some beaches, and the cutts will wallop them until they vanish for the Pacific Ocean.

Two handsome trout were enough for me, but the shimmering light on the moving current kept me casting. I didn't want to break the spell of the moment.

I hooked a very large sea-run cutt -- I thought it was an oversized resident coho, as it jumped three times. The fish was easily over 18 inches, and it yanked line off my reel in short, strong surges. The trout -- gorgeous with white-tipped fins, thousands of inky spots and thick, silvery flanks -- shook the hook as I eased it toward my hand.

I wanted a photo, but I got a memory instead -- one that moved to the rhythm of the tide and the light of the setting sun.

A blowhard, blown off the water and a three-legged dog

I spent much of Tuesday dodging knuckleheaded drivers on Interstate 5 between Tacoma and Olympia and points in between.

So, it seemed totally logical that I would drive a little more Tuesday evening -- straight to a sweet Puget Sound sea-run cutthroat trout beach. I've always thought of this beach as a good spot to fish on a rising tide, so it was time to see how it fished on a falling tide.

This old stump on a South Puget Sound beach shows the marks from the day's falling tide.

I was on the beach for almost two hours, but I'm still not sure whether the beach is rotten on a falling tide -- or I just had bad company.

I was kneeling on the beach -- being careful to keep my wader knees away from the sharp barnacles and oyster shells -- and tying a new leader onto a sinking fly line. I needed a new leader because my second cast fouled in an oyster bed and one of those sharp shells sliced off most of the leader.

Yeah, so it goes....

Anyway, I was tying on a new leader -- a short one, as it is a sinking line -- and a guy walked right up and doggone near steps on my rod. Now, this is one big public beach, and the guy had tons of room to walk right on by.

But it seemed he wanted to talk.

He told me that he lived nearby, that the beach swarmed with big chum salmon all year, that he was an expert angler and that I was sure to catch lots of fish.

That was just the start of his Whopperthon.  South Puget Sound beaches don't hold big chum salmon until the fall -- but two-inch-long chum fry are moving along the beaches right now. 

I pointed this out, and he didn't bat an eye.

"Sure," he said. 

He told me he fed -- every day -- a whopper cutthroat trout that lived under a bridge on a nearby stream. 

"It's about 18 inches long, and it can't turn around in that little stream," he said. Sigh.

Funnily enough, the wind started to blow really hard -- just as this blowhard warmed to his tall tales. This guy barely drew breath before he'd careen off on another long lecture on fishing. This guy should have been a professional trumpet player -- he could blow long and loud.

He informed me that the Washington Department of Fish and Wildlife were poisoning streams in the Cascade Range to save populations of "Native Eastern Brook Trout" from the ravages of nasty cutthroat and rainbow trout.

"Those rainbows and cutthroat were stocked there years ago, and the native brookies couldn't eat them all," he said. 

"Those brookies sure are pretty," he said dreamily. "They're a brownish color with little red spots."

I asked him whether those brookies might be brown trout, but he just gave me an odd look -- and rocketed off on a tale of catching marlin in Mexico.

He suddenly stopped droning on and stared at me. 

"It's taking you a long time to tie on a fly," he said. "Are you blind?"

I told him my eyes were just fine. I should have told him I didn't want to start fishing until he took his hot air and blew away down the beach.

I finally started casting -- in hopes that he would go away. Of course, he didn't.

"Do you keep fish on this beach?" he asked.

I was tempted to tell him that I only kept the 100-pound, barn-door halibut, but I didn't.

"It's illegal to keep cutthroat trout caught in salt water in Washington," I said.

"Well, there are laws and there are laws," he shot back with a cynical grin.

"Yes, and there are plenty of good reasons for this law," I rifled back. I realized that this guy wanted to bring home a fish, but he could wish all day and get no fish from me -- particularly sea-run cutthroat trout.

 I have never been and will never be a poacher. And killing sea-run cutts -- it's a delicate fishery and all the trout are wild -- is just dumb.

"Oh, sure," he said. This guy shifted gears like a Formula One racecar driver.

I kept casting and stepping down the beach, and they guy kept following and talking and talking and talking. And the wind kept blowing and blowing and blowing. I wondered why this guy was working so hard to impress me. 

I finally realized that the only whopper I was going to catch on that beach was one of this guy's lies. So, I reeled up, said goodbye and started walking back to the car.  I stopped on the way and untangled my lost leader from the oyster shells. The tide had dropped a lot while I was trying to dodge that guy and fish at the same time.

But I was done for the evening.

It could have been snowing on that beach, and I would have kept casting through the falling tide.  You never know when the dropping water levels will create a new rip -- that fishy seam between fast and slow currents -- and start Trout-O-Rama.

But that guy just wore me out. I should have told him straight out that I needed to fish alone. But the guy would have probably nodded his head and kept babbling away.

I felt sorry for myself during the hike back to the car. The combination of hot air and cold wind had blown my fishing away.

When I got to the car, a cute dog scampered over to say hello and get his ears rubbed. That dog was fast.

His owner came up and apologized for his dog. I told the guy it was nice to meet a good dog.

"He's a good dog -- we rescued him," the guy said. "He's part boxer, and he's a real sweetheart."

Then the dog ran away -- really fast -- and I noticed he was missing his right hind leg.

The guy told me the dog was hit by a car five years ago, and lost his leg. 

"But he can still run really fast," he said.

I looked at that guy -- and saw a man who loved his dog. I looked at the dog -- and saw a dog who was doing just fine on three legs.

I felt silly for feeling sorry for myself over a ruined fishing trip. I could -- and probably will -- fish tomorrow. The man and his dog didn't give a rip about impressing me -- they were just enjoying life.

I decided to follow their example and enjoy the rest of the evening.

 It was a beautiful sunset -- the winds blew dark clouds against the setting sun -- and away from the setting sun.

Stunning scenic shot and kids showing off trout win top photo contest prizes

Well, I've spent two days -- when I wasn't fishing or driving -- thinking about all the entries in this blog's first-ever photo contest.

I was impressed with every photo that arrived in my e-mail, and I think there are a lot of talented shooters out there wearing waders. That said, I suspect my own personal bias is weighing heavily on the judging of these photos. I really, really like scenic shots -- photos that trigger that feeling of being far away from our hectic, cell-phone-buzzing world. 

I also really like shots of kids holding a pretty fish. Kids always look kind of dazed -- in a good way -- when they actually CATCH A FISH. This blissed-out look can never be found while a kid is gazing like a zombie at some buzzing, chirping, shrieking video game.

I think I'm going to have another contest soon -- it will probably start right around July 4 -- but here are the winners:

First place -- and one dozen flies that will catch Puget Sound sea-run cutthroat trout -- goes to Jim Byrne. Jim didn't add much information to his shot -- I'm not quite sure where this sunset happened, and I'm not about to guess. 

This photo sparked that "We're in a Special Place and We're Fishing" buzz in my fish-addled head.  I just kept coming back to this shot....

Anyway, Jim, send me your address -- and some more information about his photo!

OK, I already admitted that I'm a sucker for happy kid angler photos, but this one really caught my eye. It caught my eye because the photographer -- Joe Ebersole -- caught that trout buzz in his son Alexi's eyes when he landed a nice wild trout on Central Oregon's Metolius River.

Joe wins second place and six winner Puget Sound sea-run cutthroat trout flies.

I've fished the Metolius for years -- I fished it at least two days a week during my first year of living in Bend during the early 1980s, and it's a far better fishing river now. It's also just as frustrating and fascinating as it ever was.

Here is Joe's description of the photo:

"Attached is a photo from a trip to the Metolius with my son Alexi, age 7, last fall when this photo was taken. It was his first trip for trout, and we hit the flavs just right. He ended up catching half a dozen bows on dries.

He was able to get some nice downstream, slack-line drifts to some feeding fish, and we were able to watch the fish rise up through the crystal-clear water to suck in his comparadun. A fishing life highlight for me!" 

Finally, here is our third-place winner -- David Crowe's photo of his son Ross -- and a terrific brook trout. David wins three Puget Sound sea-run cutthroat trout flies.

I love this photo because Ross looks a little dazed -- and jazzed -- but he also looks relaxed and happy to be fishing with his dad.

Here's what David had to say about the shot:

"My son, Ross, was completely surprised when this brookie came clear out of the water and down on top of his dry fly.

He handled the fighting, landing and releasing like a pro. I'll admit to being a trifle biased -- and proud as hell!" 

I doubt that these final two shots would ever end up in a fly-fishing magazine, but they're good shots. Most importantly, they're the kind of photos that stay suck on the kitchen icebox or work desk for years -- and the moment stays in our hearts forever.

And that's what a great photo does -- captures the moment and all those feelings.

Thanks to everyone who entered, and we'll have that second contest started by July 4 or so.

Deschutes River salmonfly madness just starting....

MAUPIN -- It was the calm before the storm when I arrived at the Deschutes River Saturday morning -- but the storm was starting to rumble just a bit by the afternoon.

I got to the river at about 9 a.m.  I resolved to work the deep, rocky, fast banks with big stonefly nymphs. I stopped at the Deschutes Angler and bought a few new, wacky stonefly nymphs -- each with two tungsten beads embedded in the thorax and striped rubber legs.

Very cool -- and perhaps worth copying.

Anyway, I got to a good run upstream of Maupin -- not many people out, despite balmy, calm conditions -- and rigged up the whole catastrophe of giant stonefly nymph, caddis pupa on dropper and Thingamabobber.  I made two casts -- and saw a giant redsides rainbow trout blow up on the surface about 10 yards upstream.

I went to sit on a bankside rock -- be calm my beating heart -- and almost sat on this:

A salmonfly nymphal shuck on Oregon's Deschutes River Saturday morning. This is the first, but not the last, on this rock this year.

Wowsa! A salmonfly nymphal shuck!  Just one shuck on one rock on one huge, salmonfly-nymph-crammed river doesn't make a trend, but I kept thinking about that trout blowing up just upstream.

I cut off my nymphing rig and tied on a dry Norm Woods Special -- with rubber legs.  A few casts later, that trout walloped my fly, roared downstream into a rockpile and snapped 2X tippet.  That trout was big, and my hands were shaking.

I fished the next half-mile of river with the dry -- and didn't get a bite.

So, I went back to the nymphing rig and started picking up trout. No huge fish -- and most of them ate the caddis pupa. That wasn't surprising, as the trees were full of adult caddis.

I did see one big flash on my stonefly nymph as it drifted the seam between a rock outcropping and fast water. My hands shook again.

I suspected that the fish might be more aggressive to the stonefly nymph downstream of Maupin -- the salmonfly and golden stonefly hatches move upstream -- so I got into the Subrau and went to a good run about three miles downstream from town.

When I got there, I saw a handful of  salmonfly adults helicoptering over the river, and few adults clattering around on the shoreline grass and brush.

A genuine adult salmonfly waits for company on the reed canary grass near a fast Deschutes River run.

Salmonfly adults look like the invention of a mad scientist from the 1870s. The legs and body move as through they were spring-wound mechanical toys, and there always seems to be extra pieces clanking away.  The wings -- with their complex lattice of veins and markings -- look like they were created in the Tiffany glassworks.

The huge bugs are wonderful to see, but there were not many on the banks or flying. There will be bajillions of them in the next few days, and I'm seriously thinking about getting a horrible cold Wednesday morning.

I also saw some golden stoneflies in the same neighborhood.

Golden stonefly adults -- the slightly smaller cousins of salmonflies -- on reed canary grass Saturday.

A lot of anglers -- myself included -- believe that the trout like to eat golden stonefly adults more than salmonflies. They're slightly smaller, and, who knows, perhaps they are tastier.

I didn't tie on an adult. I stuck to nymphing and caught a couple of nice fish -- but nothing like the monster that broke me off earlier in the day.  As I cast, I thought about how we humans like to make up rules about fish and bugs -- and how the fish usually make those rules look dumb.

For example, that big trout had no business busting a lone salmonfly adult like that. That fish -- if it were behaving itself -- should have waited until the banks were swarming with adults -- and lots of big bugs were blundering through the air and plopping on the water.

That big trout should have eaten my nymph. But it ate the dry. I think all this is kind of cool -- and frustrating as hell.

Anyway, I nymphed through the run and lost a couple flies. Then, some fish began rising to a Pale Morning Dun mayfly hatch in a nearby backeddy. I rigged up the 4-weight, tied on a size 16 Sparkle Dun and managed to fool a couple of trout.

Then it was time to go home. As I hiked back to the truck, I gazed at the bank across the river. At that moment, a huge, splashing boil blew up right in the shade of a bankside tree. One big trout!

The salmonfly madness is just starting, but I suspect it's going to build and build to a chaotic peak by next weekend. But I wouldn't wait for next weekend -- the whacked-out, ultra-crowded Memorial Day weekend -- to haunt the Deschutes River just upstream or downstream of Maupin.

I would get sick on Tuesday or Wednesday and head to the river for a salmonfly storm....