Temptation -- and redemption -- came Tuesday evening in the form of a beautiful sea-run cutthroat trout.
The road to Frustration -- and Temptation -- begins in many ways, but this particular journey started with an e-mail from my friend Greg Cloud.
Cloud, a retired biologist and mad-scientist angler, told me that big, ocean-going coho were staging off a South Puget Sound beach during the high tide. Cloud said the coho looked like torpedoes when they chased his spinner. Then he went on to suggest that casting a fly might tempt one or two of these bright, beautiful fish.
High tide on Tuesday was right around 3:30 p.m. -- a time when most productive members of our society are grinding away at work. I left the office at 3:15 p.m. -- it never pays to be late when fishing a Puget Sound tide.
So, I eased out of the office -- and then sprinted for home, where I tossed tackle, waders and even a camera into the Subaru. I was at the beach 25 minutes later, and there were indeed big, bright coho wallowing and splashing a short cast from the beach.
I tried to remain calm and focused, but my heart rate jacked up into one-hour-on-the-elliptical-trainer rate, and my hands trembled a little. Seeing a school of big coho splashing around had me cranked.
Leaving work sinfully early would pay off for sure, I thought.
But I would pay the price for my rush to that wonderful stretch of rocky, pebbly beach. When it came time to rig up, I discovered that I had left my 8-weight fly rod and matching reel at home. I did have my sea-run cutthroat trout rod -- a 6-weight -- but the matching reels and spools also were safely at home.
Perhaps I was in too much of a hurry when I stopped off at home.
I did have a reel with a floating, 4-weight "Sharkskin" line. More on that line later.
Anyway, I put the reel with the 4-weight line onto the 6-weight rod and strung the line through the guides. Luckily, I had my beach chest pack, which carries flies for Puget Sound sea-run cutthroat trout -- and coho salmon.
But my rod and reel were far too light for the 10-pound coho salmon rolling 30 feet away. I felt like I was hunting a leopard with a .22-caliber rifle. But it is better to fail trying than to slink away, so I tied on a sparkly pink Knudsen Spider and started casting.
A nice coho followed my fly almost to my feet on the third cast, and I had a solid strike two casts later. The coho flipped into the air and crashed into the water on its thick flanks. Then the fish rocketed for the far shore, and I saw my backing melting off the chirping reel. My 4-weight reel sounded like a computer spiraling into a fatal crash.
The tackle held together long enough to make me think I might land the fish. Then the coho wrapped the line on one of the old pilings that dot the beach -- and the line snapped seconds later.
I didn't get too upset, as just hooking a big coho from a Puget Sound beach on fly tackle is cool enough for me. I also figured I had two hours to hook another fish.
I checked my leader, tied on a new, 10-pound-test tippet and a sparse, pink Clouser Minnow. Coho staging off Puget Sound beaches often like a small, bright fly. I wished I had another pink Knudsen Spider, but the lost coho ran off with my only copy.
One hour -- and countless casts later -- I hadn't even gotten another coho to follow my fly. I really, really wanted another Knudsen Spider, and I knew where they were -- on top of the fly-tying desk at home. To make matters worse, the Sharkskin line, which is designed for fishing tiny dry flies to rising trout, has a rough texture.
That rough texture makes the line easy to cast dry flies, but it's hell when you're casting and stripping in streamers over and over again. The rough texture scored my forefinger -- that little crease where the line loops over the rod hand during a streamer retrieve, and it started to bleed.
By this time, the tide had started to fall, and a nice rip was going about 150 yards down the beach. A few sea-run cutthroat trout boiled in the rip, and temptation struck. I'm famous for leaving salmon to pester feeding trout.
I've always been kind of mortified at my lack of discipline about all this. You never know when a school of finicky salmon suddenly goes nuts and starts walloping flies. And you'll never hook those salmon if you've wandered off down the beach to fish for sea-run cutts.
But I did it anyway.
It's hard to resist the temptation of aggressive sea-run cutthroat trout -- especially in the fall, when they're thick and strong from feasting in Puget Sound all summer long. I just can't resist these fish.
A few minutes later, one of the best sea-run cutts of the year whacked the Clouser Minnow, and I soon had about 17 inches of gleaming fish at my feet. A couple of photos later, the trout eased away into deeper water.
I headed back toward the boiling coho.
I showed the coho just about every waiting period fly in my box for the next hour. After a while, I put a Band-aid on my injured finger. The sunset -- gold and red through scattered rainclouds -- gleamed on the glassy water.
I didn't get another bite -- or even a follow -- from the coho. But that's OK. The memory of that beautiful sea-run cutt was enough for this evening.
But I'm going back tomorrow with my 8-weight and more pink Knudsen Spiders.
