The Pond

I stood on the makeshift raft Leroy had crafted in our shop earlier that day, I held my five weight in one hand and my 4X leader attached to a number 12 Zug Bug in the other. I gazed at the tannin stained water watching for the tell tale sign of my quarry. Two feet from a fallen tree a sipping sound and small rings in the water gave the trout away, I cast slightly further than the rise and made a short, slow strip. The end of my line darted forward and I raised the rod and stripped a small amount of line. Two minutes later I held a beautiful 8-Inch native cutthroat, as densely spotted as any fish I’ve seen with crimson slashes on the throat and a golden hue to his thick body. When I released him he swam directly toward the sam snag as if this was a routine event.
    June 1st is quite the day in washington state. Most every stream, river, and creek opens on this day, and you can find most anglers on their favorite trout stream. Perhaps the Yakima if the runoff isn’t too bad, the Elwah with it feisty native ‘bows, a few can be found on the Skykomish or similar rivers fishing for the elusive and few summer steelhead. Others avoid the crowds and the runoff on their favorite small streams. Cedar creeks, headwaters, and tributaries often hold good populations of lightly fished trout.

First Fish

I believe that every angler has three stories that are integral to their existence as fisherman. The big fish story, the infamous “one that got away”, and of course, the first fish. The genesis of the hobby, pastime, or obsession that grips with ever tightening fingers around ones heart. Often glorious, and always sentimental, these are my favorite fish stories.

North to Alaska

    Last night I received a job offer to work on a salmon charter in Sitka, Alaska. I leave on the sixth of July. I fully intend to report on my adventures up north, and before I go I plan on fishing a few local rivers for Summer-Runs and more than a few local lakes for trout. Might even give the grays harbor estuary a shot. Who knows!

A Little Perspective

    Saturday afternoon my girlfriend, my good friend Leroy and myself had decided to go camping up the north fork of the quinault river. Summer steelhead, resident trout, and whitefish promised to provide plenty of angling opportunity and we all knew from experience that the scenery was breathtaking. Unfortunately our plans screeched to a halt when I severely sprained my ankle playing basketball friday afternoon. However, my stubborn streak and Leroy’s ever present optimism would not allow our camping plans to flame out.
    In light of my limited mobility we decided to load up the drift boat ad camp at the east end of Lake Quinault where the Quinault River dumps in. We had done well there in the past, taking steelhead, salmon, dolly varden, and cutthroat trout from the lip of the river mouth. This trip would prove to be a test of patience and resilience as my ankle was not the only misfortune we would encounter.

Solitude on a Creek

About this time each year I take my annual trip up my favorite childhood creek. The creek is better for fishing later in the year, but it is such a nursery for Salmon and Steelhead smolts that I feel it wildly unethical to fish it anytime but this time, when the smolts have yet to hatch. This is a fairly unique creek, during the winter it gets good flows throughout its run but in the summer it gets very shallow, so shallow that about halfway between its confluence with the lower Quinault River and its headwaters it dries up completely. Because of this drying up it retains a fairly good population of resident cutthroat and rainbows.

This creek holds a very special place in my heart as it is the place where I cut my very first baby teeth in the fishing world. Although I grew my canines and molars on the steelhead and salmon filled rivers that drain the Olympics, usually under the guidance of my father, this small spring fed creek is the first place where I ventured out on my own, away from parents watching eyes. Most people don't fish it because the fish are tiny, rarely scaling ten inches, very spooky, and its hard as hell to reach the decent fly water.