by Alex W., June 02, 2015

Stepping out of my car into the cool, salt tinted air of a late spring morning along the shores of Puget Sound, my eyes are greeted by the hills of Whidbey Island back lit with the rose glow of a swift sunrise under the stark gray of a distant cloud bank. My ears are greeted with the intermixed melodies of a myriad of song birds in the trees behind me and the frantic splashing of schools of bait fish desperately trying to escape some unseen attacker in the depths below. The timing of the tides on this early morning have not only drawn the interest of predatory fish to this north sound beach, but they have also drawn one solitary fisherman from his slumber long before those without a piscatorial inclination would dare fathom awakening.

The bait fish seemingly have nothing but survival on their minds. The sunlight dappled surface of the water boils as schools of 200 fish leap from the water in a coordinated movement, as if compelled to do so by some unseen force. Standing calf deep in the cool water, I watch the mortal struggle of life and death unfold before my eyes. A fly rod is in my hand.

Taking advantage of the plight of the hapless bait fish, I unfurl my line into the water with minnow imitation in tow. The fly lands. The fly is retrieved. Over and over I perform the same coordinated movement and yet each time I find myself lacking the finesse, the sincerity, the presentation required to induce a strike from the creatures that are terrorizing hundreds of fish all around me. Casts are made out into the depths. Casts are made parallel to the shore in the shallows. Colors are changed, cycling through combinations of white, pink, olive, black, purple and silver. Retrieval methods are varied from aggressive and fast, to lazy and slow, to frantically confused. Streamer patterns are lengthened and shortened.

It is all in vain. Either the bait fish or the attackers have moved on. Whatever the case, the flurry of activity that greeted my arrival is gone, and with it my hopes begin to fade. Out of desperation I select the classic standby. Old faithful. The almighty olive woolly bugger. Casts are made and retrieves are performed. On a moderate speed strip the fly stops in the water, seemingly hooked on the bottom in the shallows. But the dead stop of a snag soon gives way to the headshakes of a gleaming silver bullet. The coastal cutthroat puts forth its best effort to escape my size 10 hook, leaping from the water and darting all around me. Those efforts are all for naught though, as I soon find myself holding a 12" piece of platinum gilded life in my hand.

The hook is removed and the fish swims on. A solitary crab sits motionless in the shallows. The birds continue their chorus and the sunlight hits my eyes as the waves pull at my legs. The tide is fast rolling out. This is the definition of fly fishing for Puget Sound cutthroat.