Confessions of a jilted sea-run cutthroat fisher

THE OLYMPIAN | • Published October 20, 2009

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I’ve been doing a lot of scouting for coho and chum salmon lately, which means wandering around Puget Sound creek mouths, and beaches near creek mouths.

And it also means I’ve been casting for sea-run cutthroat trout. I just can’t help myself.

Washington is, and probably always will be, a salmon-happy place. For most anglers, trout – even big trout – come in a distant second or third to salmon.

And why not?

Salmon are a lot bigger, have all the speed and power of years in saltwater and carry the romance and glamour of a fish that left home as a small smolt and has returned as a big adult.

And nothing gets a local angler’s heart pumping faster than seeing a bunch of big salmon show up. Salmon staging off a Puget Sound stream mill around in shallow, clear water, and it’s easy to see those hand-sized tails and gleaming bodies.

Salmon just make us a little crazy, and we never see enough of them.

But our local sea-run cutthroat trout, born in local rivers, streams and tiny, jump-across creeks, are always around. Sea-run cutts wander from freshwater to saltwater to freshwater again, but they don’t seem to travel too far from South Sound.

In fact, South Sound cutts provide excellent angling just about all year, even in the coldest, darkest, wettest winter months. North Puget Sound cutthroat trout tend to winter in the big rivers, but South Sound cutts usually prowl the saltwater beaches.

So, they’re always around, and they’re easy to take for granted.

I’m usually pretty quick to cast for cutthroat trout if I can’t find salmon, or even if I do find salmon.

Yeah, I’m a trout slacker, and silly for the aggressive, snappy nature of sea-run cutts in fall.

I usually take cutthroat tackle – a 6-weight fly rod and reel and a few flies – when I’m on a salmon trip, and that move has saved the trip more than once.

Puget Sound sea-run cutts, protected with catch-and-release regulations in saltwater, are western Washington’s best wild trout fishery, and I am addicted to these fish.

Sea-run cutts average about 12 inches or so, but a patient angler will often hook fish that measure 16 to 20 inches. That is a wonderful wild trout anywhere on this planet.

And all this is why I’m ashamed to share the rest of this story.

It all started when my friend Greg Cloud told me about some big coho salmon staging in a local Puget Sound inlet.

I scuttled off to the spot with mismatched, too-light tackle, found the salmon, hooked and lost one and then spent hours showing the lockjawed fish every fly in my salmon box.

I drifted away in the midst of all this to hook and land a couple of beautiful sea-run cutthroat trout.

But I returned the next day with proper salmon tackle – an 8-weight rod and reel – and a whole fleet of salmon flies.

I felt an eerie certainty that I would have an epic day with big, bright coho salmon.

The coho were boiling, jumping and porpoising just off the beach when I arrived, and my teeth chattered while I rigged up with a clear intermediate line and a pink, sparkly Knudsen Spider.

Salmon after salmon chased that fly, and a few others, right up to my feet. The fish were interested, but they wouldn’t open their mouths. Their splashes splattered my face, and I was getting very frustrated.

A few hundred casts into all this madness, a sharp tug pulled the line out of my hand, and a heavy fish was on the line. The fish shook its head, and I got ready for a big leap and scorching run across the inlet.

Then the pull slacked off a little, and a big sea-run cutt, maybe the biggest I have ever hooked, wallowed on the surface.

I felt a wave of disappointment flow through my coho-addled brain.

I started horsing in the sea-run cutthroat as fast as I could, as I was on fire to catch a coho.

Then I got a really good look at that cutthroat trout. It was easily 20 inches long, with a thick body and big tail. A fish like this is special, and much rarer than a 10-pound coho salmon.

This wonderful fish deserved better than my disappointment.

Suddenly, the cutt boiled at the surface, and shook the hook.

One of the best fish of my life – I have chased Puget Sound sea-run cutts like a maniac since 1996 – was gone.

I sat down on the beach and wished for that moment again.