Where: The beach

When: Sunday

Species Pursued: Sea-run cutthroat, resident coho

Song of the trip: “How You Like Me Now?“  The Heavy

Last Sunday’s taste of success had me obsessing the entire week.

I needed proof that I wasn’t just lucky that day.

As the weekend came within reach, the pull intensified–I was going to the beach and nothing would stop me.

With Gore-Tex packed and a 5 weight fast enough to deal with the forecasted 8 mph breezes, I slipped into the early morning darkness.

The first stop was to be expected–too much of a headwind to make casting feasible.

The second spot fared better:  a light,  off shoulder breeze and decent back cast room failed to sabotage my efforts at landing a couple of little cutties.

A good start, but not a sustainable one, so I continued my roving, landing at another place I hadn’t been in years.

Unfortunately, the nearby stream had fallen victim to the rain, turning the water into chocolate milk.

No matter, with the tide having receded as much as it had, other beaches provided viable options.

The last stop was an oldie but goodie, the perfect choice for someone trying to jog their memory about what does and doesn’t work in the salt.

As I approached the shore, little things came back to me, memories of which flies had been successful in past outings, where the rips fished best and what presentations were more productive.

Conscious of these reminders, I put thought to practice, quickly landing a small resident coho.

Then it went dead.

After about 20 minutes of absolutely nada, I remembered another interesting thing about this beach.

I adjusted accordingly.

Strip.

Strip, strip.

Strip.

Set!

Was that the trick?  I remember it being so.

After releasing the cutthroat, I repeated the process, just to be sure.

Proof positive?

Not convinced, I repeated it again.

Strip.

Strip, strip.

Strip, strip.

Strip.

Strip.

“Maybe I was just lucky,” I thought to myself.

Strip, strip.

“Maybe…”

Or maybe not.