Palouse Outdoors: A Summer Sampling of Puget Sound

Jacque vacated his captain's seat to lean over the rear bench, head tucked into the hole by the screaming outboard. My immediate attention was drawn to the steering wheel and motor under the assumption that the boat would, at any moment, veer abruptly port or starboard, given no one was manning the controls. Against my better judgment to act immediately, I sat at the ready to course correct, should assistance be needed.

Jacque reappeared momentarily to resume course toward a narrow cut between the inlets of lower Puget Sound. The Chinook run was turning on, and when a waterfront resident of 50 years offers a fishing opportunity, you take it without question.

Being somewhat of a numbskull, I envisioned a lovely morning jigging for "kings" as the a.m. golden hour graced the calm surface of black water surrounded by solemn evergreens. As if Jacque were the only regular recreational angler in the Sound. However, when the boat stopped, I turned to see another dozen or so bobbing on the gentle roll being pushed by a mild wind.

Jacque's honey hole was no secret, and the fishermen were not strangers. Like the noon crowd at a Nebraska diner, these regulars had watched each other and conversed over their gunwales for decades with rods bouncing as they jigged their heavy "candlefish" lures. Salmon fishermen, particularly king salmon fishermen, are a diehard bunch, motoring through the predawn darkness and enduring whatever Mother Nature cared to provide, day in and day out, and being damn thankful for the opportunity.

Jacque traded pleasantries with a pair of fishermen aboard a hand-painted cobalt-blue vessel that appeared to be older than time while I gazed at the shoreline, inspecting the staggering number of homes that seemed like zipper teeth, equidistant to one another and lining the water's edge. What was once an uninterrupted coastal forest ecosystem is now a showcase of old and new money – old money being the folks like Jacque, who were born and raised there and remember the days when the forest was pristine. New wealth was on display by way of immense, immaculate houses of all shapes, sizes, and colors, and the various spendy watercraft moored in front of them, each with an obligatory strip of forest demarcating the property lines between them. Having experienced unspoiled coastal Alaska, I wondered what the Sound looked like more than a century ago.

"Got one!" Jacque announced through muffled grunts as the fish worked to pry the rod from his hands.

Peering over my left shoulder, I saw Jacque's rod bent double and bouncing as he leaned into the fish. I reeled quickly to retrieve my lure to avoid a tangle, but the fish freed itself from the hook before I could reach for the net.

The tide and wind pushed Jacque's working-class StarCraft at a decent clip, enough to make vertical jigging difficult. Keeping the line perfectly vertical is the key (so I've heard,) But the heavy candlefish sank toward the bottom as the boat glided away, putting an angle in the line and making the presentation ineffective. Regardless, I decided it was better to have the jig down and working than fiddling with the unobtanium of a perfect presentation. The only surefire way to avoid catching fish is failing to fish at all.

Brad Trumbo

A "candlefish" is a heavy, long, skinny hunk of painted metal used to jig for salmon.

Shortly after Jacque hooked the salmon, an odd weight on my line caused me to reel up. Kings are typically hooked when the jig is jerked up, but this was something other than the bone-jarring hookset into a 20-pound salmon. Figuring I had bungled the jig somehow, I reeled up to find a small sculpin snagged on the big jig.

Sculpins are a benthic species of opportunistic feeders that lurk behind rocks and dart after their prey. The general genus of sculpins (Cottus) is often identified by a broad head and large paddle-like pectoral fins (the fins that are kind of like arms, directly behind the gills). There are three sculpin species in the Puget Sound area: Pacific staghorn sculpin, buffalo sculpin, and the red Irish lord. The Pacific staghorn was the species attached to my jig.

Brad Trumbo

This Pacific staghorn sculpin bit off more than it could chew when the candlefish dropped nearby.

Sculpins often change coloration to blend with their surroundings. They are aggressive and readily take fishing bait, and a wide range of species (over 750) occur in both fresh and saltwater worldwide, including the U.S., from coast to coast. Supposedly, staghorn sculpins have venomous points on top of the gill operculum and are a favorite prey of sea-run cutthroat trout. It was no king salmon, but "nerding out" on the fish's quintessential body shape and my good fortune for snagging an underappreciated "non-game" fish was no less thrilling.

Jacque had become bored with his fishing hole and decided to motor to another inlet to drift a rocky shoreline. Our new water was noticeably rough, not from the wind, but from the increasing number of boats drifting and buzzing all over. A dozen boats grew to 100. Waves clashed from every direction, fighting the tide, and confusing my poorly responsive otoliths (ear stones), which become more sluggish as I age. I recalled my wife asking if I had taken Dramamine. I hadn't, and I had none. Fishing was not part of our Olympia plans, but I learned right then to keep a stash in my overnight bag.

Keeping an eye on the northwest horizon revealed Mount Olympus playing peekaboo from behind the clouds. The Cascades volcanic peaks tower above sea level with a grandeur that only snowcapped peaks can provide to the onlooker standing on the shore of the Pacific Ocean. At nearly 8,000 feet in elevation, Mount Olympus stood stately beyond the emerald Douglas firs, providing a picturesque backdrop for the gulls, cormorants, and fishing boats, and sufficiently quelled my seasickness. My volcano revelry was broken only by the unusual weight that again fell upon my candlefish jig.

"Usually, you are fishing too deep when you snag one of them," Jacque quipped upon spying the beautiful coral-pink sea star that the heavy jig had unfortunately snagged.

"Agreed. It had just hit bottom, apparently right on top of this star," I replied.

Brad Trumbo

This mottled sea star was an unexpected but welcome catch. Their intricate beauty and coloration are worthy of closer inspection.

The mottled sea star is a common Pacific Northwest intertidal species ranging from Kamchatka and Pribilof Islands to central California. Tossing it overboard, I watched it sink into the 40-foot depths from which I had uprooted it. I pondered what other sea life must be occupying the interstitial spaces of the Sound's floor, the last of our fishing excitement descending with it.

Motoring back, Jacque left the helm, again dipping behind the outboard. This time, he returned with a drain plug.

"Emptying out?" I asked.

"Yeah. This thing leaks like a sieve."

"Comforting," I kidded.

A boat sans the drain plug often winds up as fish habitat, but when on plane, the bow being raised and the force of the boat moving forward pushes water to the back and evacuates the hull when the drain plug is pulled. I find bilge pumps preferable to pulling the plug, but Jacque's system required no failure-prone electrical wiring or unsolicited input from vacationing inlanders.

Upon beaching at Jacque's house, I leapt overboard, splashing into the shallow water, and pulling the hull above the tide line. Jacque's raucous black lab rushed out to greet us, seemingly disappointed that I had taken her seat for the morning shift. I could taste the fresh Chinook filets that we failed to secure, but a leisurely morning fishing tidal waters with new friends is rewarding enough.