The coho season is lurching along.
Some places kick out a half-dozen fish for a decent 3-hour session, whereas other locals are White-hot for an hour one day, then tumbleweeds the next day.
Gave Sockeye a hung-over jingle at the crack of 11, then diagrams were drawn and plans were hatched.
With the Fanz on the sidelines for a few, we hit up a local that, according to the flyfishing bulletin board know-it-alls, is all but devoid of Coho.
So much for the folks that think they know what they are talking about.
We are lurching right along with the season, gradually coming to accept our waders as a second skin and smelling more like our piscine quarry with every passing day. We dig in the laundry basket and under the couch pillows for gas money, make random food decisions based on ease of use instead of nutrition, and once done fishing for the day, collapse in a heap with a bottle of something alcoholic until sleep sets in.
And intending to stay that way.