In western Washington the old-timers call them harvest trout, because they show up in the rivers about when the hay comes in and the maples start to turn. They are coastal cutthroat that spent the summer in salt water eating everything smaller than themselves, and in September they come back into the lower rivers fat, silver, and in a mood. On the Cowlitz they arrive along with the salmon crowd, which means you can have a whole run of trout to yourself while two hundred people fight over salmon a hundred yards away.
I fished them with my uncle Gene, who has lived in Lewis County all his life and owns one spinning rod he trusts. His cutthroat method has not changed since the Ford administration: a nightcrawler, a split shot, and a slow drift along any piece of wood in the water. He considers my fly rod a hobby, the same way he considers my sourdough a hobby.
Sea-run cutthroat love wood. Logjams, root wads, a sunken alder, anything that throws shade and a soft seam. We waded in below a logjam at first light with fog sitting on the river and leaves coming down on the current. I swung a small orange soft hackle along the edge of the logs, and on the fourth swing the line stopped, then shook, and a trout came out of the water twice before I had the slack in. Fourteen inches, bright as a coin, fine black spots all the way down to the belly, and the orange slash under the jaw that gives the fish its name.
Gene, thirty feet upstream with his nightcrawler, had by then landed three. He keeps a running count out loud, in case you lose track. The rules let you keep the hatchery fish, the ones with the clipped fin, and Gene kept two for the smoker and slid the rest back. By nine the fog burned off, the salmon crowd got loud downstream, and the cutthroat slid back under the wood as if somebody had called them in for supper.
Final score, by Gene’s math, was eleven to four. He allowed that the fly rod had caught the prettiest fish, which he described as a consolation prize. Then he gave me one of his smoked trout from the last trip, wrapped in foil, and told me to bring the sourdough next time. I believe that means I am invited back.
Whatever the water, the boat looks right on a shirt. See our custom boat shirts and apparel, drawn from a photo of your own boat.