
I hadn’t yet been to the beach at Olalla this year, and yesterday was the day I decided to go.
The winds were calm in the morning – with only light breezes forecast for the rest of the day, a welcome change from the gusts of the two previous days; gusts that knocked down branches in my backyard big enough to have injured someone standing beneath the trees (I kept the dogs inside when the winds were the strongest).
The tide was at an intermediate level (lower high) so the beach was going to be uncovered enough to walk it. And there was an ebb current, which typically fishes better at this beach (more on that later). And the overcast skies often result in better fishing – making fish generally less frightened of shallower water.
Crossing past the Olalla Bay Market, I made my way along the beach in the tidal zone – passing the rear of the next-door house with the ‘private property’ sign – indicating that warning included the tidal zone I walked through. There were people from the house seated outside. But no one made a comment.
It is an issue in Puget Sound – many beachfront properties do own the tidal zone down to the lower low tide line (based on old state laws related to logging and shellfish harvesting). Some enforce it; others do not. Still it pays to be respectful and walk as close to the water as possible.
As an aside, and to be fair, I think the sign was intended for people who want to hang around and look for rocks in the area near their house. I doubt they have much concern for a fly fisher or someone else just walking through the area to the more remote area beyond. I’ve never had anyone bother me.
As I made the turn on the beach that brought me to Colvos Passage, I noticed the exposed rock and a crab on it. In this part of the Sound, I knew it was a red rock crab (smaller than a Dungeness crab). Given its location I knew a seabird had gotten it during a low tide and had fed on it
So I continued on my way, stopping every 10 yards to wade in and then cast outward at various angles to the beach (from perpendicular to parallel) to get the most coverage. The trick is to get your fly over as many places as possible.
I was having no luck. Couldn’t stir up even a grab – where a fish takes a fly in its mouth and almost immediately spits out. At least you would know something was out there and interested.
At one point, a smolt (immature salmon) jumped out of the water 20 feet from me. I was able to quickly drop the fly in the same area – thinking it was an inbound salmon or cruising searun cutthroat. But nothing.
After reaching as far as I could on the beach – before it disappeared near a bluff, I switched flies and started working my way back.
The return walk resulted in the same lack of strikes.
I’ve never had much luck at Olalla – mostly because I think past lack of success brings on a reluctance to return. But it is a place that makes being alone feel very real and maybe that’s its draw.
There are very few fishers when I’ve been there and dog walkers are never seen. The high bluff behind the beach means no houses. Boats and ships through Colvos passage stay near the deep channel east near Vashon Island. You can feel very isolated and remote – even though civilization is less than a half mile away.
The sun broke through the overcast while I was working my way back. It actually felt nice after the cool start. But the sun’s energy stirred up the winds and soon I was getting more of a breeze with small gusts. The wind wasn’t enough to blow up my casting and the northeast winds (from my left) wouldn’t cause the fly to hit me on a backcast – but it was cooling enough to cause me to pull the hood over my head to keep my ears warm. Strange weather for June, but it’s been a weird weather year.
As I got closer to the rock with the crab, it grabbed my attention again. Perhaps it was that it seemed so out of place.
I have seen plenty of dead crabs in the shallows through the years – victims of birds and harbor seals. But this one was unique – drawing attention to itself, whether dropped by a bird or left by the previous high ebbing tide.
Maybe that lifeless crab with its plastron exposed (the carapace is the top of the shell; the plastron the flat bottom) was a reminder of the larger obvious reality. And that is how fleeting life is – and the only reality is the now. It certainly was for the crab; it certainly is for me and all of us.
Certainly not a profound thought, but maybe it is the relative isolation that allows the mind to quiet, even for a bit, and remember basic truths that are forgotten unless one makes time and finds the places to be reminded.