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A slight cold breeze was blowing out over the canal, autumn leaves were falling, a hint of winter was in the air. Around the bay, anglers were spread as if in little communities, All in search of the chum salmon. There is the hatchery rack bunch, huddled close to one an other, trying to intercept the salmon before they reached the Hatchery marker. Most were throwing corkies and green yarn, occasionally a spoon. Lines would tangle, and fish were caught. If someone left their spot to follow a salmon, or retie a rig, someone would step in to fill the void. Such was the life of the picket fence. There were so many lines in the air, I marveled how well it worked, but these guys seemed to have it down to a science. Two more lines of anglers were wading a little farther out. Each facing out in the bay on either side of the Finch creek trough. These anglers were spread into a comfortable casting distance apart. The idea here is to intercept the chum salmon as they milled before moving up into the hatchery creek. Out beyond this was the kick boats and float tubes, and still farther out was the car-toppers and larger boats. Occasionally anglers, flyfishers mostly, would hunt for fish cruising along the shorelines, a fun proposition until he waded across property of a cranky landowner.

To tell the story, I need to take you back to 1978 some twenty years ago. I was fresh out of the University of Washington, graduating in the college of fisheries. I began working as a biologist in north Puget sound, and my boss decided that if we were going to be working with wild salmon on the Stillaguamish drainage, my partner and I were going to need more salmon spawning experience. We contacted Randy (not his real name) hatchery manager from the Hoodsport Salmon Hatchery, which has the largest hatchery chum salmon facility in the state. Randy tells my boss to bring us down during spawning season. He assured us we would know everything we would need to know in three days of spawning chum salmon.

As it turned out, it took the two of us about thirty minutes to get the routine and spent the rest of the three days in back breaking labor.

I will never forget looking out the hatchery bay. There were salmon jumping and splashing everywhere, and nobody fishing. I became really curious as to the fishing regulations so after work that day, We stopped into the tackle shop next door and picked up some sport regulations. As I thumbed through the pamphlet the regulations simply stated "no fishing within 100 feet of the mouth of Finch Creek." Now I do not claim to be a rocket scientist but even I can figure out a hundred feet. Needless to say, It took us about a New York second to get back into our waders and out onto the flats.

It seemed like as far as you could see, chum salmon were surfacing everywhere. It was an eerie site. That did not keep us from casting. On the third cast my line came up tight. The salmon shook his head and greyhounded out across the bay. I looked in time to see my partner also being towed off to parts unknown.

"You boys don’t belong out there!" I turned to find it was Randy himself standing up on the hatchery wall. Like two convicted felons, we both broke our leaders, reeled up and came in.

"The regulations said you could fish out past a hundred feet" I stated. I will have to admit did not sound very convincing.

" Wrong regulations" Randy said. "Can’t fish inside a quarter mile." Somehow I knew it was too good to be true.

After our three days of spawning hell, We drove back to Arlington. I pulled out my crumpled pamphlet and read it again. It didn’t make sense. Curiosity finally got the best of me and a few days later I called a friend who works in Fisheries Patrol. "Well Dennis, the 100 foot regs. is just like it is written. "Why?" Nick asked. Oh, by the way, I checked on that quarter mile regulation. It has to do with commercial fishing, not sport". I decided next year I would be ready.

The following November I showed up loaded for bear. I had my regulation pamphlet all outlined in red, a 100 foot measuring tape, and a crab buoy for a marker. I talked my brother into coming along, although I will admit I might have left out why I was carrying the tape, and buoy. We started fishing.

I am not going to belabor you with course of events, but it went something like this. We met a hatchery technician, then Randy the manager, and finally the local Fisheries Patrol officer. I think my brother was ready to get the hell out of there, somewhere between the manager and definitely before the enforcement officer.

He called us out of the water and took my brother, myself and Randy back into hatchery facility. "Ok boys, what is going on"? The officer demanded. Shaking as bad as I was, I took on Que. I whipped out my pamphlet with red all over it and rambled on about the regs for sometime. The good officer didn’t say a word. He just let me blurt it all out until I was finished. After a minute he said "Let me see that thing", he read the pamphlet for a few moments, turned to Randy and said "I am afraid these boys have the right to be here".

I was so relieved, I did not know if I wanted to laugh or cry. Randy definitely looked like he wanted to cry. We did manage to work out a deal though. I wouldn’t tell anyone but my own fishing party, and Randy continued to control the place as always.

We managed to make this arrangement work for nearly five years. I never saw another angler,even though we would fish five days a week. If one of the local landowners would come down and politely tell us we couldn’t fish there, we would simply act dumb, and go fish on the other side of the hatchery. Randy went on enforcing as always.

Like all good story book endings, This one happened harmlessly enough. Randy had a hatchery technician who also loved to fish, and he talked this manager into letting him fish too on his time off. He pleaded successfully, it wasn’t fair for Dickson and his guys could fish, and he couldn’t. Randy said OK but to keep it to himself.

I remember fishing with a couple guys out in front of the hatchery on an out going tide. The fish were milling around in fairly shallow flat and were quite spooky, even for our long leaders and for our "Dickson chum candy fly". (Another story). Anyway, this hatchery tech. wades over and starts casting a big spoon, and woosh! the salmon are gone. Now every place these fish would show, of course that is where he would cast. This killed our fishing and his too. I finally waded over and told him if he would take the spoon off, I would rig his line with something that would catch fish. After replacing the spoon with a bobber and fly, everybody started catching fish.

In days to follow, our friend started showing up with more and more friends and it wasn’t long before the word was out. My official last day was signaled when I was approached by a outdoor writer from a Seattle paper. I declined the interview but it didn’t matter, my saltwater Shangri-La was over.

Today, the Hoodsport fishery is one of the most popular non-boat fisheries we have in the state.