I nearly fell out of my chair Saturday when neighbor John Richards pounded on my backdoor to display a silvery Pink Salmon he'd hooked moments before off Three Tree Point. The shiny scales glistened in the half-light. Stunned with delight I needed details for the paper.

John is a consummate fisherman casting either a spoon or fly from the gravelly shoreline. This plump 4-lb. beauty hit an aptly named pink Buzz Bomb(r) giving John a tussle for several minutes before gliding into his net on the beach.

Last week the Pink Salmon run made its way down the saltwater coastline from the Straits of Juan De Fuca through the San Juan Islands, passed Everett and Whidbey Island to the inner reaches of Puget Sound.

Our coastline is in the path of the journey as the fish make their way up the variety of streams and rivers that feed Puget Sound. It creates a Highline and West Seattle fever. Fishermen line the beaches.

Daughter Linda caught the fever hooking her own Salmon but failed to land it when the line snapped. She's a novice but not a quitter. Each night she tries her luck.

My fishing days are now limited to vicarious thrills from others who have the steady legs and patience to make multiple casts into the surf. Each time I see a fish jump or wiggle in a net it takes me back to many thrills of my own.

Fishing is an art but not without hazard. Reid Hale, former editor of the Highline Times, got religion one morning while floating the Sol Duc River near Forks, WA. He was baptized when the boat dipped into a trough sending a cascade of white water right down his Eddie Bauer waders. Soaked to the toes, Reid endured another two hours of fishing while his socks did their best to absorb the flood. I had to laugh.

Reid is nothing if not persistent. At Bare Lake near Kamloops, B.C. Reid hit the water early trolling for those heralded Kamloops trout. He stayed dry on this outing but failed to notice the Squaw Fish deposited in his jacket pocket while he was tying up his boat at the dock.

Mike Barton had slyly dropped the six-inch trash fish there when Reid kneeled to grab the rope. Reid made his way to the log cabin, removed his jacket and hung it up for the night. Only Barton knew why the entire room was reeking of dead fish the next morning.

Reid grabbed his jacket, stuck his hand in the pocket to retrieve his boat key but lifted out the stinky remains of the fish. It is possible he still has that jacket.

It wasn't my intention to laugh at his misfortune but God must have been watching. After breakfast we hopped in our own boat and pulled away from the dock. Sitting upright in the stern my wallet easily slipped out of my back pocket and into 10 feet of water, floating like a rock to the muddy bottom.

Several dives by the boat boy, Colin, failed to find my wallet with $300 Canadian dollars. I was doomed to borrow money from my cronies for the poker games the next two days. I heard years later that Colin became a wealthy banker.

God never plays fair in fishing or life. I came in for dinner on the third night of our trip to learn that Normandy Park resident Paul Barden was sitting in my spot at the head of the table expecting to be served first that night.

I quietly whispered to the cook to bring the food to me at the opposite end of the table. Imagine Barden's angst when the piping hot dishes passed his spot going directly to me again before getting to him dead last. Side splitting laughter ensued.

I have fished many times with Highline contractor Dave Stamborsky. Several years ago we were headed to the Cowlitz for steelhead. Dave got a nature call and stopped his big pickup on the shoulder of Highway 99. He left the motor running as he made his way to privacy on the safe side.

The Devil made me do it. I put the truck in gear. It began moving slowly up the shoulder. Dave waddled and whizzed trying to keep up with truck. Boy was he steamed.

I felt guilty. Dave suggested I pay for gas at the next stop to make up for my transgression. Little did I know he had tandem tanks. I had to buy 40 gallons. He got the last laugh.