Puget Sound is fish heaven this week as the salmon continue to migrate to area rivers. I've been fishing for close to 83 of my 91 years starting with scrap fish in Renne Lake near Portland, Oregon in 1928, so I've learned a few tricks in that time.

I should mention that fishing is as much luck as it is skill.

South of the outfall at Harbor Island in Elliot Bay the Duwamish River becomes the Green River about where the old drive-in theaters were located. One early morning in 1959, I hit the water bright-eyed and bushy tailed hoping to land an elusive Steelhead Trout I'd heard so much about.

Down below the Allentown Bridge the water runs slow and slightly murky. Dressed in my Warshal's knee-high waders I made my way over the slippery bank, through the blackberry vines to take my place alongside a rather taciturn gent who was already working the water.

Fishermen are a special breed. Finding a secret spot was important; being their first was paramount. He was not delighted to see me but said nothing. That was okay. Talking scares the fish.

He learned quickly that I was a novice. My first cast with a gob of cured salmon eggs flew entirely across the river where it caught a broken tree limb. I'm certain he noticed but said nothing.

I wiggled and flipped my rod tip attempting to retrieve my sinker and eggs. To my amazement the last flip of the tip unwrapped the tangle.

It was coming back and traveling at high speed towards the gent beside me. There was little I could do but watch in horror as the gob of eggs and sinker did several 360's around the man's upper body unceremoniously slapping his cheek with the sticky mess.

This got his attention long enough to allow me a humble apology while I worked the rod tip to help get him out of my tangle. When we don't catch a fish we say we got "skunked." That was probably the first time in the history of fishing that a man was "gobbed."

I made my way sheepishly back up the bank, thinking he may be the biggest thing I catch all year. He must have been delighted to see me leave but said nothing.

Many years and trips later fishing Nirvana happened. More luck than skill as I said. In northern Canada, above Kamloops we made an annual trek by floatplane to catch the first fish of summer after the ice melts from the area lakes in June.

The pilot casually mentioned as we landed on the first day that he'd be willing to drop us off at "secret lake" later in the week to try our luck. We agreed but said nothing to the other anglers on this trip.

Flying in to those small lakes is challenging, as there is little room for error. We glided in safely at mid-week. A small, aging boat with motor and a can of gas was waiting for us at the little dock.

To our immediate delight we could see several large trout finning in the crystal clear water near the bottom a scant 20 feet deep. What a day! We hooked several fish over two or three hours before our pilot returned to take us back to camp. With trophy fish in hand we regaled our compatriots of our good fortune.

Reid Hale, former editor of this paper, was hosting state Sen. Martin Durkan that week. Both men were excited like schoolboys to make the trip themselves. The pilot took them over the next morning for a nominal fee.

"Secret Lake" will go down in Reid's memory bank as a bust. They saw nary a fish after thrashing the water for a few hours. We didn't catch all the fish in that lake and Reid is a fine fisherman. For us, it came down to luck and a little bit of skill. Like a pot of clams at a seafood restaurant, Reid must have been steamed. He said nothing.

On a similar trip I escorted my beautiful wife for a week of fishing. It is a wonderful wilderness adventure with yodeling loons and howling wolves at sunset.

Shortly after hitting the water, nature called. I motored over to the lakeshore where she could relieve herself. There are no trails and only limited areas where she could make her way into the bush for privacy.

We know it is more difficult for gals to use the great outdoors and this occasion was complicated by a thousand and one mosquitoes attacking her bare behind. She came running out of the thicket with her pants around her knees as she slapped her own bottom on the way back to the boat. The look in her eyes was pricelessly funny.

I said nothing.