In late July/early August, the coho usually start rolling into the area in small waves, some targeting the Nick Dudiak Fishing Lagoon in Homer.

It’s also when the “silver warriors” experience fires up and humanoids with the piscatorial skills of asphalt can experience hit after hit while those with more advanced dexterity may even land a few, so, of course, a thundering herd of hopefuls descend upon the pond.

It’s also when those who have fished the enhancement mere for decades switch to stalking it around the first glimmer of light because the neophytes are still ensconced in their chateaus-on-wheels. Why? Because, it’s less congested and the fish tend to get grump-hungry and flat mean during the gloaming hours.

Unfortunately, it’s now already on the steep downslide of August and we might as well be attending a wake on the beach.

We checked out The Hole several times last week as the incoming tides swept in and nada except for a few tiny schools.

Where elbows once knocked into each other, fewer than 20 anglers were scattered around the lagoon, most of whom were “penalty-eligible fishing” but still unable to nail one, even illegally. Worse yet, the only fish-stealing seal that showed up became so fed up, it beached itself and took a nap.

Usually, this time of year if the shoreline is packed, my bride and I will opt to retreat to the truck and observe the mayhem from the parking lot.

We enjoy watching the actions and techniques of the fishermen lining the shore because it’s a shipload of fun. That is if we haven’t inadvertently forgotten our diminutive mutt’s treats and have the audacity to snap up some primo takeout from across the road.

Have you ever tried to take pleasure in a container of superlative fish and chips while trying to ignore the backseat death stare from a drama cur and treataholic lunatic?

Any absentmindedness concerning sharing food highly annoys our mutt who promptly attempts to turn the situation into a feigned personal urinary crisis if we don’t immediately share the bounty. It’s her way of making our meals turn cool while we deal with the possibility fact that her bladder may be about to go nuclear.

Much to her chagrin, that ploy rarely works unless she lets fly with her authentic emergency pee signal by crossing her hind legs and spinning like a plane that just lost a wing. Then we all bail.

Sadly, the enjoyable angler observations and doggie attitude adjustment training scenarios have petered out with this year’s coho wimpy return.

Gone are the tales of legendary displays of fishing incompetence such as the gentleman last year who seemed to be significantly less bright than his new reel.

He somehow managed let fly with a hellacious sideways cast that got his nearby buddy so entangled in his line, lure, and weights, that it took a large part of a quarter hour to extricate the poor guy.

It was a toss-up as what was more exciting, the disentanglement dance or the lava-hot expletive howls from the victim that would have mortified Samuel L. Jackson.

This week, anyone visiting the Spit with the observation skills of a plaster garden gnome realized the silver run is a train wreck … so far.

In fact, as of last Sunday, it resembled an oversized seawater Jacuzzi of tidal change outs with little to offer but the sight of the previously mentioned seal cruising around realizing that it should be somewhere else but doesn’t have a clue as to where that might be. The hapless thing was a fin flip away from qualifying as a member of the departing presidential cabinet.

Hopefully, this week’s huge tides will put a boot into the run. If so, bring it on!

Nick can be reached at ncvarney@gmail.com if he isn’t chasing dollies in the Anchor River and mining a couple of secret hole for a tardy coho.