Little Deer Creek

December 29, 2011, Little Deer Creek and South Fork. It would appear that this is my last day fishing for 2011 unless of course I sneak off and hit Big Cottonwood today for a spell. Johnny and I decided to go lower Prove, so we visited two of my boyhood spots. Earlier this year I fished the South Fork, but this time we included Little Deer Creek as well. I think it’s officially called the North fork of the Lower Prove, but growing up we always called it “Little Deer Creek.”

This is the first trip I have been on that Johnny started filming, because he got a new video camera for Christmas. He has already put together some footage, and it’s really good. Shooting stills is what I do, and I can’t fish, shoot stills and video, it’s just too much for me; also it seems to fit him. I suppose some people can do both, but the two formats are really different. I feel like as a photographer, I am capturing a slice of time, seen through my vision. You manipulate the shot through exposure, light, composition and printing, where as video is moving time, a story in motion. He has decided to go “You Tube” with his presentation, and is calling it “Fly Tales,” which I think is a great play on words to go with my blog. Watching his first two films, it sparks new life into me, as a photographer and a fisherman.

I was ecstatic to visit Little Deer Creek again. It has been so long since I have been there, and I heard the whole river was private now, or fenced off or something. I haven’t been there since they widened the road, and the old access road has been eliminated. You used to be able to drive over the tracks, and up the canyon—not anymore. It was cool seeing the old road, and putting it back together in my mind, how it used to be. I have a picture of the bridge as you first approach the river, and that has stayed the same.

I don’t remember the river being this tough to walk up and there was a lot of growth, as well as fallen logs over the river. It was damn hard to fish, because you are in so tight, with very little room to back cast. As we worked up river I was excited to get up there because I remember some great holes, and I also remember it sort of opens up a bit, making it easier to fish. As kids we would fish all the way up to Cascade Springs, which was a series of beaver type ponds.  Sure enough, the fence rumor is true, not even a quarter mile up from the bridge, there is hardy, posted, fence keeping people out of a beautiful river. Of course being a fisherman I am saddened about it. Usually river access is limited because people have homes on the river banks, or farm land; but this is government land. What is the reason to keep people out? “Who the hell knows with the government, they found gas, oil, power, aliens, something, they just want to keep people out, replies Johnny. What’s sad to me is that I was hoping this could be a nice little hidden spot I could go, especially in the winter, a little hidden gem. So no gems for me or anyone else for that matter.

It is truly sad for Utah that they do this type of limiting access to public water ways. The most common excuse that land owners claim is that fishermen are evil trespassers and vandalize or litter on their land. We all know this is simply bullshit. Even fishermen that don’t consider themselves stewards of the river or the environment don’t do that. The real negative impact it has, is that for both residents and visitors our public lands are not as enjoyable; because you either cant access some great rivers, or if you can, you have to worry that some angry shotgun packin farmer is going to chase you off his land.

New Year’s Eve, 2011

I have been thinking about the fence at Little Deer Creek, and I feel the need to be dramatic about being fenced out of the river. It’s more than being kept out, it’s that the fence mocks me, and says, “beyond me you will find your heart’s desire, and pleasure beyond your wildest dreams.” I stand there a look at the big sturdy fence, posted all over it saying: “Stay off this land or die”; aka: Posted no trespassing violators will be prosecuted.”  Ok maybe that’s a bit much, but you get my drift. Additionally irritating for me is the fact that I used to able to wade up those waters, never knowing that one day we would all be fenced out.  

If you look at the history of the wild west, the first fence that was put up was the beginning of the end to the open range—hell, it was really the white man’s mark on the landing saying: “I own this land, and you can’t come on it. The fence was the dagger in the heart of the wild west, like small-pox was the death of the Indian. My six word Little Deer Creek memoir has come to me:

Fences and small-pox killed the wild west!

Hannah' nighttime pics

Hannah's first photo shoot

December 26, 2011: 

Beezer meets Canon, legend lives on

Jordan River NIght Time Photography

Jordan River Night Time Photo shoot

December 19, 2011 Tom S. and his students are awesome; fun willing to face the night time cold to develop their photographic knowledge. They invited me to join them at Chapham Library to view their latest exhibit, and then go shoot night photography with them on the Jordan River. To me this still counts as being on a river, but of course this time I brought camera alone and not the fly rod. The Jordan has plenty ‘O cat fish and carp, but that’s not my cup of tea. People think fishing is fishing; hell they think photography is photography. Not so, you can’t just lump them all together.

In my book, which is not always the right book, but it’s a book I highly recommend; I say it’s not that there is a hierarchy, but a difference. In the world of fishing, fly fishermen take themselves way too seriously. Just because fly fishing is really difficult, has a completely bottomless learning pit, and always makes you over think it, doesn’t make it better, it just makes it harder. I guess the equivalent would be the fine art photographer, as opposed to the guys taking pictures for a living, and not just for “arts sake.”

I grew up in a photographic home; my parents converted part of their house into a studio, and made a living as wedding and portrait photographers. Dad later moved into creating art, and took it on the road to art shown and such. He is an amazing photographer, with a perfect balance of the science with the artist; which is what I think photography is. You have to know the technical to get it to obey your creative vision.

I grew up on small rivers in Utah with a spinning rod in my hands, the love instilled mostly by my Uncle Sam, and fostered by my older brother and cousin. As an adult my buddy Evan kept at me with learning how to fly fish, which I fought but finally relented. I’ve been “hooked” ever since that first trip in the Huntington River. But I still miss the feeling of how hard trout hit on a spinner, and quite honestly I miss the simplicity. I pack enough stuff with me now, that you’d think I was going on a 5 day trip. I have made this thing complicated. With a spinner, I would put 2 or 3 in a film container and be off. It’s a reflection of my life in a way.

I bought a Canon Rebel for my oldest daughter for Christmas. I am hoping we can make it out a few days before she has to go back to College. We had our first outing last night, Christmas night; we took some night shots of the Big Cottonwood. I’ll post them on the next entry. It’s a parents job, to first of all mess your kids as much as possible, and secondly to pass on some of your interests and passions. Although my middle child hasn’t fished with me for a few years not, I am hoping and praying that I got enough river water in her veins to permanently infect her with the fishing disease.

I forgot I was supposed to stop blathering on an on, and do a simple six word Memoir or sort of summary for each day’s experience, here goes:

Merry Christmas, I’m still blathering on!

Holy Water

December 21, 2011 probably last time on holy water for 2011. I recently came across a book published by Smith Magazine that links back to Hemmingway. If you know anything about him, you know that he is the master of brevity. He just gets right to telling a story, in his macho way.  As the story goes, someone approached him and asked if he could write his life’s memoirs in just 6 words. He came back with this: “Baby shoes, for sale, never worn.”

Wow right, that’s about all you can say. So years later in 2006 Smith Magazine decides to send the challenge out to the world, via face book, the net, and phones, to write and submit your own 6 word memoirs. Of course I wrote my own:

 “Sweet Melissa, three beauties, gone fishing.”

 But honestly I fell in love with the idea of being brief. Since I started writing entries in this blog, I have felt like I have become one big fat blabber mouth, essentially saying nothing. So I’m thinking I will try writing about my day on the river with 6 words.  Here goes:

Holy water, winter's cold, still holy!

Charlston Middle Prove

December 10, 2011 Middle Prove. The days of this river being just another river are gone. The Provo is on the map; its been on the map for years now; maybe for 10 to 15 years—not like this is news to anyone. This summer I went to Silver Creek and fished the preserve; another western river that is on the map. Although these rivers are completely different, they remind me of each other.

As far as rivers go, they are not at all alike, Silver Creek is spring fed,  is slow moving,  meanders through farm country and a nature preserve. The Prove is tail water, faster, stronger and has completely different holes. So why do I liken them to one another? Is it because they are both on the western map for places to fly fish? Is it that they are both swarming with Orvis decked, Loomis toting, highbrow gents? Or could it be that they both have a famous artist linked to them? I think it’s all of the above.

Silver Creek has none other than Papa himself, Ernest Hemmingway. He made it famous, and his son Jack worked to get the preserve. That’s surely enough to attract anyone who’s ever held a fly rod, or read a book. I mean come on how do you get more rugged/romantic than Hemmingway?

 I’ll tell you how, you throw the Sundance Kid’s face at it; oh and his ski resort, and his film festival and the whole nine yards. While you’re at it, how about mount Timpanogos too. Talk about a pretty face, the face of Timp is, in my opinion, the most attractive mountain peak in Utah. It’s not the tallest, but it has my vote for the best looking; from both the front and back side. Fishing the Middle Prove, you get a spectacular view of Timp.

You could argue that Silver Creek has the Saw Tooth Mountain Range which is equally stunning. But from the preserve, it’s a good 75 plus miles north.

Getting back to topic here, both of these rivers are fantastic to fish, each one for its own reasons. The Silver is one of the most challenging rivers I have ever been on. Its clear, clean water is swarming with browns and bows. The fish remind me of yellow jackets swarming all around you; they move around you at will, but good luck getting your hands or hooks on them. The surrounding farm land is quaint and charming, and let’s not forget Sun Valley, a fun little resort town and ski resort every bit as sheik as Park City.

The Provo is so incredibly healthy with an overwhelming amount of bug life creating some mighty fish; its classic tail water with two reservoirs to feed it. Both the Upper, middle and Lower Prove are grand. I absolutely live its size; it’s big but can be waded pretty much all year. The Heber Valley has kept a lot of its small town feel, and development has not over taken the valley. Park City is only 15 miles away and Salt Lake is only about 40 miles northwest. Follow the lower down the canyon and you reach Utah Valley—which will honestly send you fleeing back from whence you came.

So what’s with my pissy attitude? I love both Bob and Ernie and the rivers and ranges linked to them. It boils down to all the hootie tootie gents that flock their river banks. Are fly fishermen better than other fishermen, say spinner and artificial lure fisherman? Are they better then the worm & cheese, cooler full of beer in the pickup Bubba who hooks ‘em and cooks ‘em? I’ll allow you answer that question yourself.  But consider this, just because you pack a fly rod around, particularly if your fly box contains only dry flies, does it mean that you are somehow a more positive component to the ecosystem; or that you are somehow a more evolved species of fisherman? We weren't even on the Silver for more than a half hour and some other fly fishermen walked past us bitching about us being in "the best spot." On the Prove it’s not uncommon to have other fly fishermen fish right into your hole. I always thought proper etiquette was to veer clear of others, allow them some peace.

Norman & Paul from “A River runs through it” thought fly fishermen were better, and argue a damn good case they were right. Norman’s dip shit brother-in law proves it when he shows up to enjoy a day on a Montana river with a can of worms. Yet, it’s Santiago who commanded a bottomless wealth of knowledge of the sea, and total respect for Mother Nature and all her creatures. He would laugh at the fool who caught a fish, just to gently remove the barbless hook from its jaw and release it into the water. What kind of sick bastard goes through all that trouble just to let the fish go?

Yellowstone River

Yellowstone River Utah

11-11-11 another funky date came and went and the earth is still revolving, the sun still shining and living things are still going about their business. Johnny and I decided to work on one more of the South Slope rivers of the Uintahs, either Lake Fork or the Yellowstone. We both know this area really well, mostly at the Granddaddy area. We used to hunt there a lot when Johnny was knee high to a hopper, with his dad Joe. One day I may be brave enough to write about my misadventures with Joe, but it would turn into a book, and I’m having a hard enough time writing in this little blog of mine.

We did not go into the Yellowstone area back then, because you can’t hunt it-- due to the fact that its mostly Indian land and the Ute tribe don’t allow hunting. They may sell some special permits, but the area is off limits to state deer tag hunters. Deer are oozing out of hills like rats in a nest. The area is beautiful. It combines the arid desert Duchesne look meeting the alpine, pine and quacking aspens look of the Uintahs. Also as you round the corner coming from Duchesne into the Talmage/Altamont Valley, the whole basin is calming. It turns more green and lush with endless rolling hills. It has that old school ranch/farm look.

Not a sole is in site for miles of paved road, turning to dirt road  for  about 15 to 20 miles to get up to the dam at Yellowstone. The road to Lake Fork River is paved the whole way. Doe’s are grouped up like you normally see 5 to 10 or so in a small herd.  100 yards or so ahead of the truck we see a big deer, and I get the feel it’s a buck—it’s a striking four point.

 A few weeks ago I spotted some doe’s feeding with some cows, and we drove along side them taking pictures. Some story with this buck, he stayed right next to the road, allowing me to get off about 20 shots. This part was hilarious, I’m driving while trying to shoot this guy with a 300 millimeter lens, Johnny takes the wheel, at one point the deer looks like he’s going to cut across the road right in front of us, “oh my God, don’t hit him,” Johnny yells out. For a minute we were Bubba and Cletis, just blending right into the environment. Honestly, shooting with a camera instead of a gun was fun, and the buck got to walk off to show all those doe’s his genes need to be passed on. Of course it would have to wait at least until he got his tongue back into his mouth, we ran him pretty hard. However, there is something about being on the hunt—literally on the hunt. I think it’s a primal aspect of man, bring home the bacon, being the top of the food chain, just being primal; I don’t know what it is but its inside us. It reminds me of Jack London’s Call of the Wild; the wild that exists inside the domesticated dog Buck. Once Buck goes feral, he becomes amazing.

 But then maybe those animal rights activists are correct, maybe humanity has evolved to the point that we no longer need to be hunters. Perhaps we no longer need to kill animals to feed ourselves. Or, if we do kill animals, it is done by a machine in some huge CAFO in the Midwest, and we never have to see blood guts or death as long as we live and eat. Screw that; I may not hunt anymore, but I did love the chase. Ask yourself this question, do you really want to remove all the primeval from your inner self?

Anyhow enough rambling, about that, back to the discussion about the Yellowstone and Lake Fork. We decided not to fish Lake Fork, and voted instead to turn our attention to the Yellowstone. It was cold, cold enough to ice over a fair amount of the river. We screened the river, and found no bugs. We found no fish for that matter. I don’t want to make excuses for us, but in all honesty, we worked some holes hard, like fishing poets, and got no love in return. No matter, it’s not always about catching, it’s about fishing. This is what I tell myself when I get my ass kicked, especially by a river that most beginners catch a lot fish on.

We now have White Rocks, and the Uintah River and we have fished the whole South Slope of the Uintahs. I think we will have to wait until spring, things are starting to freeze over—stay tuned blog fans—all 4 of you.