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?