Big Cott Round II

Big Cott Round II

January 22, 2012 what do you do when you slip on the river, almost give your camera a bath, and have to use your chest to take the blow so that it doesn’t go under? I’ll tell you what you do, you go back the next day; especially because the kids don’t want to go hit the slopes, and a new blanket of the greatest snow on earth fell last night. Wait a minute has it really come to that for me, am I driving up one Utah’s biggest canyons with my waders and camera instead of my skis? Yes.

I want to get to the same spot I went to yesterday to shoot the same area with really fast shutter speeds instead of slow ones. On the way down the bank, it is actually easier with a lot of snow, because it sort of packs up on each step instead of sliding down. The rocks on the banks are seriously wicked, they are really jagged. I can’t emphasis how they lay, making it really hard to get good footing; add to that just a ton of fallen branches lying across the rocks.

Once I get down to the river, I feel a total and complete bliss come over me. The river in the dead of winter is like a hidden pearl, a jewel that most people don’t get a chance to revel in. What makes it even weirder, is that I’m not even thinking about fish, and I don’t want my fly rod. I know I shouldn’t admit that, but that’s just the way it is.

During winter it seems that our mind and our bodies go into a mode thinking that all things are asleep--no more than asleep—dead.  And who wants to look at death? But winter is not death, its tranquility, tranquility and peace. Winter is the time of peace and rest; in that rest is life and joy, and the flow of the river is proof of that life. Even if the top of the river is iced over, under the ice, the river flows. And some days after it snows, the life under the blanket of winter sheds the coat, melts it, and flows on. What is more beautiful than a night of snow followed by sunshine the next day?

Okay, maybe all I just said is a bunch of bull shit. But, you can’t deny that a fresh coat of snow is wonderful! I don’t have to talk about it; I don’t have to pump it up. In fact go on, hate it, hate the snow, stay home and watch football. That’s exactly what I’m going to do, I want to see if Utah’s golden boy can lead the 49ers to the Super Bowl.

Big Cott

January 20, 2012 Back to Little Cottonwood to continue working on some slow shutter, winter river shots. Here is my 6 word memoir:

Big is little, but it’s dangerous!


This may sound strange but I think Big Cottonwood is the most dangerous river I fish! Why would I say that when it’s small? How can a river that is more of a stream then a river, be deadly? It’s not the water flow that will get you, it’s all the obstacles. There is a lot of dead fall, and a huge variety of rocks that lay out in a manner that can make navigating its banks really tough. And I’m not even going to go into its wicked banks, and its deceptive pools that seem shallow but will fill your waders up.

What’s daunting about wading Big Cott’s banks is the way rocks and logs sit; every step is an ankle twisting opportunity. Not only are the banks steep, but at some points you simply can’t get over the obstacles. Yes, my many and devoted readers, you hear a tale of woe coming up; a tale of death and bloody destruction; a tale of pain and suffering—and yes it involves me.

My daughter Madeline, my once upon a time Numero Uno fishing buddy, is 15-years-old and has her learners permit; so she won’t fish with me anymore, but she is willing to drive me up the road to take pics of Little Cott. I find a spot for her to pull over, and I go shoot the river. If you know the canyon at all, you know the “S” turn. I was just above that. To begin with I had a tough time getting down the steep bank— it’s covered with snow and nasty jagged rocks. With winter snow and ice, each step has an added slip factor. Also, the snow will cover some spots so when you step you can be on solid ground or you can be stepping on a pitfall. I have to get down to the river, because there is a really nice water formation down there that I think will give me what I’m looking for.

I get down to where the angle is just what I’m looking for. My camera is on a tripod, which makes it a little harder to get down river because I am minus one arm.

Over Christmas I bought my oldest daughter Hannah a camera, and we went to the Weber River on a photo shoot. I had my camera on a tripod and it fell over and hit the water. I dried it off as fast as I could between belting out some choice expletives. Both the body and lens make it through with flying colors; but my sensitivity level went up, and so did my paranoia. You know where I’m going, the river wants my camera, and is willing to use all of her wily ways to get it.

Once I get down to river, I have to keep working further down to be sure that I am really at the best spot. The rocks are slick as snot, and I’m sliding over half of the ones I step on. I lose my footing and fall forward—both hands out to catch my fall with the camera and tripod in the right hand. I have two choices: 1 let the camera go under water, or 2 use my left to sort of soften the blow and use my chest to absorb the brunt of the fall.

My many devoted blog followers, Johnny, already knows that I am not about to let the camera go down; no way in hell. My chest hits a big rock and I go with the flow instead of fighting it; in fact my head goes under water, and a big, fat gush of water goes down my waders. But the camera is safe--all but a few drops of water landing on it. I lay there for a second, kind of waiting for my breath to come back and wondering if I am okay. It hurts, but I don’t feel like any real damage has occurred. It’s really too bad that Johnny is not here to catch this on video—it must have been total comedy. Part of me feels like a complete buffoon, the other half feels like Lynn Swan cradling the touchdown pass in the in zone, not letting the ball touch the ground.

I stand up and feel about 5 gallons of water gush down my pants filling my waders up to my knees. I look around for someone to say to me, “Oh my God man are you okay?” I want some attention and comforting. I know I am alone, and that Madeline is sitting up in the car playing on her phone—but I still look around for someone to console me. Of course no one will, but no matter, I’ll get it from Madeline when I get back to the car. Since I am down here, and I really am fine, I get the shots I am looking for. Maybe I’m meant to earn these shots—who knows?

I get back to the car, all wet and wearing my best  “boo-hoo” face ready for my 15-year-old to say, “Dad what happened, are you okay” instead this huge Cheshire cat, ear to ear grin spreads across her face. Stupidly, I tell my tale thinking maybe I can melt that smile. “That’s funny,” is all I get. I should know who I am dealing with. Madeline is an ultra-calm, ultra-cool sort of a modern day Fonzie in a 15 year-old girl’s body.  She can’t fool me though, I know that behind that cool exterior she loves me and wants to kiss my bald head. Just like I know she wants to go back to being my fishing buddy, and "Fish the World one River at a Time" with me.  I can wait quietly on the river bank for her to return, soaking wet, bruised body and ego--because I know sooner or later she will be back.

post script: January 24, 2012

My buddy Roger, the captain of the Scooner Tuna, sent me a text the next day, after I posted this entry, to see if I was okay. My comment was, wow you are reading my blog? And why didn't you post a comment? Personally I think he was worried about me, but wanted to keep his concerned feelings on the down-low. But here's why I am bringing it up; he wanted to get a better picture of what my fall was like, and he had some great questions:

Q: Did you go face first of feet first--great question
A: Face first.

Q: Were you prone or did you go sideways or something?
A: Prone, going downhill.

Q: If you had the camera on a tripod, and that in your right hand, were you holding a beer in the left, and if so, did you save the beer along with the camera?
A: To his disappointment sorry no beer.

Conclusion:
The beer-less face forward, downhill momentum tripod and camera in one hand, held high to avoid the water, resulted in a baseball slide into home base, with home base being a huge snow covered rock colliding into my chest. In a nutshell I was more like a penguin sliding down the river than Lynn Swan holding the ball and not letting it touch the ground, or in this case the water.

I hope for my many blog readers, Johnny and now Roger, this info helps paint a more complete picture of my blunderous afternoon.

Glossary: (for all readers under 35-years-old)

1.      1.    Lynn Swann: Pittsburg Steelers great #88, legendary soft hands, moved with the grace of a ballet dancer, and brought in touchdown passes like no other.

2.     2.      Arthur Herbert Fonzarelli (Fonzie, The Fonz, or Fonz): Legendary ‘70’s cool guy

3.      3.  Johnny: aspiring fly fishing guide and outdoor film artist.

4.      4.  Roger: aka Zogg half a hundred, innocent simple country boy McGyver genius.

Little Cott January 2012

January 9, 2012 fishing in the winter is not for the meek and mild, most fishermen stay inside, perhaps tie a few flies, of watch their favorite fishing video—I don’t know.  For one, being out in the cold can be tough, especially standing waist high in the river; it sucks the heat out of your core. When you do get out of the water, your boots freeze, sometimes welding your laces to your boots and putting your socks to the test to see if they can keep your little piggy’s warm.

If it’s really cold, your eyelets on your rod freeze over, and your line can’t slide through when you cast; the line itself becomes like a frozen rope. Oddly enough I have actually caught fish with my line like this, with frozen flies too—don’t ask me to explain that. When it’s really cold, and it gets to your hands, the last thing you want to do is change flies, it’s hard to tie any knot. I don’t wear gloves because it’s just too hard for me to fish with them on. I like to open a pack of hand warmers and keep then in a pocket, it helps gripping one tucked inside the front of your waders.

I don’t want to talk about wind—a fly fisherman’s nemesis. I have actually hated wind my whole life; oh I get its purpose, it’s a needed element, especially in the Salt Lake valley in the dead of January with a thick heavy blanket of inversion.  But when you’re in it, especially when it’s mixed with snow, and your trying to cast into it, or read your line on the water, it turns you into a complete illiterate.  When the wind blows  snow sideways, and your feet are solid, your line is frozen in place, and you slip on the ice and land flat on you back, you do wonder if you should be home watching someone else fish on TV.

But there are also those days, when you don’t see other fishermen on the river, and the world is a blanket of white tranquility. The sound of the running water is calming, and comforting. There are days when the clouds part, and the day heats up to the mid 40’s and the midge and caddis start moving, and we all know what that means.

I had one of those days a few weeks ago on the South Fork. I had a size 24 black midge on the top, casting into this beautiful bend. On the first cast, I saw a rainbow come up to look. I make about four or five more casts, and each time he looked with more interest. I was ready for this; I would like to say I was due, but I have learned from fishing that there is no due. The next cast I must admit was good, no it was great; I placed it perfectly into the current, so that it would bring it by him in just the right spot.  He rose to it, and I thought he would take it, but then I could see his pectoral fins move, and he started backing up.  Slowly he moved closer, bringing his nose to the fly, opened his mouth and slowly slurped my midge in. I waited for him to go down, and set the hook—fish on. I landed him, but I didn’t really even care about that; the game was all about the take and set.

 I went on to catch more fish that day; but that fish was spectacular. It’s not always about catching fish. Even in the dead of winter, it’s about being in the wild, being on the river. Some winter days when the sun parts and the snow shimmers with the light, and the fish feed on the hatch you would swear to God that fishing could not get any better, and that every other season are not even worth going.

Diamond Fork January 2012

January 7, 2012 Diamond Fork, great river to select as the first one of the New Year.  Sticking with my promise to myself, and the mass multitude of fans who cling to my every word, I will refrain from rambling on and on, and describe the day with a 6 word memoir:

Diamond Fork: gem of a river