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.
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.
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