Davidicus, Hammer Time and break downs

"Are you kidding me, your broke down...where?" This isn't funny man, how close are you?" grumbles my cousin and lifelong buddy Davidicus. Actually his name is just David, but I converted his name to Latin years ago. "I wish it was a joke, but my truck just died at the bottom of the hill section of hwy 20 between Beaver and Panguich.

It’s never fun to break down, even if you are close to home, but it’s dreaded when you are out of town, and it’s even worse when it’s on the front end of the trip. If it happens on the way home, at least it doesn’t taint the trip.

I am not a mechanic, but I’m also not a complete idiot with cars. I do the routine check of belts, hoses, battery, fluids etc. Then I get back in the truck, who knows maybe doing nothing except looking at it, will somehow magically work, and it will turn right over. Nothing. Then I think about saying a little prayer; which I have little faith in; because I have been a real slob lately, and in my mind that’s never a good time to ask God for a favor. My situation is sure as hell not one of those “if you get me out of this jam, I promise…situations, but I decide to skip the prayer all together—seriously I’ve been such a slob the last couple years. I’ll call my buddy Scott, he owns a couple of Tunex shops, and is a good dude; who better to ask if he knows a good mechanic in the area?

This all goes really well, Scott give me a number to call, tow truck is on its way, and so is David, who is only about 30 minutes away. David’s buddy Eric, who I have not met, stays back at camp to finish setting up, tend to fire, so on so forth.

Here’s the strangest thing, they set up camp exactly where we camped on our last fall trip; without giving them specific campsite directions. It’s great seeing Davidicus, we have a great night dancing around the camp fire chanting like Indians and smearing Eric’s face with charcoals, making him feel like a brave young warrior; a warrior in God know who’s lame ass tribe. I got the strong feeling though, that Eric really had no interest in being in anyone’s tribe, or even being a brave young Indian warrior for that matter. It may be linked to when David moved from charcoals to burning coals. I think he was content being Eric, chilling at the camp fire, and enjoying the yummy brats and potatoes in my new Dutch oven.

In the morning we peal our frozen carcasses out of our mummy bags, I shake the frozen water in the jug enough to pour it into the coffee pot. By 10:00 we are on Asay Creek, and the day is looking beautiful. It’s amazing in this area how quickly it warms up. I am still waiting to hear back from the mechanic for the verdict on my truck. I kept telling myself that no matter what he says, I will not let it affect my good time. I will enjoy my day on the river.

I need to figure out what the fish are eating, and I know its not bugs on the top of the water. Okay, let’s be honest, I know they are hunkered on the bottom, but I just fight this. I really want these guys to experience the pure pleasure of catching fish on dries. Nymphing is fun, but in no way does it compare to hooking up on the top.

As the day goes on, I don’t see one fish rise to the top, and sure enough the only fish we are catching, are down deep. If fact the trick is putting weight on, and bouncing off the bottom, high sticking, and pulling a heavily weighted rig through. 12:00 and still no call. Okay I’ll call them, which is stupid, if they know anything, then they would call, but calling them will make me feel more in control.

We come to a clearly marked fence that oh so clearly says, “no trespassing, no fishing, hunting or off road vehicles beyond this point." Oh did I mention that it says “no fishing?” Eric is the first to make the move. Eric’s last name is Hammer—cool name right? Eric lays down the hammer, and goes under that barbed wire fence like he owns the place. Right at this point I decide that I like this guy. David and I are at a pretty good hole, and we’re both sort of “sitting on the fence.” When it comes to bending the rules, or breaking them outright, I'm down. It's probably the result of my narcissistic core that makes me feel the rules are for everyone except me.

I'm hearing the voice of my buddy Math who told me the guy who owns that private part of Asay shoots at people, or gets Johnny Law involved, and prosecutes to the fullest extent. Five minutes later we cross the wire, it’s on baby. The phone rings, it’s not what I wanted to hear, the timing belt went, and took half the motor with it. It translates into $1500 to $3000.

This is the point that you say all the clichés, like, "It is what it is," and "Well, what are you gonna do?" Or my personal favorite, "At the end of the day..." But no matter what you say, at the end of the day, it is what it is, what are you gonna do, you gotta fix it. And we get back to fishing. A truck pulls up behind us on the hill, and I'm thinking, great lets add a ticket to the whole thing, or with any luck I'll see a crusty old man pull out a shot gun and start firing. They drive off, and Davidicus and I are both thinking that was a sufficient warning, let’s get over on the less exciting part of the river. The job now is to reel in Eric, who was nowhere in sight. I call his technique "High Holeing It" when a guy races ahead of everyone to get to the high hole.

Fishing our way back, I know the thing to do is stick with deep nymph--the fish are on the bottom, and they are going for egg patterns, San Juan worms, hare’s ear, copper john’s, well really I think they are eating most any nymph you put right in front of their faces. I’ve always believed that trout will take food when it almost hits then right on the nose. But of course that’s not always the case.

Everyone hooked up with fish, and both Eric and David really got the feel for high stick nymphing. Throughout the whole trip, I didn’t show them how to fish with an indicator, and in the long run I think they will become better fly fishermen for it.

Loves & hates of Asay:

I love the open space, the chance of hooking into some really big fish, and although the water can get murky, the color of the water is a splendid blue.

I hate the river bottom. You feel like you are sinking into Elmer’s glue with each step. You sense at times as though you will not get out. Plus, each hole is slow enough that you kick up that mud, and you sort of skunk up each hole.

I need to get back to the Dutch oven topic—wow why did I wait so long to cook this way? We drove to Panguich and bought some more brats with some veggies. Slice things up, pour a few beers or water in, and put on the coals, and whoa-la delicious food. After a full belly, none of us made it much longer. I can stare at a camp fire all night long, but not tonight, the sandman delivered.

We are slow to rise, and have very little time on Mammoth Creek the next morning before my lovely lady rolled up. She must have got up before the sun to come get me. I had to leave the yellow truck behind, a new friend, and my brotha from another motha--Davidicus. My hope is that I’m invited to their annual fishing trip next year, who knows maybe I can combine their trip with mine?

Guest writer Xavier Matheson

Son of AVID flyfisherman/outdoorsmen Mike Matheson, this kid has tons of excitment and energy for the sport; I can wait to fish with these guys. Let's hear it for guest writer

Xavier Matheson

 

                The story of my journey to Jones Hole starts a long time ago when I started fly-fishing. I wish I could tell you the memory of my first cast, but I was so young even I don’t remember. My father took me up to the Monroe Mountains’ in his backpack, taught me how to cast, and told me to “lift!” when my first fish was on. A native cutthroat out of Manning Creek, but who knew the start of my addiction would be when I was three years old? The older I got, the more I got the hang of fly-fishing. It also helped that my whole family fly-fishes (my grandpa, five uncles, and five cousins). Pretty soon I was off on trips with my dad to bigger rivers like the Huntington, making middle-age men look foolish because I had been perfecting casts since a child.

                One day my grandfather came back from Jones Hole and gathered the whole family around to tell of the “18 inch fish in a smaller stream!” Because Grandpa never took pictures I never believed him, but as soon as I did my homework I knew there was going to be biggins!!! Jones Hole is a natural spring in the middle of the desert on the Utah/Colorado boarder that stretches 4.5 miles and a tributary of the Green River. Because it is a natural spring, the water level never changes, and neither does the water temperature. There is also a fish hatchery right where the stream comes out, that litters the stream with 2 million fish each year! You might say, “That’s a lot of fish going into Jones Hole, but the fish end up in the Green River. NO! By the time Jones Hole finds its way to the Green, the River is too filled with sediment for trout to live in. That means 4.5 miles of crystal clear water with 2 million fish (each year) in it. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it!

                The only downside is the drive to the stream. It is about 4 hours from SLC because you have to loop around to Vernal. When you arrive it is like a desert mirage. You’ve been stuffed into a car and seen nothing but sagebrush and what seems to be the same hill over and over again. Suddenly you drop into The Hole! Trees with reds, oranges, and yellows swarm the cliff faces that lead to the spring. You can see why famous outlaw Butch Cassidy hid out in Jones Hole because the cliffs are so dramatic and it is located in East Jesus. If you go on a lucky day you will see bighorn sheep and mountain lions(which I did not).

                To start the day I put on the biggest foam beetle I could find in my fly box. Black bodied with creeping legs that stabilized the creature when it floated on the water. “WAY TOO BIG!” my dad and uncle told me.  I ignored their veteran negativity and looked for biggest nymph I could find, a 1 inch long prince nymph with a bead head on it that reflected the morning sun. I tied the nymph about 18 inches below the beetle, a style known as “hopper-dropper” fishing. The first couple of holes looked grim as neither my dad, uncle, nor I had any action. I ran out of the stream being the opportunistic rookie I am and put in 50 yards ahead of my uncle. Soon we were all catching fish, one guy leap-frogging the next each cast pulling out a fish. There was so much action I was having to change flies every fifth fish! About midway through our leap-frogging tactic, the stream went cold. Nobody had any hits or rises for the past 100 yards. I ran out of the stream again thinking about the last time I ran ahead, I caught the first fish.  I went ahead to a beautiful spillover that caressed a boulder midway through the run. There was no way I wouldn’t catch a fish in here I thought, and when I do, it will be the monster. Pass after pass, seem after seem, drift after drift, nothing! I was too hungry for a fish to not get one, I rolled my line across the pool to a shallow area that had a baby spillover. Maybe I wouldn’t get the monster I had hoped but a little one would be nice. The dry fly bumped along as I ducked the rod underneath an overhanging branch. Suddenly the fly shot down beneath the surface, I set the hook, and saw the fish. “EXPLICIT-CONTENT” I said “I need a net man!” “MORE EXPLICIT-CONTENT” After a battle that left my forearm sore, I bagged (my dad netted the fish for me) the monster I had hoped for, an elegant brown trout of 19 to 20 inches.

                After I had landed Mr. Brown, we all decided to eat lunch. Over the sandwiches and soda, fruit and candy, we talked of our favorite catch of the day up until that point. We had fished another 2 hours after that, catching many more fish. I even caught fish on my beetle!            

 At the end of the day, I was fulfilled. Fulfilled with scenery, family love, and of course fishing! But soon as we started to drive off I started to not be fully enjoying the moment. As quickly as we came in was as quickly as we came out, and soon we were on the beaten oil highway in the sage brush desert. I was finally coming down from a long fishing high that was making me very sad. I wanted to be back on the stream. Fly-fishing is drug, you can’t just catch one, one cast may get you up, but that still isn’t enough. The older I have gotten, the more I have realized how much the sport means to me. I think everyone should try fly-fishing once, but of you don’t like it, you don’t like it. Find something you can do day after day and hour after hour. If fly-fishing has taught me anything it is to progress and appreciate life. Life is like fried chicken, you have to pick your way through to get the good stuff, and once you think there is no meat left, you can always dig in further and find a little more. Get lost in your car, Stay out long and gone, fall into the water, get those mud flaps muddy, rip your waders, sprain an ankle, break that brand new rod, fish the same spot twice, be true, be you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Calf Creek

I take two types of trips, one with my wife and children; and fishing trips with buddies. I now know why I don’t try to combine the two—if you think an outing with the family will yield much fishing time—ahhhh no. Let me be genuinely honest; I don’t just seek fishing trips--I enjoy traveling with my family as much, or more than fishing (sorry dedicated blog and fly fishing fellow freaks). I’m not saying this because I think my wife or one of my girls will read this; I sincerely enjoy traveling with them as much as I like to take fishing trips.

This trip was planned by Melis; a little Southern Utah trip over the UEA weekend to enjoy a little sun and red rock. Southern Utah has become my new favorite and I just got back from my fall fishing trip with buddies, so I’m still getting over the fun of that last trip; plus all the roads an routes are still pretty fresh in my mind. You can’t blame me for wanting to re-wet the fly line—Right!

Oh my God Bryce Canyon—I now see why so many Europeans and Asians flock to the red rock hoodoos! I thought I have been there before; I may have when I was a kid. I am seriously getting addicted to southern Utah. Yes it has a lot to do with the new rivers I have found, and the lack of people fishing those lovely rivers. Of course it’s about the red rock; but even more it’s the vast openness and the almost endless plateau’s. I kept taking what the kids called “Darth Vader” breaths—you can just breathe, and I’m not talking about the air quality, it’s all that openness.

I have fished Panguich Creek once before, but not on this trip—boo-hoo. Moving right along the highway, Hwy 12 to be exact.  Another must, if you haven’t put the rubber to the pavement on Hwy 12 then you just need to! It gives you the full gambit; the extreme vast open and arid Escalante, blending into the climb up Boulder Mountain to almost 10,000 feet; with high pinion pine and aspens. You then drop down into Torrey and Capital Reef.

We hiked up to Calf Creek falls—about 3 miles up to the spectacular falls; stunning the whole way up. It is pretty mild, not requiring too much strain. Honestly I would rate this hike high up on my list. It’s always nice to have a destination, but the whole way up to the falls, you are rewarded with classic southern Utah red rock, with plenty of vegetation fed by calf creek lightly trickling down the canyon.

About halfway up I got peeks of the creek, unbelievably clear for a southern Utah river; which usually has a sort of murk to it due to the red rock—especially during high rains. Calf Creek has numerous little fish swimming about. I didn’t see anything over 12 inches, as I creeped up to its banks. My urge to ask Melis to stop with me for just about a half hour to try my hand at those little guys was great. But I knew she wanted to get to the falls, and that she did not want to watch me pursue fish.

We got to the falls, which was in the shade, and the air was filled with the cool mist from the falls. I knew she wouldn’t last long. “You do know this trip is not about fishing right?” she phrased more as a comment than a question. It’s the longest I have hiked to get so few casts—maybe a dozen. I got one to go after an elk hair caddis—missed him. “Okay that was your shot, let’s go,” she says coolly. She wanted to get back because Jac, Hannah and her boyfriend Nick headed back to the car because Hannah is fighting a cold and not feeling well. Calf Creek will definitely see me again, ready to fish next time.

If I did have a complaint about fishing the river, it would be that a lot of hikers are there 365; and they are all those type of tourists that want to ask you what you’re doing, or make small talk about the types of trout you’re after…blah blah blah. But if you got into the river, you may never really see people, because they have their own agenda, hiking up the trail to see the falls.

The ride through hwy 12 was enjoyed by all, the girls and Nick really appreciated the change from Escalante to the high mountain of Boulder. Adding to the pleasure was some classic tunes from the Violent Femmes—Hannah and Jac are now big fans! But by the time we arrived at Torrey, I think the trip was sort of played out. We stayed the night, and tried to do some exploring in Capital Reef, but when it’s over, it’s over… The rest of the drive was nice, and it gave me a chance to do some more of those deep “Vader” breaths. No this trip was not about fishing, but I caught some great times with the girls; and as they get older I am really starting to appreciate them. You start to realize you have to revel in every moment you get with your kids; and my house of women rock!

South Fork Provo & Alpine Loop

Hannah is committed now, it’s pretty official--we got her a pair of waders. She's not the kind of kid to say, "Yeah buy them,” if she doesn't feel like she’ll use them. What does that really mean? Simple, she’s a fly fisherman; or fisherwoman. This is a pretty big deal to me, because it’s been a few years since the middle kid—Madeline left the sport. I’m totally stoked!!!

We went up Prove Canyon, and quite honestly I was thinking seriously about hitting the lower portion of the canyon—the water looked so good. Also there were no people out today, in fact I did not see one fisherman on the whole river. I love/hate the Provo for just that reason. Honestly it is one hell of a river, and you can’t say that Provo canyon is not beautiful. The hate part is not technically the river; it’s all the fishermen filling every hole.

But I just had a feeling she would love the ponds of South Fork—I was right. Hannah instantly fell in love with the canyon and the river. The leaves are at that prime point, and the air was full of fall, with big clouds threatening rain.

The pond was doing what it always does; boil with fish feeding off the top. The kid learned fast, she took to casting quick. Then came the rain, I mean rain with big fat sloppy drops. I thought we were done—no she hung tough. We finally decided to seek refuge under a clump of trees, to wait for the down pour to mellow.

Great day on the river, and the best part was the beginning of what looks to be a new sport for the kid, and who knows maybe a life time of casting lines together (hope and pray!)

Beaver Creek

Beaver Creek is not known for huge fish, or great fishing for that matter—it’s known for being the gateway to the Uintah’s. At the mouth of Kamas hwy 150 runs through the north side of the Uintah mountain range, with Beaver Creek and the North Fork of the Provo flowing through it. It’s about a 60 mile drive to go over the top and get to Evanston Wyoming. The upper Weber flows down through Oakley the town just north of Kamas, filling up Rock Port, making its way North West to Ogden.

We used to take the kids camping up at Washington Lake all the time when they were little, mostly on holidays. It’s a beautiful place to camp with the kids as long as you don’t go on a holiday weekend. We would always go on a holiday weekend. On 4^th of July weekend that place would be absolutely busting at the seams, the banks of the shores would be wall to wall combat fishing. I will include a pic of Jac and I when she was just a little guy.

I did not even take the rod on this trip; but instead chose to take the wife and a camera. I was honestly hoping to get some shots of the fall leaves with some snow on them—no such luck. There was some snow at the higher elevations, about the time you get to Washington Lake, and especially on Bald Mountain; however at that elevation there its only pine trees.

We had a great time just sort of hiking around and taking pics. I think the “little misses” is fine with a small hike and sort of exploring around, but I don’t think she would last too long sitting on the banks watching me fish—I can’t imagine why?

If you do fish Beaver Creek or the North Fork of the Prove, I have always done well with small hoppers this time of year, and I did notice a lot hopping around on the banks. I have also done well with a dropper off the hopper; with basic patterns like Copper John or Bead Head Prince Nymph. The lower portion is slow moving ponds with still water. You will find it gets a bit easier as you move up, due to more water movement, creating human camo. Give it a shot, especially this time of year it’s beautiful.

Guest photographer:  Melissa "Sweet" Engel

West goes South

Once upon a time at West (insert the voice of the most interesting man in the world to read this story or an old Mexican Vaquero, either one) there was a papa bear, a momma bear, a boy named blonde, a man named Butch and of course a baby bear, who traveled south on a quest to fish fabled rivers, and perhaps have a few laughs.  Here are their stories, their photos, music, and video as told by each of these men.

Like all good stories they come directly from the mouth of Momma Bear, for mother knows best. The men of West all gathered at Momma Bear’s, loaded their supplies and provisions and high-tailed it to their first destination: the town of Hatch, determined to reach the waters of Asay Creek before night fall. They were not successful, and knowing they would not reach their journey’s end before the sun faded, our band of hero’s decided to dine at a local establishment in Panguich.

About 15 minutes south of town, something else went south in Momma Bear’s stomach, resulting in an emergence highway 89 evacuation, leading to the delight and entertainment of the entire band. Luckily for Momma Bear it’s hard to video and take pics in the dark. In the shadows they fumbled to the river’s edge, hoping to be joined by their lost compadre “Goose” but opted instead to go deeper into the wild to find peace and solace. Like wild savages, Butch, Blondie and Momma Bear laughed and danced around the fire, delighted to be free to the world; loose of worldly concerns.

As we slowly packed up the next morning I was full of anticipation about Asay. I have fished it once before and it was a dry fly dream! Asay flowed rich with chocolate due to weeks of rain fall, washing southern Utah’s goo that sticks to the shoe into the water, turning it to a milky, barely fishless experience. Our heroes were driven a bit further north to Mammoth Creek. Driving high in the hills in hopes clear H2O; dreams were again drowned in opaque disappointment. Again the band of knuckle-heads were forced further north dejected in fishing, but light of spirit and laughter.

Driving past the East Fork of the Sevier Kinston Canyon section more of the same was found, but the rag-tag group still had hopes of finding angling magic from Antimony Creek. Local experts’ advice pointed to the fact that Antimony has more rock bottom and should have a greater chance of being clean—bingo and hallelujah clean water at last.

The troupe of anglers, poets, artists and wanders found fulfillment and serenity in the waters of Antimony, and hunkered in for the remainder. The day delivered a fast flow, tight trees and difficulty in casting. But as the day rode on the river opened up, and the fish found themselves eating hooks covered in beads and feathers. Night fall--A guitar, a harmonica, laughter, liquid love and the campfire burns on.

One final challenge laid ahead, the macho nacho of the bunch—a Utah river of unequaled challenge: Bicknell Bottoms; everything about this river gives the advantage to the fish, and reduces the edge for man. To begin with it is flat and smooth as glass, with high weed undercut banks. The fish see and hear you coming from a country mile. I am not sure if there is a way to approach them, without them being aware of you, and aware of you as a predator. I think they are really amused by the beads and feathers you throw at them in a feeble attempt to fool them. I was lucky enough to jester one. It was on 6x tippet and she made quick work of me; the fight lasted about 5 seconds. You have to stay on a bull for 8 seconds for it to count—does the same apply for a fish? Honestly I think if I had an entire day to fish that river from sun up to sun set, I could maybe catch 1 fish, maybe none. I could devote a week straight just trying.

On the last stretch driving home everyone was spent and ready to get back to their lives, and the daily grind. Time to put away rods, and silly nick names; the most interesting man in the world has responsibility and obligations to tend to. Let’s be honest everyone hates it when the fun comes to an end, and the thought of cleaning up looms large. But it’s the nature of things; nothing lasts forever, and right now is the greatest time in your life! Here’s to you, you rag tag bunch of mis-fits—thanks for flying south with me.

 

Story By Johnny Tabish (also check out his You-Tube Site titled: "Flytales" to view video footage of this trip as well as other great fly fishing adventures.


"It comes too slow, it ends too fast, but the trip's memories will forever last."












 Baptized in the Antimony River.

Below are the story & Photos by Tom Szalay. Sept  2013

Fly fishing sounds so damn romantic. In my minds eye I see the beautiful river shimmering in the sun, the line floating through the air and landing in just the right spot. All you can hear is water.  It is a vision from the River Runs Thru It, and it left an impression.

I never knew it was dangerous work.  I was confronted with  rushing torrents of water wanting to knock me over. The hidden rocks ready to slip me up. The cattails that look so peaceful swaying in the wind are planted in mud that acts like quick sand. Those deep holes are always ready to swallow me and remind me who is in charge here. The water is in charge. Nature is in charge.  I had to stay focused to succeed and to survive.

When I saw John hunkering down studying the water that flows gently at Bicknell Bottoms, I was reminded of the joy of pure concentration. He was intensely focused and making plans on where to cast the line. I too do that with my camera. The world is reduced to what I see in the viewfinder, and I press the shutter when the composition works. Cast by cast, frame by frame, fish by fish. We both seek that decisive moment and hope to land a bite.

I am a newby, and I didn’t catch one trout. They were playing with my innocence. But it didn’t matter. Just like taking photographs, fractions of seconds that freeze time, I realize I was making memories that will last a life time: reminding me of days well spent, being with new friends, away from distractions, building a fire, sharing stories, and contemplating our favorite movies. Adam Sandler’s character, Bobby Bouchers was reborn and came down to make us laugh. He brought along a Chihuahua with a mexican accent. He drank wine, whisky and (ohh my)... lots of beer. That Water Boy kept us rolling in good humor under the moon, sitting by the camp fire. When Bobby left, Johnny Cash made his appearance with Chris’s guitar. His repertoire also included raunchy songs. We cracked up to a song about a man who had to tie his pecker to his leg to stay out of trouble.

Camping three nights on muddy ground, walking around cows, climbing barbed wire fences, looking for geodes and seeing fresh big cat prints in our campsite kept us entertained when not in the river. John (the Baptist), poured water over my head and soul that weekend. I was baptized into the new world of Fly Fishing.



The following story written by

Chris Mortensen

After an invite from a friend and coworker to join a southerly spree down to So-Utah to fly fish, camp, drink amber current and to belly up with some tomfoolery, I instantly said “Of Course”! Friday after work, a group of 5 hearty revelers, headed down yonder to the Chattahoochie for a woodish weekend of fun and fishing.

                After fueling up on Diesel, food and beer, we drove south to middle Utah, far from the city and all distractions. Hitting Panquitch, then Hatch in the middle of the night, we searched the chocolate milk river of Asay Creek in search of a good spot to start a fire and begin the weekend. We settled for a secluded spot far from town, where the stars were magnificent, resplendent in their ever glow. I thought, “What are these scattered lights in the sky?” Clearly I need to get out more.

We set tent, stoked a fire, carried on late into the night kicking the embers and working on our hangovers. Some of the photos taken of the campfire by the most interesting man in the world are top shelf. I need a better camera.

                After a day of chasing fish in the Asay River, avoiding Black Angus Bulls, being rained on, jumping barbed wire fence, and dislodging Augustus out of the pipe, we ate lunch and headed for Antimony creek in the rain/mud, finding a faraway camping area. Bullet shells, cougar tracks, beaver damns, bratwurst, Mojo Nixon, and photos. An attractive day of fishing was had by some, while others were not so lucky. After another shenanigan filled evening of kicking the fire and lurching about the camp, we rose in the a.m., broke camp, warmed up the jet and headed for Bicknell, and the pretzel shaped river nearby, where the water seems to flow backwards, and the monster German Brown trout  mocked and sneered at my would be fish slaying comrades.

                Tired, flush, unkempt and ready for our homes in evil ol’ SLC, we headed back, excited yet relaxed, after one of the best camping experiences with some of the coolest cats in Ut. Thanks for a great time guys, I can’t wait for the next trip..

Story by   Bo Maciejko:

Fishing is done by bearded men who drink PBR while driving their 4x4 trucks and swearing at the world around them. Whereas introspective men who drink expensive wine and don’t drive in hope of creating a better planet do writing. It’s almost as if both of these endeavors pull men from opposite poles, but I think that there is a strong correlation between fishing, and writing. Hence this blog.

So, fishing and writing, Theoretically I should be proficient at both, graduating with a degree in literature and growing up in a town that boasts some of the best fishing in North America, I should be able to write an essay and cast a fly with confidence, but I don’t do either enough and thus I am out of shape, making both activities excruciatingly difficult.

* * *

Engel has been asking me to go fishing with him for about a year now. Not that I don’t want to, but it seems that life always gets in the way and so my competence at fishing is lack luster at best. Work, skiing and biking always seem to be my priority. So when Engel asked me to be a guest on his southern Utah fishing extravaganza I accepted, enter ego, with reservations. Will my fishing skills be up to par or will I need a full time babysitter? In the end I decided to put on my big boy pants and join the entourage for an awesome man-cation. Fish or no fish the weekend was looking like it was going to be a lot of fun.

The forecast looked grim . . . in fact it had been raining all week; so when I left for the weekend I had full expectations that it was going to be wet, sloppy and I was probably going to be soaked all weekend.  As an optimist I thought, couldn’t this be a good thing? Doesn’t the legend say that “when the barometer drops fish get active?” Or better yet; “hey its Utah, the forecast only predicts the actual weather half the time” And so I left Salt Lake with grandiose visions.  Off to big adventures in little creeks in the cracks of southern Utah.

Engel, aka Mama Bear, had the whole trip planned. He had been charting and mapping all week, interrupting my classroom to get advice from a novice. He sounded like a 12 year old giving his Christmas list to Santa. “89 to Asay to Mammoth to Antimony then maybe over devils’ backbone to Bicknell,” with a plan B, C, D and F. Honestly, I was indifferent to where we were going. We were out of the city and into the woods; that’s all that mattered.

And when we arrived in the south and set up camp in the mud, trying to start a fire with saturated wood, I’m sure the girlfriends, and wives were having the last laugh at our misfortune, knowing that a dry warm bed was way more enticing at the moment than a cold tent. But then again isn’t that what epic trips are made of?

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            In the morning we awoke to promising sunshine and high hopes, only to be crushed by water that looked like chocolate milk flowing through Asay Creek and a high water torrent ripping through Mammoth Creek. Needless to say the proverbial skunk hat was worn by most.

            The next stop was Antimony Creek. As we left Asay, we headed north to higher waters, where hopefully the runoff had not affected the river as much.  This river looked promising; the creek looked relatively clear and fishable!   And to make our situation even better we caught a glimpse of a giant beaver dam, which looked like a great place for some big fish to hang out. The next step would be to find a camp spot, which we were able to do, but setting up would have to be delayed as we were stuck in the middle of another rainstorm. Thus our day of fishing concluded and our after dark activities commenced.

            The giant beaver pond, that was spotted the day before, was the first destination of the morning. After bushwhacking through the willows and fishing my way down to the pond I discovered that the novices’ paradise was not so easy after all. The beaver pond had been completely filled in with sediment, making the river less habitable and thus, statistically difficult to fish. Another flop!

After a late lunch I decided to head upstream and try my luck again. And as the day waned so did my enthusiasm.  I think every fisherman has been here. Some days fishing is tough. Tough for many reasons, weather, the fish aren’t hitting, or we, for whatever reason, can’t get into the zone. On this day mine was frustration. Antimony creek, as beautiful as it was, was difficult to fish. Willows had crowded in the banks and bottom was rocky with the occasional dead head waiting to catch a fly: it was snag city. That afternoon it seemed like I was spending more time trying to unhook or retie flies than I was fishing.

Enter Mamma Bear. I came across the big momma bear as I was plodding upstream. He was thigh deep in the creek working the hole above like an inspired poet. Any motivational speaker or coach will tell you that a positive attitude is contagious and as Engel was casting, mending, and re-reading the stream I couldn’t help but take interest in his focus. And so the two of us began to fish. I’d hit the first hole and he’d hit the second. We continued to tag-team the creek, all the time he was giving me pointers as to how to better improve my delivery, and when I’d snag, he’d sneak in for an attack on a hole. Neither of us cared that it was well past afternoon, nor that the other guys might be waiting for us back at camp to start dinner; we were in the moment. And then it happened. The sun began to sink beyond the canyon that we were in. When casting, the line lit up in the red sunset and the flies started giving a crimson reflection off of the water. And suddenly, the fish turned on. If we didn’t have one on then we saw one rise. At that moment returning home would be sacrilegious. And so we kept fishing

None of them were very big, but we were catching fish, and catching fish is fun; laughing all the time about the ones that we caught, the ones that we missed, and everything in the middle.  Even when a hooked fish, fought back, broke my leader, and hooked me in the finger dragging me back into the river we laughed. We laughed, casted, and joked until the sun truly did sink into the western sky. To the point that it was so dark we couldn’t see anything on the water. That night I walked home with a smile on my face, feeling accomplished.

After a great weekend of collaboration with great people I arrived home with a simple task: put pen to paper and share my experiences.  Enter ego. Of the five people that came, one was a photographer, one was an amazing musician, and two were avid fisherman dedicated to documenting the experience. So what was the need for me to be on the trip? Mr. Engel put it ever to courteously, “you’re and English teacher, your blog better be &%$#ing awesome” So for the past two weeks this post has been plaguing me. Until I came to this conclusion: Fishing and writing have a lot in common. In reality they are both individual pursuits that are shared with others after the fact. When people go fishing, they want to be triumphantly gratified. They want to catch 30 inch brown that fought back like a trapped animal, literally. They return to tell the story of the legendary fish that was caught or got away. Thus if one is going to write about fishing, will people want about all the little fish they caught or the fact that they didn’t catch any fish at all? If this was the case, was the experience or the story worth the effort? In writing the writer toils and suffers of the perfect word, phrase of paragraph. Does the reader care about the countless revisions and additions that were made. And if the story is not good was it worth the effort to write or even read? But then again is either experience meant for the voyeur? They are both pursuits taken by the individual in pursuit of self-reflection. The gratification of figuring out how to fish an endlessly frustrating creek is or the retelling of a weekend adventure is, in the end, about self-improvement and enjoying the now.  So in conclusion I didn’t hook into the big girl I had hoped, but I learned a little about myself, a lot about my companions and another chance to compose my thoughts.