Lost Creek, fishing with Beezer

Today's guest writer:

Hannah (Beezer) Engel

Photos by John & Beezer Engel

Lost Creek Utah:

Fremont, UM Creek, Bicknell Bottoms Kick the summer off right

Let hear it for guest writers Nicole Reitz-Larsen and Colby Wilson. Photos by John Engel & Colby Wilson.

Dear Blog followers Please stay tuned in for comments by both



Nicole Reitz-Larsen:
June 18, 2013
 "Good times fly fishing with friends."



Colby Wilson:
June 21, 2013

Early, early, early… that is the start the day.  I think God wasn’t even up when I arrived at John’s house around 4am.  Unfortunately, due to some bad luck, poor organization and just plain busyness the last time I looked at the red light alarm clock on my dresser, it read 1:13 with the vague little dot denoting A.M. that I can barely see with without my glasses.  Luckily I was not alone in my groggy, sleep-lacking luster, John had also had a late night mixing it up at some graduation party.

Our condition was made only more obvious when we picked up a bushytailed and bright-eyed Nicole, who gets up most days around 4am to hit the gym or herd the kidos.  We loaded her up, hopped in the truck and headed out with excitement- anticipating a good southern adventure. 

Then I fell asleep.  Then John hit a dog/fox/coyote/very big raccoon/really, really big squirrel/mutant chipmunk.  Nothing he could do, either the thing was engaged in some initiation or hazing ritual to join a gang or it was suicidal.  Either way, the hit was solid and the death was clean.  Just the way I want to go.  Quick, clean and, since I am dead, without much regret, unless I’m not wearing pants.  That would be a little weird.

We traveled Highway 24 through pinion pine and sagebrush (in the sunflower family, which I always thought was cool crazy), and in an area that probably gets less than 10 inches of water a year.   This road skirts the Koosharem Reservoir.  A thin, shallow chunk of blue that is probably less than 4 fathoms at it’s deepest.  The first time we were through this area, winter was just creeping out and the ice with drifts of snow gave the place a barely there feel.  If not for a map I would have thought the place was just a farmer’s hard work of cleared ground.  I grew up around reservoirs like this.  Reservoirs that were small and shallow; put up with more of a hope to catch and contain a creek or stream than actual fact of catching the stuff that grows sustenance.  These loudly speak of struggle, suffering, defiance and strength.  We humans try so hard to scratch out an existence in places not suit to hold us.  These reservoirs are both silly and noble.  We try so hard with courage and determination against Nature that does not care about intent or honor and just grinds on and over.

Turning east from Highway 24 onto Highway 25 we start the climb to Fish Lake.

I was struck by the subtle, but dramatic change that occurred in just a few miles and a few hundred vertical feet.  My favorite parts of this world are the transitions, where one environment meets another and the two are mixed.  Beaches and tidal zone are extreme examples of this- a marine environment crashes up against a terrestrial environment.  More subtle is the transition we experienced going from the desert valley floor of Koosharem (I really like to say that word out loud and in my head: KoosharemKoosharemKoosharem) to the alpine mountain of Fish Lake.  Sagebrush and pinion pine trees give way to blue spruce and quakies (a good species name: Populus tremuloides) with all species pushing to the edge of their respective environments for a survival just eked out.

Fish Lake was grand and gorgeous, had no wind and fish were rising.    We stopped; I geared up, and waded in.  The spot was remarkably shallow and after wading out about 30 feet I was only mid-thy in the cool clearness.  After about twenty cast without interest we moved on.

After Fish Lake, we moved closer to our target with a stop at Seven Mile Creek that feeds Johnson Valley Reservoir.  This is a tight little creek where we say no fish and were unable to coax any from a few holes I threw into so we turned around with eagerness to hit the Fremont.  I am now kicking my self as I have looked at maps of this creek and realized we did not give it enough distance as the creek becomes very interesting up above where we turned around.

Onto Zedd’s Meadow; the short of the long is that we gave up on Zedd’s.  The water was muddy, high, and without many bugs.  The wind was strong and gusty.  We last a few hours then bailed for lunch.

At lunch more issues arose from the wind.  Grill wouldn’t light, and then wouldn’t stay lit, we forgot beer, and I wanted more chocolate…  On the bright side some friends found us.  Bob from West High and his wife, Barbara, knew we were going out their way, as they own a home in that part of the country and thought they could find us.  They did and we had a wonderful lunch.

During our lunch adventure, by the way we did get the brauts cooked with a miracle from Bob, the topic of Koosharem was discussed.  Barbara informed us of two pronunciations of Koosharem (which I will let you guess at as I have no idea or time to type phonetically) and that the name is for an Indian tribe.  With a little Googling I quickly discovered Koosharem is an Indian tribe named possibly for an edible tuber, which I find funny because Kamas is also name for probably the same edible tuber, Camassia quamash.  We humans live by our stomachs.   Lunch was great, then we moved onto Bicknell Bottoms. 

Except, we stopped at UM Creek.  Another tight little creek with lots of brush and logs and trees and just stuff made out of plants that made walking around hard.  Iceman dove straight in.  He was awesome and on fire.  Moving into the brush like banshee in the swamp, at home and ready to haunt fish.  Nicole and I moved up stream hitting holes where we could find access.  Hopping over muddy springs and under fallen trees, Nicole was a trouper in very difficult fly fishing conditions.

We hooked up with Iceman as he was standing over a hole pulling fish after fish out. Nicole maneuvered to try the hole but the luck had run dry.  Later standing in another hole she was able to hook up with a nice tiger trout thus avoiding the skunks.

My take away from UM Creek was nettles.  Stinging god-forsaken nettles.  They were everywhere and I was in shorts.  My shins were so swollen the next day that I was motivated enough to look the bastards up on the Internet machine.  Which leads us to the science lesson for the day:  Stinging nettles produce tiny hairs on their stems and leaves.  These hairs are actually hollow and filled with acid and histamines.  The acid burns and the histamines cause swelling.  When used in tandem, as this godless plant does, the body has a hard time neutralizing the acid at the site of contact because of the decrease in circulation caused by the histamine.  The short of it is that I now have a profound hatred of these things.  Iceman got some on his hand.  He’ll back me up.

Back in the truck we headed to Bicknell Bottoms.  We missed the turn-off and pulled onto a gated road for a do over.  Iceman suddenly yells ”Whoa!”  as this little Fiat thing comes flying in behind us, really tight.  Amazingly, another friend, Gina, from West with a home in the area recognized Iceman’s truck and came to say howdy.  She told us to follow and took us to paradise.

The Bottoms was amazing; a sea of green juxtaposed on red rock cliff in the distance.  The walk to paradise was a little strange as the ground we took to was squishy and soft, like a garbage bag filled with marshmallow cream and smelled like I was going to need a stick with a rag tied to scrub all my parts clean.  But the trouble was amazingly worth it.  The river is a sandy bottom thing with deep holes, undercut banks and big fish.  I say this with ease and confidence with the understand that hot spotting is a crime in the often snooty world of fly fishing.  I will say it again:  the fish are big.  And I say to you reading good luck.  Bring you’re A game. Then double that.  Your pockets should be stuffed with every good luck charm you have, as these fish are smart, spooky and strong.  Iceman and I both agreed on the way home that this is the most technically challenging river we have seen in a while.  So I say it again good luck.  Iceman only managed one, and the dude knows his shizz.

Overall- great trip.  Nicole was a trouper for being new and having us take her to three of the most difficult conditions in fly fishing:  dirty, high water with wind at Zedd’s meadow; tight brushy little creek at UM; and amazingly smart, almost psychic fish at the Bottoms.  Iceman was the poet warrior as always.  Throwing tight lines into small places and pulling fish out especially at the Bottoms, and waxing the philosophy on life, death, fishing, sex and pooping.  Incredible.