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?

* * *

            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.

Perfect day on the river

In the fly fishing world, there’s nothing more annoying than the snobby Orvis decked guy, who puts his nose in the air and poo poo’s all over the river. Worse still is talking to him about all the exclusive rivers he fishes; naturally he’s a strict dry fly fisherman. These guys watch “A River Runs through it” too many times. Or, perhaps some of these fellows follow the British tradition. I have heard tale that on an English chalk creek a gentleman only uses dries, and code demands that he waits until his selected trout begins feeding on the top before he can begin casting. Further, if he is a true gentleman, he points out the fish he is casting to. That makes me wonder if a different fish takes his fly, not his intended fish, does that make him a “Bubba?”

Here’s where I’m going with this, getting fish to rise isn’t any easier that hooking up while nymph fishing, as a matter of fact, I would say nymphing is harder. Whether you use an indicator, high sticking, cheh nymphing, however you do it, I think it takes more skill to nymph; it’s just not as fun. Let’s face it there is nothing as satisfying as softly laying down a dry and seeing the slow deliberate take.

Toward the end of the summer, early fall, the top of the water is just one big smorgus borge. Caddis are coming off like crazy, the edges of riffles are teaming with may flies, and the hoppers are about as big as they can get; I especially love to see the huge flying species; not to mention things like beetles and ants. Fish know they have to belly up, and pound as many calories as possible before winter hits, and then they are limited mostly to tiny midge.

Today is one of those days that I wait all year for. As I approached the river, right off the bat I see a couple fish proposing on the top. You know when they don’t hit the top of the water hard, but just slowly slurp off the top. This tells me, they may be eating nymphs as they are in the adult stage working their way to the top of the water, or it could also be spent spinners falling dead after laying eggs. I look on the banks to see any adults on the weeds.

I will start with either a blond caddis or a stimulator, both are good to start with. My plan is to work over to the bank as best as possible to avoid lining the fish on the cast. The fish in this river are big and they spook easily. I just watch for a minute to observe them, and see where they were feeding. It takes about 5 casts; I put it right on the edge of where the riffle meets the pool. The slow, deliberate slurp and set. This fish ownes me, and takes me down river. He is the boss, and he is gone.

I round the corner and there were about three big fish doing exactly the same thing, the slow slurp off the top. I add a soft hackle nymph off the back, thinking maybe working that column of water would be effective. I miss two of them, just setting the hook too soon. I'm thinking I should move up river because they are spooked, but I kept at it a little longer. I hook up with a monster cut throat. My  fishing buddy Mike Matheson aka “Math” chases and talks about the native cuts of Utah as the most amazing experience to be had in the world of fly fishing. I think his passion for the Cuts has to do with their native survival and the pursuit of their biological propagation; because it can’t be the quanity of brawn in their battle. I rate Cuts on the bottom of the trout toughness scale—sorry Math.

I make my way up river to a section that is absolutely perfect. If you tried to improve on this hole I just don’t know how you would do it. It has a riffle coming into a bend that goes deep, and then has another little bend, and then it flattens out again. The bottom has some great rocks, and the banks are lined with tall grasses that hold a lot of terrestrial bugs—hoppers! I see a bunch of fish just a slurping off the top, exactly like the fish down river--imagine  that. I approach slowly, but the water moves fast enough that it limits their perception of you, adding to the advantage for man.

First cast and I get a take, but I missed it, a couple casts later another take and another miss. I keep at it for a while and hook a husky, angry, angry rainbow. He is maybe 16 inches, and did I mention that he is angry. I step deeper into the hole, and I see two big fish shoulder to shoulder fighting for position. It is hard to tell if they were playing or fighting for position in the feeding column. But as Colby always says “fish gotta eat,” as they would bite each other on the dorsal fin and literally push each other out of the way. I just watch for a while. They go right next to the bank, then out into the riffle, then slide back again. The strange thing is they would stay together—somewhat like they were playing. I work it hard, but they will have nothing to do with me and my fake bugs.

The next section has a diversion dam made of logs and smaller twigs. The water above the dam is placid, transparent, and bubbling with about 5 or so fish. They were big, you can tell by the slow calm take—just a touch of fish noses breaking to water surface. You can also see a tail or two now and then. I have some room to cast behind me, but not a lot, just straight back, the banks have tall trees lining them. Each time I move up, the fish move up. I get to a spot where I sort of “make a stand” and just dig into the job. The funny thing is I always say “you don’t need to cast far, just accurate.” Well now I need to do both, and I don’t have a lot of room on the side, both on the front and the back cast. I can see one big fish just on the edge of the soft water, actually right as the flat starts. About 5 feet above this beast the river bends, and it has a bush sticking about half way out into the river.  What I’m trying to say here is I am having a hell of a time getting this little elk hair caddis in the right place. I keep snagging trees on the back cast, or I am about 3 feet to the side of the fish. I know he’s big because that’s usually big fish behavior, just sit right in the perfect lane and wait, food will come.

At this point I really hope you are wondering if I catch this fish, because I am putting every ounce of casting skill I have to use here; no, no I am actually going beyond my skills. I have lost two flies at this point, and I have also miraculously extracted the one on my line about 10 times from some ugly tree snags. I want to take just two steps up, but I know myself and if I take two steps, that means I will take two more, and he will be gone. I must do this through casting. 10 more casts, and I am getting better, finally I put the fly right in his lane, and here’s the important part, without the line spooking the hole. I see the tip of his nose and a small splash. The fish takes it down, and I set the hook. This fish races right for me, I’m struggling to reel in to pick up the slack. He’s still on, and once again, I have an angry fish on the line. The odd thing is he has a buddy swimming right next to him the whole time. I can just hear him saying “Craig what’s wrong with you, why are you furiously swimming like this?” I last about another minute and pop, the hook just comes out of its mouth. I’m satisfied, I got him to take my fly after about a 1000 casts to get it right where I knew it had to be. That’s what makes it so significant, I knew what I had to do, and I was right—that doesn’t happen that often especially to me.

I walk up to the next hole, and make about two casts,then I realize my day is over—there’s no way it can get any better than that last fish, and all that led up to him. Leave on a high note. I walk up to the road and enjoy the walk back to the car. The sun is hot, it feels good, I think about my day on the river.