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.