"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.
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?
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?
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