Brother Tob turns 50

The 50 yard line, half time, end of the first half, call it what you will, turning the big five-O is a big deal, and the truth of the matter is that, it's really more like  2/3rds of the way, but let's stay opptunist, and stick with, "happy 50th birthday brother Tob," from all the Magnificent originals, and the latest additions as well!

I'd like to also express gratitude for all the gang for pitching in on getting Tob a new rod, lovingly named "Tob's Chode."

Brother Tob you are one hell of a good friend, and too much fun to fish with. But greater yet, you are a true master at putting another log on the fire. You have a true knack at drawing out the poison, while melting bottles on the fire. "Good times equals wind chimes."

This trip helped me remember some old addidges:

*Fishing isn't about catching fish, it's about fishing. But catching fish kick's ass

*Good friends, good food, good drink, good times

*Its poaching the second you get caught

*Friends do let friends sink in the mud, because they claim you'll get out

*Fishermen tell flat out bold lies, and even when they don't, they struggle to find the line between fantasy and reality

(editorial note: photo's indicate friend(s) who support fellow fishermen in muddy situations both physical & poachatorial

The Adventures of Duce, Sweet Pee, Swallow and Spin Dr. Tommy

Melis and I got to Moab a day before Tom and Tina arrived. We both love Canyonlands over Arches, so we spent the day in our beloved Highlander waiting out the rain. We both fell asleep parked at one of the hikes, and then like a dream the clouds parted and gave us a couple hours with almost no people. It was a sweet lil slice of heaven.

Question: if you are a fisherman, more specificity a river fisherman and you're on a river, but you don't actually fish that river, can you say you fished it? Wait let me answer that question-- hell yes! Every self respecting fisherman knows fishing isn't about fishing its about being on the river--and that's exactly the way this fishing tale begins.

Tom & Tina, our life long friends, have a friend who owns a vacation house up in  Castle Valley--about a 20 minutes drive up the Colorado River from Moab.  Tina takes the bull by the horns and books us all a jet boat ride up the Colorado. That's right bitches a JET BOAT! Which is funny because if you knew Tina (tree hugging, gluten free beer drinkin' peace- nick) you would peg her for a float tube, lunch on the river with wine, listening to The Dead kind o' gal. So when she drops this, I'm honestly pretty impressed.

Things started looking good for me when I realized the four of us had a boat all to ourselves. One other boat had two families, and both families had kids; oh did I mention every damn one of them looked like brats! This kind of luck just doesn't happen to me on things like a river trip. What's more the standard for me on these type of tours is to hear someone say,  " sir would you mind sitting next to this elderly lady? She just had a double hip replacement surgery." Which really means "her family and the captain of the boat would like to enjoy their river trip, so can they ignore your family and not be such a self centered prick and carry grandmas' ass for the duration...

If you've never been on a jet boat, they are impressive. Driving up the Colorado River is one of those things you want to do, the jet boat, even better-- unless you're Sweet Pee, she was none too fond of the captain splashing water in the cab. She claims The Colorado River tastes too much like dirt-- imagine that? I knew she was pissed when she exclaimed to the Captain that she would jump out and swim back because she would be dryer, if he splashed her one more time, this was particularly funny because Melis does not know how to swim.

The evenings were spent listening to old vinyl records, eating, drinking and laughing hard.

I'll hang on the river with Sweet Pee, Swallow and Spin Dr. Tommy J. any time!

Thanks for the great time and the best room with stunning red rock views.

Tsawhawbitts

The Legend of Tsawhabbitts

Who really knows how long the Shoshone were terrorized by the monster they called Tsawhawbitts. But as legend goes this man eating monster was roaming the mountains chomping down on the people--bastard! Somehow they managed to trap the fiend in the hills and wall him in. 

December 5, 1916--the date of the last stagecoach robbery in America. It was a mail wagon being pulled by two horses heading to the tiny town of Jarbidge Nevada. At the top of the canyon, the wilderness just busts opens up to a gaping canyon winding down a dirt road that is about 15 miles long. As the story goes some heavy hitter bludgeons the dutiful mail carrier over the head splashing blood all over his hands. He tromps through the snow going through the mail, smearing his bloody fingerprints all over the letters. The killer Ben Kuhl is later apprehended, and at his trial, his fingerprints are used for the first time in a trial—dumb ass didn’t see that technology coming.

Fast forward to 2015 and fly fishermen/writer Jeff Erikson adds the Jarbidge River to his list of Trout-law Rivers—streams and rivers located near famous Wild West bandits’ exploits.

Fast forward to 2018 John Engel and pack-o-fly fishing, school teaching, bad asses roll tires smoking through the Nevada desert straight from the hub of the bee-hive to add one more notch on our fly rods of Jeff’s “Trout-Law’s!”

I have always kind of looked down my nose at Nevada, sort of seeing at as the ASS of the west, if you will. Think about it, as you drive through I-15--the colon, through Vegas to get to L.A. Or, if you prefer I-80, through the butthole known as Reno on your way to San Fran. Truckee is awesome, but most of Tahoe is California. Maybe the only other town I have found charming is Carson, but for the most part, I have honestly not really found a lot of precious metal in the Silver State.

Driving from Wells up 93 to Jackpot was no different than the I-80 experience for me, until I got to Salmon Falls Dam. It’s a one-way road over the reservoir damn, and the beginning point of my interest being aroused. We stopped on the bridge, and Tobler decided it would be his final destination if he finds himself terminally ill—off the crumbling walls of the damn hundreds of feet to the rocky river winding away.

Its 60 some odd miles before you get to the Jarbidge wilderness, and upon setting eyes on the mouth of the canyon, I forgot all about my poopy feelings for Nevada. Twisting down the dirt road for another 15 miles to the town is beautiful, with rock formations that would impress a geologist. Like most canyons, the river splashes along the road, and when you get to the town, you’re greeted by a welcome sign and a reminder to obey the speed limit of 10 m.p.h.

We decided to get a burger at the Outdoor Inn, vs. the Red Dog Saloon. It’s impressive that they had a choice given the size of Jarbidge. Dalton, Tobler and I sat waiting for our food, drinking a cold beer, safely away from corporate America. As you roll at 10 mph down the only street--which is dirt, you become completely wrapped up in the simple past that this town still shows in its people, its houses, and its very essence. I could see myself digging in like a tick in this place. Although in truth I would probably last two weeks, maybe three. I would go stir crazy from too much quiet, clean air, tranquility and peace.

I will forgo talking about the river, or the fish, or for that matter, I will even skip over all of the homoerotic jokes and banter that went on night after night at the fire. I will leave out the part of everyone peeing on Jake’s tires—repeatedly. I introduced some old family friends with new family members, jumbled up with some amazing work friends, and I rolled out of Jarbidge a little bit different then when I came in. I don’t really know for sure what I’m looking for on these “trout-law” adventures. I didn’t steal any silver from Jarbidge, because Jarbidge gave it, without even asking. Maybe Ben Kuhl should have looked around at the mountains, the river or the town and realized what a special place Jarbidge is.

Back on the trout-law trail

Another school year in the books for this ol' teacher, more specifically my last year as a teacher. It's time to put the lesson plans and pencils in the trash, and replace them with a fly rod--FOR EVER! After a lifetime in school, as either a student, or a teacher it's time to rock some Alice Cooper, crank up the volume to "School's out forever," and explore my next "Trout-law" adventure. Thank You Jeff Erikson 

With the same vato loco brother James Tobler at my side, we hit the Wyoming trail in search of a few more remote towns made famous by old west out laws, and rivers within their proximity. On the northeastern edge of Wyoming, just miles from Spearfish S.D Harry Longbough did a few years in the state penitentiary for stealing a few horses. He spent a few years in prison, but he ended up with a great nickname—“The Sundance Kid” A small spring fed river slowly meanders through the town of Beulah not more than a 30 minute drive from Sundance.

We decide to take the route through Lander, a cute little town with an awesome little bar—the Lander bar, and amazing rivers, one of my favorites the Little Po. From there up the 20 to Thermopolis then to Worland. At the gateway to the lower section of the Big Horn mountain range is Ten Sleep.

I haven’t heard of any famous outlaw activity going on in Ten Sleep, so I can't actually count it as a “Trout-law” river, but all the info I could gather about it, qualifies it as a true beauty. It did not disappoint—what a stunning Wyoming gem. Late June and the river was still flowing high, but come September it would not disappoint.

We fished the West Fork and I fell in love. The water ran clear, with a large rock bottom, surrounded by pines. I cant get back to the Big Horn range soon enough.

So many rivers in the area we just sampled, some we just got a look at. With any luck it won’t be long until I get back to this part of the country. The town of Ten Sleep is surrounded by rolling green hills and wrapped in red cliff bluffs. 

Tobler always plays the part of the navigator, because driving is more suited for me, and he’s kind of a shitty driver. He found a dirt road that led to Canyon Creek—I lost a couple really nice fish.

Sundance WY is every bit as cute as Ten Sleep, but outlaws wouldn’t really call a town cute, now would they? But non-the less, it’s cute.  Sand Creek was just packed with fish, even a few large sicker fish, some in the water and some who pulled into camp after we did. As I approached the camp after fishing up river it looked like a few pretty, young, girls blowing up little rafts. As I approached I realized they weren’t very young, and they weren’t very pretty, but they were blowing up rafts.  Let's just say they looked like they lived hard and fast. Not 10 minutes later a good ol’ boy showed up just in time to hit on them, followed by a couple more jackasses to rock their speaker and float the river as well.

It was time to retreat from Harry Longbough’s fabled namesake and head for his out-law cave—between the area he was imprisoned and the canyon he hid his rustled cattle with Butch and the gang, I choose Middle Powder hands down. We booked it through an amazing rainfall in our iron house to steal a few precious hours on one of the Cowboy states best rivers.

Desert Nirvana finds new life

I am obviously either not fishing, or not blogging. Answer: not blogging--perhaps the passion is a little out of kilter. Many friends have been helping to bring Desert Nirvana to life, and celebrate the good life--maybe that will get the writer/photographer/blogger back in shape.Thanks Diamond James Tobler, Big Bull Colby Wilson, Roger Haglund "Dad," "Big Daddy" Tom Szalay, David "Davidacus" Skelton, Eric Hammer, "Hammie" and Paul "Sammy" Judd. With you "good times creates wind chimes"