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.