Bro Time

A few months back I was on the phone with my older brother Pete, telling him about my upcoming trip to the Big Horn Range. “I’m ready to do a fishing trip with you, if you want to this summer,” he tossed out there. I wasn’t really sure if he was serious, but before the conversation was over, we had decided on a rough date to look at, that we would both look at it closer and nail down a date .Two days later, we carved the date in stone.

 

I need to back track just a wee bit and put this fishing trip in perspective. This is the brother I would fish with as a child, up into our early twenties, until we got married and engrossed in our adult lives. At that point he completely fell away from fishing. However, I have always suspected that in his heart, and in his blood stream exist trace elements of the river lying dormant waiting for the right opportunity to explode into his life.

 

The fervor for fishing started very early in our lives because of our Uncle Sam, who had a deep passion for “The River.” As we got older Pete and our cousin Jimmy would drive up Provo River.  They both owned Toyota Celica’s, Pete’s was bright red and Jimmy’s was bright orange—I know kinda weird. They didn’t have to let me tag along but they were both really cool that way. Day trips eventually developed into countless overnight camping trips.

 

At any rate, they were both older so I was always at a disadvantage as a fisherman. Honestly I didn’t really mind that they were better fishermen, they were always teaching me new things. Along with a fully developed interest of river fishing, all three of us loved spotting wild life. We didn’t bother with identifying small birds or squirrels and the like, it had to be a bird of pray, a turkey, deer, antelope; and if you were fortunate enough to spot an elk, you clearly took the lead. If you were lucky enough to see a coyote or fox, anything rare and bad ass, you reveled in the success, the other two pretty much knew you won. Each one of us thought we were better than the other two.

 

Honestly I didn’t feel pressure at bringing Pete back into fishing, or even teaching him how to fly fish, because I knew that would take care of its self. What concerned me was where to take him, because it’s all in the location and the experience. Also I was a little concerned about feeding him, because he’s always been a finicky eater, and he’s traveled the world and eaten exotic foods from around the globe. Let me add to that, it’s with high rolling international businessmen of the world. The solution for me is simple, take him to The Basin, and feed him fine cuts of red meat (perfectly prepared steak). Ultimately I tell myself that I’ve got it covered, I know my brother and feeding him will be simple. I also decide to take him shopping with me that way I at least get foods he selected.

 

Our first day on the river, so we hike down a bit and plan to fish up river back to the truck. As we step into the river, I show him how to easily string his line in the rod and what fly to select (hopper pattern) and how to tie it on. Once my line is ready I give him a minute to do the same. But just up river is a sweet riffle that I know has a fish; I’ll just step up while he’s tying on, and casually hook a quick one—how cool will that be? My first few casts are not really on point, so I step up a bit. “Johnny I got one,” Pete yells.” What the hell, I can’t really grasp it. I turn back around and walk toward him, and sure enough he’s got a nice Rainbow on his line and a “cat that ate the canary” twinkle in his eye. Of course I want him to catch fish, but not until I have hooked a handful.  Why would I expect it to go any other way?

 

As the day went on, I didn’t have to show him anything, perhaps a few ideas on how to place a fly-cast as opposed to fishing with a spinner. His blood stream does contain the fishing bug, or at a minimum his instinct on the river was right there; sort of like riding a bike.

 

After fishing with him that day on a river that I consider sacred, I mull over my plan for the next day. We eat dinner that night at the Vernal Brewery—great Nachos and local beer on tap.  While we’re eating, I try to look into his mind to see where he is with the day. Good news—my bro never left fishing, he was just taking a break. I didn’t need to ask him, his face mirrors all. A voice in my head says “take him to Holy Water, so he can see the Browns.”

 

We head back to camp and right there in the middle of the dirt road, a momma bear and two cubs. And of course it was Pete who spotted them first. Let me also confess that he has been roasting my ass the whole trip on the wild life spotting. As I mentioned above an exotic like a bear, is pretty much game over, but with two babies still on “momma’s nip” I know the game is simply done.

 

In the morning I’m trying to figure out where all my gear that was on the table went. We figured it out when we saw bear prints in the dirt and fresh scat up the road. We both thought it was kind of freaky but we were leaving that camp anyhow, heading back in the direction of home. I know it’s a black bear and not a griz, but its still a momma bear, why not move camp?

 

Holy water was showing one of her divine sides: great water level, even tough it was a little high, tons of hoppers in the tall grasses and best of all we didn’t see any assholes on the river the whole day. Pete got to see a sample of a well-fed Brown, and he had action on his spinning rod.

 

The last night of camp, a new camp at least 80 miles from the last camp, and what do I hear outside my tent—yes something getting into the coolers. I’m almost thinking this is like the bear in that Anthony Hopkins Grizzly Bear movie, and our asses are getting hunted by the bear. So I look outside and see no feet on the back of the truck, so I determine it’s a raccoon. Pete wakes me an hour later to confirm it’s not a bear, and then say’s ”lets go back to sleep.”

 

 

Driving back I realize I have learned a few things, and the only thing I really give a shit about concerning the whole trip is that we had fun together. I sort of hits me in the face as I’m dropping him off at the airport, I am thrilled at how much fun I had with my big brother—the bastard’s fun to hang with!