Big Cott

January 20, 2012 Back to Little Cottonwood to continue working on some slow shutter, winter river shots. Here is my 6 word memoir:

Big is little, but it’s dangerous!


This may sound strange but I think Big Cottonwood is the most dangerous river I fish! Why would I say that when it’s small? How can a river that is more of a stream then a river, be deadly? It’s not the water flow that will get you, it’s all the obstacles. There is a lot of dead fall, and a huge variety of rocks that lay out in a manner that can make navigating its banks really tough. And I’m not even going to go into its wicked banks, and its deceptive pools that seem shallow but will fill your waders up.

What’s daunting about wading Big Cott’s banks is the way rocks and logs sit; every step is an ankle twisting opportunity. Not only are the banks steep, but at some points you simply can’t get over the obstacles. Yes, my many and devoted readers, you hear a tale of woe coming up; a tale of death and bloody destruction; a tale of pain and suffering—and yes it involves me.

My daughter Madeline, my once upon a time Numero Uno fishing buddy, is 15-years-old and has her learners permit; so she won’t fish with me anymore, but she is willing to drive me up the road to take pics of Little Cott. I find a spot for her to pull over, and I go shoot the river. If you know the canyon at all, you know the “S” turn. I was just above that. To begin with I had a tough time getting down the steep bank— it’s covered with snow and nasty jagged rocks. With winter snow and ice, each step has an added slip factor. Also, the snow will cover some spots so when you step you can be on solid ground or you can be stepping on a pitfall. I have to get down to the river, because there is a really nice water formation down there that I think will give me what I’m looking for.

I get down to where the angle is just what I’m looking for. My camera is on a tripod, which makes it a little harder to get down river because I am minus one arm.

Over Christmas I bought my oldest daughter Hannah a camera, and we went to the Weber River on a photo shoot. I had my camera on a tripod and it fell over and hit the water. I dried it off as fast as I could between belting out some choice expletives. Both the body and lens make it through with flying colors; but my sensitivity level went up, and so did my paranoia. You know where I’m going, the river wants my camera, and is willing to use all of her wily ways to get it.

Once I get down to river, I have to keep working further down to be sure that I am really at the best spot. The rocks are slick as snot, and I’m sliding over half of the ones I step on. I lose my footing and fall forward—both hands out to catch my fall with the camera and tripod in the right hand. I have two choices: 1 let the camera go under water, or 2 use my left to sort of soften the blow and use my chest to absorb the brunt of the fall.

My many devoted blog followers, Johnny, already knows that I am not about to let the camera go down; no way in hell. My chest hits a big rock and I go with the flow instead of fighting it; in fact my head goes under water, and a big, fat gush of water goes down my waders. But the camera is safe--all but a few drops of water landing on it. I lay there for a second, kind of waiting for my breath to come back and wondering if I am okay. It hurts, but I don’t feel like any real damage has occurred. It’s really too bad that Johnny is not here to catch this on video—it must have been total comedy. Part of me feels like a complete buffoon, the other half feels like Lynn Swan cradling the touchdown pass in the in zone, not letting the ball touch the ground.

I stand up and feel about 5 gallons of water gush down my pants filling my waders up to my knees. I look around for someone to say to me, “Oh my God man are you okay?” I want some attention and comforting. I know I am alone, and that Madeline is sitting up in the car playing on her phone—but I still look around for someone to console me. Of course no one will, but no matter, I’ll get it from Madeline when I get back to the car. Since I am down here, and I really am fine, I get the shots I am looking for. Maybe I’m meant to earn these shots—who knows?

I get back to the car, all wet and wearing my best  “boo-hoo” face ready for my 15-year-old to say, “Dad what happened, are you okay” instead this huge Cheshire cat, ear to ear grin spreads across her face. Stupidly, I tell my tale thinking maybe I can melt that smile. “That’s funny,” is all I get. I should know who I am dealing with. Madeline is an ultra-calm, ultra-cool sort of a modern day Fonzie in a 15 year-old girl’s body.  She can’t fool me though, I know that behind that cool exterior she loves me and wants to kiss my bald head. Just like I know she wants to go back to being my fishing buddy, and "Fish the World one River at a Time" with me.  I can wait quietly on the river bank for her to return, soaking wet, bruised body and ego--because I know sooner or later she will be back.

post script: January 24, 2012

My buddy Roger, the captain of the Scooner Tuna, sent me a text the next day, after I posted this entry, to see if I was okay. My comment was, wow you are reading my blog? And why didn't you post a comment? Personally I think he was worried about me, but wanted to keep his concerned feelings on the down-low. But here's why I am bringing it up; he wanted to get a better picture of what my fall was like, and he had some great questions:

Q: Did you go face first of feet first--great question
A: Face first.

Q: Were you prone or did you go sideways or something?
A: Prone, going downhill.

Q: If you had the camera on a tripod, and that in your right hand, were you holding a beer in the left, and if so, did you save the beer along with the camera?
A: To his disappointment sorry no beer.

Conclusion:
The beer-less face forward, downhill momentum tripod and camera in one hand, held high to avoid the water, resulted in a baseball slide into home base, with home base being a huge snow covered rock colliding into my chest. In a nutshell I was more like a penguin sliding down the river than Lynn Swan holding the ball and not letting it touch the ground, or in this case the water.

I hope for my many blog readers, Johnny and now Roger, this info helps paint a more complete picture of my blunderous afternoon.

Glossary: (for all readers under 35-years-old)

1.      1.    Lynn Swann: Pittsburg Steelers great #88, legendary soft hands, moved with the grace of a ballet dancer, and brought in touchdown passes like no other.

2.     2.      Arthur Herbert Fonzarelli (Fonzie, The Fonz, or Fonz): Legendary ‘70’s cool guy

3.      3.  Johnny: aspiring fly fishing guide and outdoor film artist.

4.      4.  Roger: aka Zogg half a hundred, innocent simple country boy McGyver genius.

Little Cott January 2012

January 9, 2012 fishing in the winter is not for the meek and mild, most fishermen stay inside, perhaps tie a few flies, of watch their favorite fishing video—I don’t know.  For one, being out in the cold can be tough, especially standing waist high in the river; it sucks the heat out of your core. When you do get out of the water, your boots freeze, sometimes welding your laces to your boots and putting your socks to the test to see if they can keep your little piggy’s warm.

If it’s really cold, your eyelets on your rod freeze over, and your line can’t slide through when you cast; the line itself becomes like a frozen rope. Oddly enough I have actually caught fish with my line like this, with frozen flies too—don’t ask me to explain that. When it’s really cold, and it gets to your hands, the last thing you want to do is change flies, it’s hard to tie any knot. I don’t wear gloves because it’s just too hard for me to fish with them on. I like to open a pack of hand warmers and keep then in a pocket, it helps gripping one tucked inside the front of your waders.

I don’t want to talk about wind—a fly fisherman’s nemesis. I have actually hated wind my whole life; oh I get its purpose, it’s a needed element, especially in the Salt Lake valley in the dead of January with a thick heavy blanket of inversion.  But when you’re in it, especially when it’s mixed with snow, and your trying to cast into it, or read your line on the water, it turns you into a complete illiterate.  When the wind blows  snow sideways, and your feet are solid, your line is frozen in place, and you slip on the ice and land flat on you back, you do wonder if you should be home watching someone else fish on TV.

But there are also those days, when you don’t see other fishermen on the river, and the world is a blanket of white tranquility. The sound of the running water is calming, and comforting. There are days when the clouds part, and the day heats up to the mid 40’s and the midge and caddis start moving, and we all know what that means.

I had one of those days a few weeks ago on the South Fork. I had a size 24 black midge on the top, casting into this beautiful bend. On the first cast, I saw a rainbow come up to look. I make about four or five more casts, and each time he looked with more interest. I was ready for this; I would like to say I was due, but I have learned from fishing that there is no due. The next cast I must admit was good, no it was great; I placed it perfectly into the current, so that it would bring it by him in just the right spot.  He rose to it, and I thought he would take it, but then I could see his pectoral fins move, and he started backing up.  Slowly he moved closer, bringing his nose to the fly, opened his mouth and slowly slurped my midge in. I waited for him to go down, and set the hook—fish on. I landed him, but I didn’t really even care about that; the game was all about the take and set.

 I went on to catch more fish that day; but that fish was spectacular. It’s not always about catching fish. Even in the dead of winter, it’s about being in the wild, being on the river. Some winter days when the sun parts and the snow shimmers with the light, and the fish feed on the hatch you would swear to God that fishing could not get any better, and that every other season are not even worth going.

Diamond Fork January 2012

January 7, 2012 Diamond Fork, great river to select as the first one of the New Year.  Sticking with my promise to myself, and the mass multitude of fans who cling to my every word, I will refrain from rambling on and on, and describe the day with a 6 word memoir:

Diamond Fork: gem of a river

Little Deer Creek

December 29, 2011, Little Deer Creek and South Fork. It would appear that this is my last day fishing for 2011 unless of course I sneak off and hit Big Cottonwood today for a spell. Johnny and I decided to go lower Prove, so we visited two of my boyhood spots. Earlier this year I fished the South Fork, but this time we included Little Deer Creek as well. I think it’s officially called the North fork of the Lower Prove, but growing up we always called it “Little Deer Creek.”

This is the first trip I have been on that Johnny started filming, because he got a new video camera for Christmas. He has already put together some footage, and it’s really good. Shooting stills is what I do, and I can’t fish, shoot stills and video, it’s just too much for me; also it seems to fit him. I suppose some people can do both, but the two formats are really different. I feel like as a photographer, I am capturing a slice of time, seen through my vision. You manipulate the shot through exposure, light, composition and printing, where as video is moving time, a story in motion. He has decided to go “You Tube” with his presentation, and is calling it “Fly Tales,” which I think is a great play on words to go with my blog. Watching his first two films, it sparks new life into me, as a photographer and a fisherman.

I was ecstatic to visit Little Deer Creek again. It has been so long since I have been there, and I heard the whole river was private now, or fenced off or something. I haven’t been there since they widened the road, and the old access road has been eliminated. You used to be able to drive over the tracks, and up the canyon—not anymore. It was cool seeing the old road, and putting it back together in my mind, how it used to be. I have a picture of the bridge as you first approach the river, and that has stayed the same.

I don’t remember the river being this tough to walk up and there was a lot of growth, as well as fallen logs over the river. It was damn hard to fish, because you are in so tight, with very little room to back cast. As we worked up river I was excited to get up there because I remember some great holes, and I also remember it sort of opens up a bit, making it easier to fish. As kids we would fish all the way up to Cascade Springs, which was a series of beaver type ponds.  Sure enough, the fence rumor is true, not even a quarter mile up from the bridge, there is hardy, posted, fence keeping people out of a beautiful river. Of course being a fisherman I am saddened about it. Usually river access is limited because people have homes on the river banks, or farm land; but this is government land. What is the reason to keep people out? “Who the hell knows with the government, they found gas, oil, power, aliens, something, they just want to keep people out, replies Johnny. What’s sad to me is that I was hoping this could be a nice little hidden spot I could go, especially in the winter, a little hidden gem. So no gems for me or anyone else for that matter.

It is truly sad for Utah that they do this type of limiting access to public water ways. The most common excuse that land owners claim is that fishermen are evil trespassers and vandalize or litter on their land. We all know this is simply bullshit. Even fishermen that don’t consider themselves stewards of the river or the environment don’t do that. The real negative impact it has, is that for both residents and visitors our public lands are not as enjoyable; because you either cant access some great rivers, or if you can, you have to worry that some angry shotgun packin farmer is going to chase you off his land.

New Year’s Eve, 2011

I have been thinking about the fence at Little Deer Creek, and I feel the need to be dramatic about being fenced out of the river. It’s more than being kept out, it’s that the fence mocks me, and says, “beyond me you will find your heart’s desire, and pleasure beyond your wildest dreams.” I stand there a look at the big sturdy fence, posted all over it saying: “Stay off this land or die”; aka: Posted no trespassing violators will be prosecuted.”  Ok maybe that’s a bit much, but you get my drift. Additionally irritating for me is the fact that I used to able to wade up those waters, never knowing that one day we would all be fenced out.  

If you look at the history of the wild west, the first fence that was put up was the beginning of the end to the open range—hell, it was really the white man’s mark on the landing saying: “I own this land, and you can’t come on it. The fence was the dagger in the heart of the wild west, like small-pox was the death of the Indian. My six word Little Deer Creek memoir has come to me:

Fences and small-pox killed the wild west!

Hannah' nighttime pics

Hannah's first photo shoot

December 26, 2011: 

Beezer meets Canon, legend lives on

Jordan River NIght Time Photography

Jordan River Night Time Photo shoot

December 19, 2011 Tom S. and his students are awesome; fun willing to face the night time cold to develop their photographic knowledge. They invited me to join them at Chapham Library to view their latest exhibit, and then go shoot night photography with them on the Jordan River. To me this still counts as being on a river, but of course this time I brought camera alone and not the fly rod. The Jordan has plenty ‘O cat fish and carp, but that’s not my cup of tea. People think fishing is fishing; hell they think photography is photography. Not so, you can’t just lump them all together.

In my book, which is not always the right book, but it’s a book I highly recommend; I say it’s not that there is a hierarchy, but a difference. In the world of fishing, fly fishermen take themselves way too seriously. Just because fly fishing is really difficult, has a completely bottomless learning pit, and always makes you over think it, doesn’t make it better, it just makes it harder. I guess the equivalent would be the fine art photographer, as opposed to the guys taking pictures for a living, and not just for “arts sake.”

I grew up in a photographic home; my parents converted part of their house into a studio, and made a living as wedding and portrait photographers. Dad later moved into creating art, and took it on the road to art shown and such. He is an amazing photographer, with a perfect balance of the science with the artist; which is what I think photography is. You have to know the technical to get it to obey your creative vision.

I grew up on small rivers in Utah with a spinning rod in my hands, the love instilled mostly by my Uncle Sam, and fostered by my older brother and cousin. As an adult my buddy Evan kept at me with learning how to fly fish, which I fought but finally relented. I’ve been “hooked” ever since that first trip in the Huntington River. But I still miss the feeling of how hard trout hit on a spinner, and quite honestly I miss the simplicity. I pack enough stuff with me now, that you’d think I was going on a 5 day trip. I have made this thing complicated. With a spinner, I would put 2 or 3 in a film container and be off. It’s a reflection of my life in a way.

I bought a Canon Rebel for my oldest daughter for Christmas. I am hoping we can make it out a few days before she has to go back to College. We had our first outing last night, Christmas night; we took some night shots of the Big Cottonwood. I’ll post them on the next entry. It’s a parents job, to first of all mess your kids as much as possible, and secondly to pass on some of your interests and passions. Although my middle child hasn’t fished with me for a few years not, I am hoping and praying that I got enough river water in her veins to permanently infect her with the fishing disease.

I forgot I was supposed to stop blathering on an on, and do a simple six word Memoir or sort of summary for each day’s experience, here goes:

Merry Christmas, I’m still blathering on!

Holy Water

December 21, 2011 probably last time on holy water for 2011. I recently came across a book published by Smith Magazine that links back to Hemmingway. If you know anything about him, you know that he is the master of brevity. He just gets right to telling a story, in his macho way.  As the story goes, someone approached him and asked if he could write his life’s memoirs in just 6 words. He came back with this: “Baby shoes, for sale, never worn.”

Wow right, that’s about all you can say. So years later in 2006 Smith Magazine decides to send the challenge out to the world, via face book, the net, and phones, to write and submit your own 6 word memoirs. Of course I wrote my own:

 “Sweet Melissa, three beauties, gone fishing.”

 But honestly I fell in love with the idea of being brief. Since I started writing entries in this blog, I have felt like I have become one big fat blabber mouth, essentially saying nothing. So I’m thinking I will try writing about my day on the river with 6 words.  Here goes:

Holy water, winter's cold, still holy!