Festival of Color

March 24, 2012 Sri Sri Radha Krishna Temple Spanish Fork Utah. I know the first few thoughts you have are what are you talking about, and what does it have to do with fishing? The answer is that it has nothing to do with fishing, except that fishing is an event, and so is going to a Krishna “Festival of Colors” in Spanish Fork Utah. The next questions you probably have are what Festival of Colors is and even better, there is a Krishna temple in Spanish Fork Utah? Yes there is, and I cannot explain how the good folks of Utah Valley world allow a Krishna temple to be built in the heart of Zion. I have no answers in that area—none what so ever.

Here is another puzzling question for you: why did Krishna followers build this substantial temple in Spanish Fork? I don’t know of any Krishna’s in all of Utah. There are a lot of Hippie, tree huggin, festival going, free thinking, love sharing individuals existing on the outskirts of society in Utah, that would be attracted to events like “Festival of Colors,” but that is something altogether different than being an active Krishna—Right?

At any rate in the spring the Krishna’s celebrate Holi or the coming of spring, sort of the end of winter, and the entrance of spring. The colors of spring are back into the world and a “festival of Colors,” marks that joyous time.  There was also a burning of the evil demon sister of King Hiranyakashyap. An effigy of her is burned to celebrate Lord Vishnu’s victory over the evil witch, who would burn children. All this sounds like a lot of exotic eastern thought, witch burning, and pagan spring merriment for Utah County? Maybe this marks the beginning of diversity of thought to Zion—good on ‘em!

Going to the festival was my oldest daughter’s idea, home from Dixie State College for the weekend. Her and her friend Erica talked the mom, dad and little sister Jac into attending; and we are all glad we did, it was a lot of fun. About every two hours or so, they do a countdown, and everyone throws colored chalk into the air. In the meantime, everyone’s grooving to live music, giving out free hugs and throwing color on anyone who isn’t already covered in chalk.

Great time was had by all, our family has done its part to usher in spring, and we can also say we have taken steps to ward off evil witch spirits. Good job Utah Krishna’s you have done a good thing for the valley—where ever you are and whoever you may be.

South Fork March 2012

March 21, 2012 South Fork of the Provo River. This is a tale of a hog at a trough. Fishermen call huge fish “Hogs” South Fork doesn’t have any “Hogs” the hog in this story is me. I think I had an epiphany on the river today; actually it was coming off the river when I realized how late it was. Here’s the story, I neglected work for the day, which in my mind is not really a big deal; but I have to be back home by at least 5:00 maybe 5:30 at the latest because my daughter Madeline has a performance at school. No problem, just look at your watch, and leave a few hours before you need to go. As a matter of fact, a wise person would account for traffic, and leave themselves a buffer. It just means you don’t act like a hog slurping up everything, over indulging, being a glutton and putting yourself in a situation where the pressure is on to make it on time.

Its one thing, if you do this sort of thing once in a while, but the truth is that I do it more than I do not do it. What specifically am I talking about? Today is a perfect example I don’t have a watch on—lost it on Big Cottonwood River, and I don’t take my phone because I don’t want to get it wet. So, I am left with guessing on the time, which I think I can do, like I can read the sun, or just sort of feel it. By the time Johnny and I get back to the truck, it’s almost a quarter to 5:00 and we still have at least an hour drive. I feel that sick feeling in my stomach; I get a gush of anxiety mixed with anger sweeping over me. The thing is I can’t blame anyone. It’s not Johnny’s fault, not by a stretch, I didn’t even tell him I had to be home. I can’t blame anyone at home—kids or wife. The worst part is that no one will express any anger or really even disappointment. They won’t show any of those sobering emotions because they are always ready to accept that dad may be late, or may even miss things all together because he is gone fishing… It has to come to this: either set some type of grown-up guide lines for yourself or stop fishing.

What father wants his kids to feel even for one second that fishing is more important than them? Stupid question, even a really crappy father would not want his kids to think that they are less important than his indulging habit. I have the most amazing wife of all time, and the most fantastic daughters any man could ever wish for—Hannah, Madeline and Jacqueline. I would rather go my entire life and never fish again than to create a feeling in them that they are not the most important thing in my life. But actions speak louder words; even if the message we send does not reflect our true feelings.

Fishing is a chance to get away from the world we live in; a chance to connect with our roots; a chance to connect with the great mother. Listen to that, what a huge crock of shit. Who knows what it’s about, but it should never come at the expense of your family. I can’t say for sure what each fisherman is after; I don’t know what they look for each time they go out. But we are all pretty much the same; we are all looking for the same things. I need to really find out what I am looking for and decide what its worth. I feel I have to do some growing up, I’m 45-years-old I am not supposed to be struggling with these type of issues.

As it all turns out, I made it through traffic in time to attend Madeline’s performance, in fact I wasn’t even a little bit late. But that’s not the point, I had to drive home in that mad panic, putting a real buzz kill on a fabulous day of fishing hoping and praying that I would not see the look on my wife or daughters face that said, “ of course he’s late, he’s been fishing.” Maybe an old dog can learn new tricks, maybe it’s not too late to tell the fish and the river “good bye for today, I have to go I have more important things than you and my own needs to attend to. You never have to dodge a bullet if you never get in the line of fire.

Jackie Leggs

Jones Hole Creek post script. I have been thinking about my baby, Jacqueline, (aka Jac, Jackie Legs, & Peglet).She is an amazing, special kid! Getting Madeline to go on this trip, I realize that my kids are getting older, and that my time with them is limited. My oldest, Hannah, is already off to college. I know that she will come home, and that she will always be mine, but I also know that everything changes.  

Okay…embrace the changes, time to recalibrate; sort of make a new game plan that opens new doors, leading to new activities.  When Jac was little, she would fish on camping trips, but as the years have gone by, she has decided that fishing is not for her. This puts me in a tough position to get it “in her blood stream.” I see two obvious choices:               1. Cram fishing down her throat.               2. Let it develop on its own and be open to developing new interests together.                 Or, I could also do a combination of both. Or, I could stop writing about it and go make dinner with her…we can bake fish.

Jones Hole Creek

March 10, 2012 7:00 Vernal Utah. “Are you awake honey?” I asked Madeline, “Its time to go fishing.” Yes! Madeline has come back to fishing, as it turns out my prayers are answered, fly fishing is in her blood; she has decided to go on a fishing trip with me. It’s highly possible she is going because her friend Jaxon and his dad Stan have agreed to take us to the storied, mystical, Jones Hole Creek.

By 8:30 we are on Jones Hole Road, which starts in Vernal and takes another 45 minutes or so, although our drive took a little longer due to the speeding ticket Stan got from the Vern-hole Po-Po. Note: beware what looks like is should be 45mph is 25mph—speed trap. Jones Hole Road takes you on an amazing geographic transformation. Through most of the road, you are in the vast open barren Vernal area; it’s shocking when you come into Jones Hole Canyon. The last 20 miles or so of the drive, you enter a canyon that is reminiscent of Canyon Lands with majestic red rock cliff walls. “You guys will experience a spiritual awakening—trust me you will not be disappointed with Jones Hole. If you hear bells going off, don’t be alarmed” Stan promises that no one will leave the canyon without being permanently altered. Our plan is to walk all the way down to the confluence of The Green, then fish our way back up. Stan likens Jones to a neighborhood street meeting a freeway, The Green. That’s where he claims to have heard spiritual bells.

My fishing goal is to fish the world, to fish as many rivers as I can, before I go to the big river in the sky. So far I have fished exclusively in the western states, and in the last two years I have been lucky enough to fish a lot of rivers. In 2010 I fished over a dozen new rivers in Utah; a handful in Idaho, a few in California and Nevada, and one in Wyoming. I count myself blessed of late by the fishing gods; I have been stepping into some mind-blowing rivers.

To a fly fisherman, there are a lot of criteria that make up a “mind-blowing” river. It goes without saying that the river has to have a lot of fish, and big fish. Between big fish and a lot of fish, big fish has to be to crown jewel. Yes… fishermen will travel the world over, to catch a big fish, whatever the species. A river with a lot of fish means you have a good chance of hooking up, which never sucks. As Stan put it, “I’ve caught plenty of fish; now I’m ready to catch a hog (see video).

Not necessarily in this order, but I would say that where the river is located, no matter how many or how big the fish are matters. For example if you find yourself standing in a canyon with towering red cliffs marked with petro glyphs from an ancient Indian tribe; with walls that are so beautiful that you are forced to stop throwing your fly to  hungry fish, and just soak in grandeur, surroundings matter. Not to mention, these cliffs house Rocky Mountain sheep!  As much as we all get caught in chasing the fish, some rivers are so incredible you are forced to stop and just ravel in the beauty.

Water counts, New Zealand is said to have rivers with “Gin Clear” water, water that is sort of beyond water, water that is so pure that it glistens in the sun. Idaho’s Silver Creek is spring fed, and it has water that is astonishingly clear. Maybe water that bubbles up from the earth has been purified by the mother, and flows from her, creating nectar of the gods. Come on every fisherman gets off on clear water. New Zealand is on my list of places to fish, but I really don’t know how you could purify water any more that what comes out old Jones Hole.  

Finally who you are with on your trip is the aspect that makes or breaks the experience. I’ve been on plenty of fishing trips, day trips and longer with a buzz kill. When this happens you hope it’s just a day trip, and you just try to get caught up in the river and fishing.  But when you are with people like Stan and Jaxon, you don’t even care that your daughter came along for reasons other than fishing; you’re just happy to have another adventure on the river with her. Weather your sitting by the camp fire nursing a glass or Knob Creek or you’re in a hotel room reading your totem cards, with the right people bad fishing and crappy scenery still makes for a great trip.

But when all the above factors are world class, when the fish are fat, and plentiful, the water sparkles, the scenery stellar, and the people you are with are golden... come on what else do you want? Jones Hole is splendid enough to release your inner totem butterfly, run and frolic like a teenager through the forest. My buddy Zog always says “life is better to me than I deserve. I have to say I feel the same way. Thanks Jones Hole for being there, you rate world class! My only complaint about you is that I took so long to find you. Thanks Stan for pulling the trigger & making the trip happen, for the excitement and for being master guide (hope your leg cramps went away). Thanks Jaxon for getting my original fishing buddy back on the river with me, even if she didn’t fish. I know it’s in her blood, and I will wait; hopefully not long. This may be the beginning of many more trips to come. Alas, I feel permanently altered.

White Rocks & Uintah River

February 25, 2012 White Rocks & Uintah River. I just want to know how hillbillies living in mobile home shanties in the boonies train their dogs to make a mad dash for your car and attack your tires. The first dog who rushed us on a dirt road in Neola (small town in Basin) came out of nowhere. It freaks you out when a Blue Healer/Pit Bull mix, bolts for your car. Your natural instinct is to swerve out of his way—which is exactly what the little beast is looking for. I must admit, it takes a brash & bold beast of only about 70 lbs to attack a speeding car, making it swerve away from it. Dogs that do that really piss me off though, and it gets me thinking, if I come back the same way, I’m gonna run that bastard dog over.

Well I get the chance, not 5 minutes later, because another dog pulls the same maneuver, just down the road. This time it’s actually two dogs—another pit mix and a Rottweiler. I’m not caught off guard, and I give them as much tire as I can without going off the road. I hit both of them at the same time, one with the right tire, one with the left. I didn’t think I would hit them, let alone both of them, and I hit both of them solid. Adding insult to injury, I am going fast enough that the two back tires also roll over them. If they weren’t killed upon impact, the back tires for sure sealed the deal.  Just as fast as the dogs came at me, so does their master. He’s clad in a wife beater & over alls, and he’s jamming shells into his shot gun. I punch it, which was not such a good idea, my rear end slides out and we start going off the road. This guy starts running towards us; he’s huge, with this wooly mammoth beard. He’s still pulling his overalls on as he runs towards us, “I’m gonna kill you, you son-a-bitch," he’s yelling. He’s this frantic, hairy monster in motion.

He fires at us, and the back window just explodes. Glass and bb’s hits Johnny on the back of his neck. “Oh my God, he’s shooting us. Oh my God, go go go!” I hear another shot, and I hear the bb’s hit the back end of my truck; I just keep going, trying to get it back on the road. He shoots a few more times, but we are down the road by this time. Johnny is bleeding all over the place, screaming and swearing—its complete madness!

Okay... I didn’t run over the two hillbilly dogs, their wife beater wearing, shot gun toting master didn’t shoot us, and  Johnny didn’t take glass and bb’s to the back of the neck. But now you have an idea of what Neola and the town of White Rocks looks like. It’s safe to say “if you hear the banjo playing run like hell.”

On a serious note though, the Uintah and White Rocks are the two rivers on the edge of the South Slope that we have still not fished. Actually neither one of us has even been to either river. We realize that both rivers will probably be frozen over for the most part, and will not even be fishable. That’s not really our goal this visit, it’s mostly to see where they are, and get a lay of the land; and maybe get a few pics and video. From there we are going to drive back to Duchesne and fish the Strawberry. Maybe I should have taken some pictures of a few of the local homes and let you decide if my imagination has gone wild.

Concerning the rivers, I am right; they are mostly frozen over, White Rocks more than the Uintah. The access road to White Rocks is closed, and it looks tough to get up Uintah’s road due to snow. We are both happy to get a look at them, and now we know exactly how to return in the spring. As a bonus, we saw two golden eagles, one bald eagle, and a handful of hawks in less than two hours.

Our 2012 goal is to become really familiar with the whole south slope, and along with the rivers listed below, they will become the Utah rivers we place on the top of our list, worthy of getting to know better than all other rivers.

Now we just have to fish these rivers, and give the collection of rivers our own name:

The Provo, Current Creek, Pinnacles, The Strawberry, The Duchesne, South Slope (Lake Fork, Rock Creek, Yellowstone, Uintah and White Rocks) Jones Hole Creek and of course The Green. We have not fished Jones Hole, but we have heard amazing things about it.

The fishing the rest of the day was pretty brutal. The one true enemy of fly fishermen came to town—WIND! It is the one thing that you can do nothing with. When we got to the river, the air was calm and tranquil, and the river was low—very low. The first hole we got to we saw about 15 fish grouped up. I was thinking this is one of those days where man has advantage; all I have to do is not spook the fish, which was exactly what I did. I spooked all but one fish out of the hole, and he was not interested in what I had to offer.  Then it came, the wind, I mean wind! We tried high sticking, streamers, indicators—nothing would work because the wind was so strong you couldn’t read your line. We left disappointed and discontent.

We all have days when hillbilly’s shoot at us with shot guns, or at least have their dogs attack our cars. It won’t be the last time that I drive for hours to find a frozen river, or have the wind blow me off it.  Every day can’t be fame, fortune & glory, instead some are blame, torture & morning—but you’ve got to have the “Hillie’s” along with the “Billie’s.” 

FlyTails Inc

I have been on Johnny's ass for over a year to start getting video footage of our trips. He kept saying, "yeah, I want to, as soon as I get a camera." I thought he was just putting me off. But sure enough as soon as he got his own camera this Christmas, pow, wham he's filming his little ass off, and putting out some good stuff. Between his footage, my pics and ramblings we are bound to come up with at least something mildly amusing. Who know maybe we will capture amazing--it can happen.

Check out Johnny's video on You Tube at Fly Tails Inc. He has already produced about 7 short video shorts, they are worth checking out. Our next adventure is this Saturday checking out White Rocks and the Uintah River.

The South Slope

February 19, 2012, I was reading a fly fishing blog yesterday written by a guy who lives back east. He fishes rivers like the Upper Delaware River; that river goes back to our first president. He casts his line in   Pennsylvania's famous Letort, Brodhead Creek, the Pocono,Virginia's Accotic Creek. These rivers and this area of the country is the birth of our nation’s tradition.

 

I have never fished back east, and honestly I have never really thought about it. Maybe I feel that way because I have always thought of the west as the best—especially concerning wild life adventures such as fly fishing. I have an easy explanation for this: I’m a native Utahan, a westerner.

 

Who knows perhaps I’m right, perhaps the rivers in the western states are better, with bigger fish, more fish, better scenery, less people, all those things that fly fishermen look for. Yet, the one thing we can’t best them on is time and tradition, tradition dating back to the 1600’s. How cool is that, to fish a river that George Washington crossed to defeat the British?

 

I wonder if fishing back east is like fishing the Chalk creeks of England, the birth place of fly fishing. Is it like teeing off at Edinburgh, watching the Tour de France. Tradition has to count for something right? I’ve never been to the Kentucky Derby, and even if you don’t care about the Triple Crown, who doesn’t want to attend the Derby?

 

In the west we too have tradition. Our traditions don’t date as far back, but we have them, go with what you have. What the west does have over tradition, that defines us, is our landmarks, the land its self. Our landmarks are our crown jewels. We have the natural grandeur of our landscape that sets us apart and propels us into competition with the east of our own nation, with the whole world.

 

Utah touts the greatest snow on earth, and the red rock desert splendor of Moab. Colorado is the heart of the Rocky Mountains with 53 peaks that are over 14,000 feet. Wyoming has Yellowstone, Idaho the Saw tooth Mountain Range. Arizona has the Grand Canyon; California has their whole coast line, the Sierra Nevada Mountain Range, and Yosemite National Forest. Nevada has… well let’s just not bring in Nevada. My point is that the West defines itself by its terrain, because the terrain is the strongest, clearest, most noble voice to be heard in the west; tradition takes a back seat to geography/geology.

 

If you look at Utah in terms of fishing, in particular, river fly fishing, the two single most famous rivers in Utah are The Provo and The Green. They are both stellar rivers, and both worthy of being considered “world famous.”  But do I think they are the best rivers to fish in Utah, and, are there other rivers that are not on the map, but are worthy of the same fame?

 

Honestly I don’t think any river in Utah can compete with the Green, if you look at its volume, its fish, its scenic red rock canyons, and the color of its water. The Green is Utah’s heavy weight champ. If rivers were boxers, Utahans would be forced to put The Green up as its fighter.

 

But fly fishing and the love of rivers is more than just looking at the heavy weights, it’s about rivers that have dimension and character; it’s about geography, it’s about variety, it’s about diversity. Middle weights and light weights alike are every bit as exciting to watch as heavyweights.

 

There is no better variety and geographic complexity in Utah than the Uintah mountain range. The tallest Peak, Kings Peak, just under 14,000 in located in the Uintahs. Flowing from the south slope of the Uintah’s are some rivers that don’t get top billing like the Green or the Provo, but have just as much charm, and combined, total what I think is the best the state has to offer.

 

If you look at the map going from Salt Lake, toward the Uintah’s you have some rivers that will please any fly fishermen:

1.  The Provo (upper, middle, and lower)

2.  Current Creek

3.  The Pinnacles

4.  The Strawberry

5.  The Duchesne

6.  The South slope (Uintah, White Rocks, Rock Creek, Lake Fork, Yellowstone)

Johnny and I both have roots in the Uintahs, going back over the years. He grew up hunting the whole Tabby Mountain area, with Joe and I, which is the gateway to the Grand-Daddy area. Both of us have fished that area a lot, and consider a few of those rivers our “home river.”

 

However, we have only fished 3 of 5 of the south slope rivers, and only a few times. When we go out there, we are drawn to the few rivers we know, because they are so amazing themselves, it’s hard not to go to them. But now it’s time to branch out, and really get to know all those rivers. It’s time for us to create new tradition, upon what the best rivers the state has to offer. In total there are about a dozen or so rivers in this collection.  

Johnny and I have been talking about this as our next adventure, really getting to know all the ins and outs of each river; and of course getting some great shots and footage. Johnny have been cranking out some really cool video footage. He has decided to post his video on "You Tube." Check out his clips at "FlytailsInc.

Big Cott Round II

Big Cott Round II

January 22, 2012 what do you do when you slip on the river, almost give your camera a bath, and have to use your chest to take the blow so that it doesn’t go under? I’ll tell you what you do, you go back the next day; especially because the kids don’t want to go hit the slopes, and a new blanket of the greatest snow on earth fell last night. Wait a minute has it really come to that for me, am I driving up one Utah’s biggest canyons with my waders and camera instead of my skis? Yes.

I want to get to the same spot I went to yesterday to shoot the same area with really fast shutter speeds instead of slow ones. On the way down the bank, it is actually easier with a lot of snow, because it sort of packs up on each step instead of sliding down. The rocks on the banks are seriously wicked, they are really jagged. I can’t emphasis how they lay, making it really hard to get good footing; add to that just a ton of fallen branches lying across the rocks.

Once I get down to the river, I feel a total and complete bliss come over me. The river in the dead of winter is like a hidden pearl, a jewel that most people don’t get a chance to revel in. What makes it even weirder, is that I’m not even thinking about fish, and I don’t want my fly rod. I know I shouldn’t admit that, but that’s just the way it is.

During winter it seems that our mind and our bodies go into a mode thinking that all things are asleep--no more than asleep—dead.  And who wants to look at death? But winter is not death, its tranquility, tranquility and peace. Winter is the time of peace and rest; in that rest is life and joy, and the flow of the river is proof of that life. Even if the top of the river is iced over, under the ice, the river flows. And some days after it snows, the life under the blanket of winter sheds the coat, melts it, and flows on. What is more beautiful than a night of snow followed by sunshine the next day?

Okay, maybe all I just said is a bunch of bull shit. But, you can’t deny that a fresh coat of snow is wonderful! I don’t have to talk about it; I don’t have to pump it up. In fact go on, hate it, hate the snow, stay home and watch football. That’s exactly what I’m going to do, I want to see if Utah’s golden boy can lead the 49ers to the Super Bowl.

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.