Thistle Nebo & Bennie

I don't think you can mention Thistle Creek without bringing up the big slide of 83; which wiped out the little town, washing it into Spanish Fork River. You can still easily see the results on the side of the hill from highway 6. The remains of a few houses are still standing, creepy but somehow cool to look at. Its amazing how long an abandoned house will remain standing. Regardless of the disaster the residents of Utah's small towns hunker into the hills, then they put up fences, a lot of fences, and they do their damnedest to keep everyone off their land.

Beezer joined Colby and I on today's adventure, first I consulted the "river oracle"
Mike Matheson aka "Math" on where to go specifically on the river. His suggestion was to go check out Bennie Creek. If you look at the pic with turkey's crossing the road it leads up Bennie Creek. However once you get a mile or two up the road, you will become a communist if you keep going. Let me explain; the owner of the bulls has posted a huge sign warning drivers that they are on his land, and that the government has violated his ownership rights by allowing vehicles to pass on his land. Well, the three of us have a decision to make; we pause and discuss--none of us really care if driving on his land will made us a communist. However we don't have 4-wheel-drive and the road has a lot of snow on it; plus those guys always have a lot of guns & ammo...

After exploring from Thistle to Nebo Creek we parked at the bottom of Thistle, and fished up stream. It's the warmest day in a longtime and I'm guessing it's around 35 to 40 degrees. On the top of the water I see a bunch of really small midge but no fish rising to eat them. We nymph for few hours with no luck at all. In fact we don't see a single fish. We get to a spot on the river that is slow moving and deep, resulting from a beaver dam. I see a rise, then another. We keep nymph, but this water requires a strike indicator.

I have been trying to teach Beezer to nymph without an indicator, so she can start out learning to feel the bottom, and sort of "Yoda master" it, as we call it. A strike indicator and little black nymphs does the trick; which is no real suprize in my mind. On the top of the water, we see little midge,and it's January, it just fits. Also not shocking they were feeding about noon to about 3:00 because that's the point in the day that is the warmest; and the heat makes the bugs get moving. We all know what happens when the bugs get moving: fish eat them!

I had a great day, and I think the kid is really warming to the world of fly fishing. I think more than she likes actually fishing, she likes just being outside. At one point in the day she said, "wow the river is so beautiful in the winter." She will get no argument from me. I have not fished Thistle since I was a teenager. It rates high with me; my only real complaint is the busy road that hugs it's banks.

W

Ice fishing with George, Phil & Tommy Bitchin

There's a first time for everything, and today it was about ice fishing; sponsored by Phil & George. When I say sponsored, I mean holy-moly I have never been so taken care of. Aside from fishing with Colby, I am usually responsible for everything from driving, fuel, packing extra rods, gear, and taking care of lunch. Often times I take out people who expect me to do everything from tie on their flies, to wiping their ass. No so today, it was my turn to have my bum wiped and powdered. I hope it never happens again, because I could get used to this!

But let’s get down to the basic info of the day’s events. George, a friend from work asked Colby & I to join him and former teacher Phil for a day on Pine View Reservoir in Ogden. At the last minute I asked Tom if he wanted to join. The day was beautiful, sunny and actually quite warm. Phil comes very well prepared, and if there is a zombie apocalypse I want him on my team. The dude is methodically organized and thought of everything.  I think it’s safe to say ice fishing requires more gear than fly fishing--ummmm yeah a lot more. Each one of us had a sled loaded with gear.

We get out on the ice, and tents need to be set up, auger’s need to auger holes in the ice, and all they want me to do is sit there and look pretty. I used to be good at sitting there and looking pretty. But as time went by I started getting uglier, so I started getting more useful, thinking “hell looks don’t last forever!” But I did my best to just sit there and watch them do everything. Phil showed me how to bait my hook, but I did that myself.

After hours of fishing with no luck we moved to a new spot, and re-auguring holes into the ice. This is the part that is like every other type of fishing; you keep working at it to see what small corrections will do the trick. Finally through adjusting our bait (box worms) at the right level, we start hooking up. I should say Phil caught one. George goes on about how well perch eyes work, and he even has an eye-ball extracting tool to get the job done. As it turns out he was right, he starts catching. So I think that poor bastard has one eye left, I figure what can a one eyed fish do in this world anyhow—I take the other one. It paid off, I started hooking up.

All in all, I had a great time. Phil & George are the best, and I would love to go again. I can’t say I’m ready to go buy an auger & a tent, but it was fun—thanks again guys!

Russian River

The Russian River, beautifully winding its way through wine country, really adds to the splendor & allure to the valley, but rolls by my car window quickly. I yell, “stop! at least let me get out and take a few pics,” to my brother-in-law Lee aka Calvin. He has a completely different agenda than looking at, let alone fishing the Russian River. There is wine to be tasted, shopping to be done, and above all hugging & chatting with all his dear friends at each of his favorite vineyards.

Now don’t get me wrong, aside from the shopping aspect those are wonderful ways to spend a lazy afternoon, especially when you are on a little vacation with the family—why not. Additionally I would never bore him with making him fish with me—I learned long ago to never take the unwilling or uninterested into the magnificent world of fly fishing if they are not completely committed. Besides from all I have read about the Russian River, it does not hold any trout in it. But that doesn’t mean I couldn’t fish it in the future for the species it does have?

Sorry my angling faithful as you can see I have once again baited you into my tale of tales, to find no fins at all but a pack of fishing lies to get you to hear about my Christmas vacation with the family in our favorite home away from home—Northern California’s Bay area.

It has been over a year since we have visited Lee and Geno, who live in Marin wood, about 30 minutes north of San Francisco. I had intentions of taking a rod and breaking away from the pack for one day to visit a new little hidden Nor-Cal river. But it was just not in the cards. From all the research I have done, it looks like most of the really juicy rivers of northern California are a little higher up, in the Redding area. That really poses a problem when we go to see Lee & Geno because it’s just too far for a day trip; I’m not really sure what the answer is… 

But you don’t have to be standing in a river wetting your line to have a good time; especially with the family. We decided on this trip to do those touristy things that we haven’t done in a long time. We re-visited Muir Woods, went to the Pier, walked over to China Town, hit a couple beaches and went to a museum. Oh I can’t forget what I think was the highlight of the trip for me—my first message. On New Year’s Day, we all went to Petaluma to get a full body message. I have always been reluctant to get a message, just because I don’t know if I can relax and let a complete stranger rub my body. Dear God was I wrong, as it turns out having a stranger rub you down is better, because you don’t have to whine and beg to get them to keep going. I think I have found a new tradition for New Year’s Day.

My apologies my fishing faithful for not fishing the Russian, I promise next time I am in wine country, I will “Get R’ Done!”

 

 

 

 

 

Davidicus, Hammer Time and break downs

"Are you kidding me, your broke down...where?" This isn't funny man, how close are you?" grumbles my cousin and lifelong buddy Davidicus. Actually his name is just David, but I converted his name to Latin years ago. "I wish it was a joke, but my truck just died at the bottom of the hill section of hwy 20 between Beaver and Panguich.

It’s never fun to break down, even if you are close to home, but it’s dreaded when you are out of town, and it’s even worse when it’s on the front end of the trip. If it happens on the way home, at least it doesn’t taint the trip.

I am not a mechanic, but I’m also not a complete idiot with cars. I do the routine check of belts, hoses, battery, fluids etc. Then I get back in the truck, who knows maybe doing nothing except looking at it, will somehow magically work, and it will turn right over. Nothing. Then I think about saying a little prayer; which I have little faith in; because I have been a real slob lately, and in my mind that’s never a good time to ask God for a favor. My situation is sure as hell not one of those “if you get me out of this jam, I promise…situations, but I decide to skip the prayer all together—seriously I’ve been such a slob the last couple years. I’ll call my buddy Scott, he owns a couple of Tunex shops, and is a good dude; who better to ask if he knows a good mechanic in the area?

This all goes really well, Scott give me a number to call, tow truck is on its way, and so is David, who is only about 30 minutes away. David’s buddy Eric, who I have not met, stays back at camp to finish setting up, tend to fire, so on so forth.

Here’s the strangest thing, they set up camp exactly where we camped on our last fall trip; without giving them specific campsite directions. It’s great seeing Davidicus, we have a great night dancing around the camp fire chanting like Indians and smearing Eric’s face with charcoals, making him feel like a brave young warrior; a warrior in God know who’s lame ass tribe. I got the strong feeling though, that Eric really had no interest in being in anyone’s tribe, or even being a brave young Indian warrior for that matter. It may be linked to when David moved from charcoals to burning coals. I think he was content being Eric, chilling at the camp fire, and enjoying the yummy brats and potatoes in my new Dutch oven.

In the morning we peal our frozen carcasses out of our mummy bags, I shake the frozen water in the jug enough to pour it into the coffee pot. By 10:00 we are on Asay Creek, and the day is looking beautiful. It’s amazing in this area how quickly it warms up. I am still waiting to hear back from the mechanic for the verdict on my truck. I kept telling myself that no matter what he says, I will not let it affect my good time. I will enjoy my day on the river.

I need to figure out what the fish are eating, and I know its not bugs on the top of the water. Okay, let’s be honest, I know they are hunkered on the bottom, but I just fight this. I really want these guys to experience the pure pleasure of catching fish on dries. Nymphing is fun, but in no way does it compare to hooking up on the top.

As the day goes on, I don’t see one fish rise to the top, and sure enough the only fish we are catching, are down deep. If fact the trick is putting weight on, and bouncing off the bottom, high sticking, and pulling a heavily weighted rig through. 12:00 and still no call. Okay I’ll call them, which is stupid, if they know anything, then they would call, but calling them will make me feel more in control.

We come to a clearly marked fence that oh so clearly says, “no trespassing, no fishing, hunting or off road vehicles beyond this point." Oh did I mention that it says “no fishing?” Eric is the first to make the move. Eric’s last name is Hammer—cool name right? Eric lays down the hammer, and goes under that barbed wire fence like he owns the place. Right at this point I decide that I like this guy. David and I are at a pretty good hole, and we’re both sort of “sitting on the fence.” When it comes to bending the rules, or breaking them outright, I'm down. It's probably the result of my narcissistic core that makes me feel the rules are for everyone except me.

I'm hearing the voice of my buddy Math who told me the guy who owns that private part of Asay shoots at people, or gets Johnny Law involved, and prosecutes to the fullest extent. Five minutes later we cross the wire, it’s on baby. The phone rings, it’s not what I wanted to hear, the timing belt went, and took half the motor with it. It translates into $1500 to $3000.

This is the point that you say all the clichés, like, "It is what it is," and "Well, what are you gonna do?" Or my personal favorite, "At the end of the day..." But no matter what you say, at the end of the day, it is what it is, what are you gonna do, you gotta fix it. And we get back to fishing. A truck pulls up behind us on the hill, and I'm thinking, great lets add a ticket to the whole thing, or with any luck I'll see a crusty old man pull out a shot gun and start firing. They drive off, and Davidicus and I are both thinking that was a sufficient warning, let’s get over on the less exciting part of the river. The job now is to reel in Eric, who was nowhere in sight. I call his technique "High Holeing It" when a guy races ahead of everyone to get to the high hole.

Fishing our way back, I know the thing to do is stick with deep nymph--the fish are on the bottom, and they are going for egg patterns, San Juan worms, hare’s ear, copper john’s, well really I think they are eating most any nymph you put right in front of their faces. I’ve always believed that trout will take food when it almost hits then right on the nose. But of course that’s not always the case.

Everyone hooked up with fish, and both Eric and David really got the feel for high stick nymphing. Throughout the whole trip, I didn’t show them how to fish with an indicator, and in the long run I think they will become better fly fishermen for it.

Loves & hates of Asay:

I love the open space, the chance of hooking into some really big fish, and although the water can get murky, the color of the water is a splendid blue.

I hate the river bottom. You feel like you are sinking into Elmer’s glue with each step. You sense at times as though you will not get out. Plus, each hole is slow enough that you kick up that mud, and you sort of skunk up each hole.

I need to get back to the Dutch oven topic—wow why did I wait so long to cook this way? We drove to Panguich and bought some more brats with some veggies. Slice things up, pour a few beers or water in, and put on the coals, and whoa-la delicious food. After a full belly, none of us made it much longer. I can stare at a camp fire all night long, but not tonight, the sandman delivered.

We are slow to rise, and have very little time on Mammoth Creek the next morning before my lovely lady rolled up. She must have got up before the sun to come get me. I had to leave the yellow truck behind, a new friend, and my brotha from another motha--Davidicus. My hope is that I’m invited to their annual fishing trip next year, who knows maybe I can combine their trip with mine?

Guest writer Xavier Matheson

Son of AVID flyfisherman/outdoorsmen Mike Matheson, this kid has tons of excitment and energy for the sport; I can wait to fish with these guys. Let's hear it for guest writer

Xavier Matheson

 

                The story of my journey to Jones Hole starts a long time ago when I started fly-fishing. I wish I could tell you the memory of my first cast, but I was so young even I don’t remember. My father took me up to the Monroe Mountains’ in his backpack, taught me how to cast, and told me to “lift!” when my first fish was on. A native cutthroat out of Manning Creek, but who knew the start of my addiction would be when I was three years old? The older I got, the more I got the hang of fly-fishing. It also helped that my whole family fly-fishes (my grandpa, five uncles, and five cousins). Pretty soon I was off on trips with my dad to bigger rivers like the Huntington, making middle-age men look foolish because I had been perfecting casts since a child.

                One day my grandfather came back from Jones Hole and gathered the whole family around to tell of the “18 inch fish in a smaller stream!” Because Grandpa never took pictures I never believed him, but as soon as I did my homework I knew there was going to be biggins!!! Jones Hole is a natural spring in the middle of the desert on the Utah/Colorado boarder that stretches 4.5 miles and a tributary of the Green River. Because it is a natural spring, the water level never changes, and neither does the water temperature. There is also a fish hatchery right where the stream comes out, that litters the stream with 2 million fish each year! You might say, “That’s a lot of fish going into Jones Hole, but the fish end up in the Green River. NO! By the time Jones Hole finds its way to the Green, the River is too filled with sediment for trout to live in. That means 4.5 miles of crystal clear water with 2 million fish (each year) in it. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it!

                The only downside is the drive to the stream. It is about 4 hours from SLC because you have to loop around to Vernal. When you arrive it is like a desert mirage. You’ve been stuffed into a car and seen nothing but sagebrush and what seems to be the same hill over and over again. Suddenly you drop into The Hole! Trees with reds, oranges, and yellows swarm the cliff faces that lead to the spring. You can see why famous outlaw Butch Cassidy hid out in Jones Hole because the cliffs are so dramatic and it is located in East Jesus. If you go on a lucky day you will see bighorn sheep and mountain lions(which I did not).

                To start the day I put on the biggest foam beetle I could find in my fly box. Black bodied with creeping legs that stabilized the creature when it floated on the water. “WAY TOO BIG!” my dad and uncle told me.  I ignored their veteran negativity and looked for biggest nymph I could find, a 1 inch long prince nymph with a bead head on it that reflected the morning sun. I tied the nymph about 18 inches below the beetle, a style known as “hopper-dropper” fishing. The first couple of holes looked grim as neither my dad, uncle, nor I had any action. I ran out of the stream being the opportunistic rookie I am and put in 50 yards ahead of my uncle. Soon we were all catching fish, one guy leap-frogging the next each cast pulling out a fish. There was so much action I was having to change flies every fifth fish! About midway through our leap-frogging tactic, the stream went cold. Nobody had any hits or rises for the past 100 yards. I ran out of the stream again thinking about the last time I ran ahead, I caught the first fish.  I went ahead to a beautiful spillover that caressed a boulder midway through the run. There was no way I wouldn’t catch a fish in here I thought, and when I do, it will be the monster. Pass after pass, seem after seem, drift after drift, nothing! I was too hungry for a fish to not get one, I rolled my line across the pool to a shallow area that had a baby spillover. Maybe I wouldn’t get the monster I had hoped but a little one would be nice. The dry fly bumped along as I ducked the rod underneath an overhanging branch. Suddenly the fly shot down beneath the surface, I set the hook, and saw the fish. “EXPLICIT-CONTENT” I said “I need a net man!” “MORE EXPLICIT-CONTENT” After a battle that left my forearm sore, I bagged (my dad netted the fish for me) the monster I had hoped for, an elegant brown trout of 19 to 20 inches.

                After I had landed Mr. Brown, we all decided to eat lunch. Over the sandwiches and soda, fruit and candy, we talked of our favorite catch of the day up until that point. We had fished another 2 hours after that, catching many more fish. I even caught fish on my beetle!            

 At the end of the day, I was fulfilled. Fulfilled with scenery, family love, and of course fishing! But soon as we started to drive off I started to not be fully enjoying the moment. As quickly as we came in was as quickly as we came out, and soon we were on the beaten oil highway in the sage brush desert. I was finally coming down from a long fishing high that was making me very sad. I wanted to be back on the stream. Fly-fishing is drug, you can’t just catch one, one cast may get you up, but that still isn’t enough. The older I have gotten, the more I have realized how much the sport means to me. I think everyone should try fly-fishing once, but of you don’t like it, you don’t like it. Find something you can do day after day and hour after hour. If fly-fishing has taught me anything it is to progress and appreciate life. Life is like fried chicken, you have to pick your way through to get the good stuff, and once you think there is no meat left, you can always dig in further and find a little more. Get lost in your car, Stay out long and gone, fall into the water, get those mud flaps muddy, rip your waders, sprain an ankle, break that brand new rod, fish the same spot twice, be true, be you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Calf Creek

I take two types of trips, one with my wife and children; and fishing trips with buddies. I now know why I don’t try to combine the two—if you think an outing with the family will yield much fishing time—ahhhh no. Let me be genuinely honest; I don’t just seek fishing trips--I enjoy traveling with my family as much, or more than fishing (sorry dedicated blog and fly fishing fellow freaks). I’m not saying this because I think my wife or one of my girls will read this; I sincerely enjoy traveling with them as much as I like to take fishing trips.

This trip was planned by Melis; a little Southern Utah trip over the UEA weekend to enjoy a little sun and red rock. Southern Utah has become my new favorite and I just got back from my fall fishing trip with buddies, so I’m still getting over the fun of that last trip; plus all the roads an routes are still pretty fresh in my mind. You can’t blame me for wanting to re-wet the fly line—Right!

Oh my God Bryce Canyon—I now see why so many Europeans and Asians flock to the red rock hoodoos! I thought I have been there before; I may have when I was a kid. I am seriously getting addicted to southern Utah. Yes it has a lot to do with the new rivers I have found, and the lack of people fishing those lovely rivers. Of course it’s about the red rock; but even more it’s the vast openness and the almost endless plateau’s. I kept taking what the kids called “Darth Vader” breaths—you can just breathe, and I’m not talking about the air quality, it’s all that openness.

I have fished Panguich Creek once before, but not on this trip—boo-hoo. Moving right along the highway, Hwy 12 to be exact.  Another must, if you haven’t put the rubber to the pavement on Hwy 12 then you just need to! It gives you the full gambit; the extreme vast open and arid Escalante, blending into the climb up Boulder Mountain to almost 10,000 feet; with high pinion pine and aspens. You then drop down into Torrey and Capital Reef.

We hiked up to Calf Creek falls—about 3 miles up to the spectacular falls; stunning the whole way up. It is pretty mild, not requiring too much strain. Honestly I would rate this hike high up on my list. It’s always nice to have a destination, but the whole way up to the falls, you are rewarded with classic southern Utah red rock, with plenty of vegetation fed by calf creek lightly trickling down the canyon.

About halfway up I got peeks of the creek, unbelievably clear for a southern Utah river; which usually has a sort of murk to it due to the red rock—especially during high rains. Calf Creek has numerous little fish swimming about. I didn’t see anything over 12 inches, as I creeped up to its banks. My urge to ask Melis to stop with me for just about a half hour to try my hand at those little guys was great. But I knew she wanted to get to the falls, and that she did not want to watch me pursue fish.

We got to the falls, which was in the shade, and the air was filled with the cool mist from the falls. I knew she wouldn’t last long. “You do know this trip is not about fishing right?” she phrased more as a comment than a question. It’s the longest I have hiked to get so few casts—maybe a dozen. I got one to go after an elk hair caddis—missed him. “Okay that was your shot, let’s go,” she says coolly. She wanted to get back because Jac, Hannah and her boyfriend Nick headed back to the car because Hannah is fighting a cold and not feeling well. Calf Creek will definitely see me again, ready to fish next time.

If I did have a complaint about fishing the river, it would be that a lot of hikers are there 365; and they are all those type of tourists that want to ask you what you’re doing, or make small talk about the types of trout you’re after…blah blah blah. But if you got into the river, you may never really see people, because they have their own agenda, hiking up the trail to see the falls.

The ride through hwy 12 was enjoyed by all, the girls and Nick really appreciated the change from Escalante to the high mountain of Boulder. Adding to the pleasure was some classic tunes from the Violent Femmes—Hannah and Jac are now big fans! But by the time we arrived at Torrey, I think the trip was sort of played out. We stayed the night, and tried to do some exploring in Capital Reef, but when it’s over, it’s over… The rest of the drive was nice, and it gave me a chance to do some more of those deep “Vader” breaths. No this trip was not about fishing, but I caught some great times with the girls; and as they get older I am really starting to appreciate them. You start to realize you have to revel in every moment you get with your kids; and my house of women rock!

South Fork Provo & Alpine Loop

Hannah is committed now, it’s pretty official--we got her a pair of waders. She's not the kind of kid to say, "Yeah buy them,” if she doesn't feel like she’ll use them. What does that really mean? Simple, she’s a fly fisherman; or fisherwoman. This is a pretty big deal to me, because it’s been a few years since the middle kid—Madeline left the sport. I’m totally stoked!!!

We went up Prove Canyon, and quite honestly I was thinking seriously about hitting the lower portion of the canyon—the water looked so good. Also there were no people out today, in fact I did not see one fisherman on the whole river. I love/hate the Provo for just that reason. Honestly it is one hell of a river, and you can’t say that Provo canyon is not beautiful. The hate part is not technically the river; it’s all the fishermen filling every hole.

But I just had a feeling she would love the ponds of South Fork—I was right. Hannah instantly fell in love with the canyon and the river. The leaves are at that prime point, and the air was full of fall, with big clouds threatening rain.

The pond was doing what it always does; boil with fish feeding off the top. The kid learned fast, she took to casting quick. Then came the rain, I mean rain with big fat sloppy drops. I thought we were done—no she hung tough. We finally decided to seek refuge under a clump of trees, to wait for the down pour to mellow.

Great day on the river, and the best part was the beginning of what looks to be a new sport for the kid, and who knows maybe a life time of casting lines together (hope and pray!)