Red & Black Canyon Gunnison River Colorado

 

These 3 Utahans walk into a dive bar in Montrose Co. and start a mild, friendly conversation with the women behind the bar. She asks, “what brings you guys to Colorado, are you hunting?” The bald handsome traveler in the group replies, “where here to fish.” At this point the waitress/bartender seems a little bit interested. It appears to the three Utah fishermen that she expected them to be hunters, after-all that’s what most guys their age, dressed in flannel are in Montrose Colorado to do.

“Well, where are you guys going fishing? She inquires? “We’re going to fish the Black Canyon of the Gunnison” replies the unmarried fishermen in the group,” with a tone that elicits a sort of “are you impressed? Tone to his voice.

Her face sort of drops and almost immediately out of her mouth flow the words “but you guys are old, and it's October!” 

East & West Rosebud (following in Jeff Erikson's footsteps again)

Brother Tob brings his beloved Son Gilbert aka Gilly along for the first time on a fishing trip. Once again Jeff Erikson proves to pick delightful off the beaten path rivers to fish. I rode over the Beartooth hwy which was absolutely amazing! Great time on the East & West Rosebud Rivers. 

Gettin Bro-Back with my Broke-Back in Hoback

 I'm not sure if the play on words works with Hoback and Broke Back works but I'll work on a story and photos to follow.

Big Lost

The original group of West High traveling throwback fishermen goes back a solid 10 years, numbered 7 in total. There was really no need for discussion about calling ourselves “The Magnificent 7,” why the hell wouldn’t we? I had a great time assigning everyone a character, and I dove at the chance of being Yul Brynner. Over the course of those 10 years we’ve grown a lil softer, a lil kinder, and a lot more loving. There is a sequel to the Mag 7, called the return of the 7, but somehow we settled on calling ourselves the  Broke Back Boyz (BBB) because of our love of Ennis and Jack, and the affection we feel toward each other. 

This most recent adventure for the BBB took us to Idaho’s Big Lost River near Mackay, sure as shit, we totaled 7 again. I think we’re still Magnificent, and we’ll always be Broke Back, but this sequel just sort of seems like we added a new dimension. For some reason it feels somewhere between Willy Wonka and the Keebler Elf teams up with a few Hobbits and Gandalf, with a Broke Back flair to it. There’s no way in hell we’re the return of the 7.

I rode up a day or so before everyone else so I could stop by my daughter’s house to see her and my new grand-daughter Sunny. The only hard thing about this whole trip was leaving that little meat-ball behind. She’s only 3 months old, but when I put her down for the last time to say good-bye she winked at me. 

The upper forks, are some of the most beautiful western streams I have walked in. Spring clear water rolling over river rocks, some plopped in the middle of the river the size of a VW Beetle. The wide open canyons of the Big Lost area help me breath; I long to stay there forever.

We got a chance to barely touch the tip of the rivers that meander through the canyons. The greater Snake River Basin holds so many little spring fed waters and streams that you could live a life time and still not fish them all. This area is not undiscovered, it is not a mystery or what we have called “Shangri-La” or the “Fountain of Youth.” People know that this area is out there, both its beauty and fish are known. This region is not Jackson, or Ketchum or Sun Valley, at least not yet. 

I was stubborn and resisted going straight to nymphing this water, regardless of the deep holes that for sure held some monsters. But the chance to practice casting fat hackled drys on this kind of water is worth not catching as many fish. With the amount of volume and the clarity of water, watching a Cut, Brooke or Bow come up and take a dry was far worth catching less fish working the bottom of each hole. 

This quest wasn’t “there and back again,” but it was the beginning of getting Lost in a Big way again. The mystery of where the river goes, and just the name itself makes me want to get lost in the endless web of rivers that feed it. I love to say its not about catching a lot of fish, or catching a big fish, but I missed the biggest rainbow I’ve ever seen in any river, and it rose to my dry not one once but twice. I think the first time he just missed my hopper, but dam-it I pulled the second take right out of his mouth before he got a chance to get hooked. I think I can get more “lost” in the fish I didn’t land, or even hook then the ones that your hold up for a pic. But when that Bow swam away with its flaming red sides I swear it wink at me. 

Fishermen crank out book after book about why they dry fly fish instead of using a worm, which will for sure catch more fish that chucking a hook with beads and feathers on it. What fish doesn't want to eat a live night crawler? I’m just saying who really cares why we keep casting flys at trout, who really cares what the hell is right or wrong about going. I just want to keep getting lost in it.

(Photo's to follow)

Sweet Success

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!

 

Wind River Range to the Big Horn--Cowboy state delight

With a cast of characters identifying themselves somewhere between Jack Twist and Ennis Del Mar in a modern cowboy romance, and a hot sweaty hombre in a Spaghetti western--we fantasize that we’re not a group of high school teachers, but instead wildly romantic adventurers flying by the seat of our pants—or rather our waders. Its time for all of us to leave behind our obligation, responsibility and The Mother fucker known as Covid -19 to dive head first into another fishing adventure beyond the 100^th meridian. Meeting at the Wal-Mart parking lot at 4:00 a.m. because one of us has the good sense to know that all of us can handle missing a few hours of winkie-winkie time to get to camp with a whole day ahead of us.

 

It’s, as much about time spent with this group of degenerates, as it is the quest, the fish and the rivers--I can’t wait to sink my teeth into these bastards. I’m confident they all love getting together, particularly to soak their delicate lil’ parts in a river, and swilling down each other’s selected whiskey at the campfire. But for me hanging with this group originally referred to as “The Mag 7” after the original 1960 western, then a name changed occurred to the “BBB” as the group grew in size and sensitivity, fills the cockles of my heart with nuttin’ but joy.

 

An old member who often waits until the last moment to bail on us to chase Nick instead of hanging with Dick joined in. He’s as attractive and lovable as he is brilliant. He may not get to be the Dad, but he will always be “The Oracle.”

 

He brings with him a couple post adolescents that for sure fit into the category “Young Guns.” I couldn’t say which one is more handsome, or which one would be more likely than the other to be in a “boy band” but put them together and they for sure bring meat & muscle to the “BBB.” The senior member of the two is often referred to as “The Jungle Boy” and is sort of the sponsor to the newest guy who is cutting his teeth on not only fishing but campfire antics as well. Breaking in the new guy and showing him the ropes is a big deal, and the original plan was to have a Baby Bear do it, thereby transforming him from Ursa-Minor to Ursa-Major, but that just wasn’t in the stars. Giddy up “Young Guns!”

 

It’s not an adventure with out the scientist who doesn’t know he’s a poet, and the poet who knows he’s a scientist.  For years the “Mag 7” searched for just the right guy to be “The Dad” of the group, that guy who adds stability and a sense of strength and comfort, when the wind blows hard on your tent flap, or a twig snaps in the dark when you’re taking a pee, you know he’s there to keep you safe. Brains, Brawn, Ballz and Bravado—both of them! The group also lacks answers to questions that usually only the poet/scientist have answers to; with them we are cradled in comfort. My the Lord above bless me with years and years with both of their stiff rods at my side.

 

 

Our destination has two legs to it, starting with the southern tip of the manly peaks of the Wind Rivers, finishing up rolling truck tires over the Big Horn side of the cowboy state into Big Sky Montana where we’ll join Frank aka Spock, his son Zach aka Zach and his their side-kick Walter.  Somewhere along the line we named the trip “The quest for Shangri-La.”

 

I remember exactly where the seed was planted in my mind to find Shangri-La. It was on another of Wyoming’s remote and delightful rivers steeped in out-law lore; Diamond James Tobler and I ran into a Texican who couldn’t believe another person was on that river, but after bullshitting for a bit, he shared another of Wyoming’s hidden jewel’s he claimed was every bit as good or better than the river we were on. Fishermen will lie and hide their private rivers, but do they ever lure you to rivers they say are special, but are not? No. The seed has been growing for about 3 years, and the quest for unknown, undiscovered remote rivers is actually better than fishing them.

 

I guess each fisherman is after his/her own thing, it seems like most are out on lakes and rivers to simply catch fish, big fish and a lot of them. My experience is that most fishermen are also interested in big rivers, famous rivers that have big tales told about them, and people flock from all around the world to see if they can catch some of those fabled fish.

 

I too like catching a lot of big fish, but there is something about the hunt for new waters, and new mountains and driving to new territory that evokes an unquenchable desire that never gets fully put out. But when you find the next Shangri-La there is a brief moment when you feel like you have fulfilled that hunt, and you can be at peace. Of course it all starts again when you get home, put the gear away, rest a few days and let it sink it, then the next seed starts sprouting. If I’m really honest on the drive home I start talking about the next quest…shit!

 

I felt that elation hiking over a hillside to find one of the spots the Texican said two rivers confluence. It was lush and deep with moose and elk carcasses picked to the bone and bear shit all over the place. It was sort of scary and thrilling at the same time, and unfortunately we left dad aka El-Padre back down the hill, so who was to protect us?

 

Enough can’t be said for the beauty of the Big Horn Mountain range. I totally get why Crazy Horse, Sitting Bull & company were willing to fight so hard for the area. Spock reminded me at the campfire that the battle wasn’t fought in the actual hills of the Big Horns, but in my mind it was, it took place all over the damn place. I don’t think Spock could hear their voices in the wind, he would say it was a truck or some other campers, but I could hear their war cry “Ho-ka-ha “Today is a good day to fight, a good day to die. Strong hearts, brave hearts to the front, cowards weak hearts to the rear,” Crazy Horse said to the fighting Oglala Sioux. Odds are I would have pissed my pants and slithered to the back. But standing on the Big Horns 2020 in the midst of Covid, I am one bad son-of-a-bitch that heeds his war cry and I am sandwiched right between Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull with my little Sage 3 wt. rod in hand ready to get it on!

 

The remainder of the trip was delightful river after river bouncing from one little tributary to the next, getting home late--beat up from staying too long on the water with afternoon rain storms, and almost not getting out at all because of muddy roads; ended each night with nursing out our frustrations at the crazy world we live in at the camp fire.

 

I stayed one day too many to the chagrin of my lovely Sweet Melissa who so patiently waits for her wandering “legend in his own mind” to finally decide he’s ready to come back to her caressing arms. I don’t think she will ever learn to live with my mistress named “The River” I get it—sort of. I don’t know any woman who is more patient and understanding, and I sure as hell can’t expect her to understand my terminal issue.  May she never make me pick between her and my mistress, it would suck to never stand in a river again.

 

Driven mad to find that last section of Shangri-La the Texican talked about drove us over the Big Horns into Montana and back again in the cowboy state to prove that the last but sure as hell not the least member of the “7” and the “BBB” is more than a snake snatcher, but a navigator extraordinaire. When I had give up hope of finding that last little tributary, Tobler held strong and found and fished Shangri-La leg 2. He deserves to be the only one. But in the spirit of the ancestors I feel that when he achieving his goal, we all achieved the goal. As you say "If you don't go, you don't know." Diamond James you are a true explorer! 

 

 

 

Casting a line with Madeline

It seems like Madeline was fishing with me as soon as she could walk--give or take a few years. She would sit right next to me in the truck driving to which ever river we picked. She was particularly fond of the Weber and Holy water. I think she liked to drive out to Holy, the experience was the whole package; at least it was to me. But, a dad tends to remember things with rose-colored glasses, hell I'll admit it, I recall most everything with a completely jaded lens. 

She got about 13 and let me know in a not so subtle way that our days fishing were over. I didn't ever imagine those days would end, I envisioned us just fishing our lives away. Over the last 10 years she will occasionally indulge me by going fishing for a day. It would take her about 10 minutes to get into the groove and she’s right back to catching more fish than me. Each time we go, I always pray that she will catch the fever again and take her seat where she belongs right next to me in my truck.

She just graduated college and moved to Vernal to count flora and fauna for the Forest Service, and by God she asked if I would take her and her roommate fishing. I just happen to know of a river or two in that area worth fishing.

I think her and her roommate enjoyed the day, if not the fishing at least the lunch and the day out. Fingers crossed that I’ll be driving to Vernal a lot this summer.

Sisters

I suppose its fitting that if Beezer moves out of state that she would move to Sisters Oregon, an adorable little town about a 30 minute drive north of Bend, situated comfortable below the three sisters volcanic peaks. Story has it that some missionaries originally named the peaks Hope, Faith, and Charity, which fits my vision of my girls, but now the peaks are named North, Middle, and South Peak. Both names fit my girls to a tee. Jacqueline Grace, the southpaw South Peak, Madeline Hope, because everybody need a little hope in the middle of them, and Beezer who is now the North Peak could use a little faith.

Were not the first parents to have their daughter move away, and cute lil girls have to grow up, and dads have to let them spread their wings and find their place in the world. But we will all miss having her in out daily lives. Here’s to her and Dalton and their new northern adventure.