East Fork Sevier to East Fork Virgin

East Fork of the Sevier to the East Fork of the Virgin River

From the East Fork Sevier, Black Canyon section, to the East Fork of the Virgin, one adventure leads to another, to another. At the risk of freaking out my loyal blog readers (Roger) I’m going to ask a risky question: is it more fun going on a quest to find a new river, than it is to catch the fish in that river? I know this question could mean I just committed fishing blasphemy. But fishing doesn’t start once you lay your line on the water—it starts once your tires hit the road.

Colby & I have been planning on a trip to the Sevier for weeks. I have been on line, in fly shops, and asking other friends the best area to hit this time of the year. A new fishing buddy, Mike Matheson “Math” said he knows the Sevier well—“Go to the East Fork of the Sevier, Black Canyon Brotha,” comments Math with a boyhood excitement. I’ve never fished with Math, and honestly I really don’t know if he knows Jack about fishing, or rivers for that matter. But he has me convinced; something about the guy has me hooked that he knows his stuff. But even if he’s off, it’s not about the fish, it’s about the adventure.

We stopped in the mercantile store in Antimony, to double check our directions, and well maybe to get a taste of the locals. I regret not taking my camera in the place with me, or even going back to the car to get it. This gal behind the bar making bacon & eggs greets us. We see the back of about 6 or 7 cowboy hats. They all give us the classic “you boys ‘aint from around here” look. As expected the ol’ boys and cook don’t have much to tell us about fishing the river, except that we are on the right track, and keep going down the road. But I will say she made a mean double cheese burger and Philly steak sandwich. We stopped by after we were done fishing, I recommend it if you find yourself in the area.

The river on the other hand, had a lot to say to us: it said nice fat healthy browns, amazing oxbow bends, hole after hole. You didn’t have to walk more than 10 feet from the hole you are fishing, to get to another amazing section. The banks and a large portion of the river were muddier that I thought it would be which I think added to a sort of off color to the water. Not that it was bad, and it didn’t seem to affect the health of the fish.

We had a great day, good time had by all. The weather was great, and I would guess it heated up to about the low 50’s that day. One thing that shocked me though, was that I did not see one fish rise. I worked hard in the morning with various small dries, and I didn’t get any to rise, in fact I didn’t see one fish all day feed off the top. Everything we caught was off various nymphs off the bottom. I used a bead head to weight me down, they seemed to like most everything; mostly caddis and midge. I had a little success swinging soft hackle, but they really had not moved much off the bottom. I can’t wait to see what that river fishes like when hoppers are on. Some sections of the Black Canyon are private, but they are clearly marked, and there is enough public area to fish for days.

I had to meet my wife somewhere on I-15 at 5:00; we are planning on going to St. George to see our oldest to check out UNLV. I am also hoping to check out the East Fork of the Virgin. I’m going back down there in a month to Camp with Hannah, my daughter, and we have been looking at the East Fork. From what I have discovered on line, is that the east fork has clear water coming from Tropic, and that it holds some browns & bows in it. Once the fork meets up with the Virgin River, it becomes too muddy to support trout.

Colby and I drove through Kingston canyon through I-70 and checkout out the Sevier on our way over to I-15. I have never fished that section either--it is a beautiful river. I think I will have to focus some of my attention to this area this summer. We met up with my wife in Utah’s original capitol Fillmore, and parted ways. It’s lookin like Colby is a keeper member of the “One River at a Time” club, he’s fun to fish with & he enjoys looking for new rivers as much as I do.

The next morning the girls head to UNLV, and I get sent to go scout out our coming camping trip somewhere on the East Fork of the Virgin—bummer I’ll just have to rough through it. My quest started to get more exciting when I asked the ranger at the gate about the east fork, “I’m on a quest my query begins… then she sends me to the visitor’s center. Looking at the map the east fork confluence with the Virgin is at the town of Rockville, coming from Mt Carmel and Orderville, flowing from Tropic Reservoir. I start the conversation with “I’m on a quest to find the East Fork of the Virgin…” She gets a twinkly in her eye but she doesn’t really know anything about it, and sends me to another person at the visitor’s center. I’m thinking, “This will be great, I will get some geologist, or biologist, some …ologist who is going to have some specific info.” No, again she doesn’t know of a section of the East Fork that has trout in it, in the park; in fact she says the park section is closed to people. She sends me to Mt. Carmel. Its feeling like I’m going to really have to earn this river. I’m okay with working to earn a river, and honestly I expect it when you are trying to find trout in a river not known for having trout.

I saunter into this gas station/trading post and I bust into my adventure routine with this lady behind the counter selling native jewelry to some grouchy German lady. She instantly takes interest in my story, and asks me why I am interested in only rivers. I briefly explain my “One river at a time” obsession and its clear to see I have her hooked deep. “I don’t know anything about fishing or rivers around here, but I know a guy who does,” she sort of pauses. “But he’s kinda loco.” I explain that I’m fine with loco “Well what kind of loco,” I feel like I should ask. “He’s just different, looks like a mountain man, but he knows more about fishing and these mountains that anyone around here, his name is ‘Little Dick.’” “Little Dick,” I say okay this is too funny. “His name is Richard Spencer he doesn’t really like going by ‘Little Dick’ anymore,” she says. “Did he used to like being called ‘Little Dick’ at one time?” I ask with shit eatin’ grin on my face.

She goes on to tell me that Richard is out of town right now, so I give her my number, hoping she’ll give it to him. It just sounds like too much fun tromping around the hills of Dixie National Forest with Hannah and her friend Erica, her dad and I and mountain man “Little Dick.” Since he’s out of time for the time being, she sends me over to the next town to Orderville.

This town doesn’t have more than 30 businesses on Main Street, and about a dozen are rock shops; one is called “Fishers.”  I consider the name to be a good sign. An old guy with a big beard and a beat up KC Chief’s cap is behind the counter—he just looks like he will know where to send me. Once again I am dead wrong he does not. “I was told a guy named Little Dick knows a lot about,” I am explaining and he cuts me off. “Little Dick don’t like me, but other people around here love me. And one of those people who can help you is just down the road.” He sends me to see a guy named Clark at the gas station. Off I go.

I talk to Clark’s son at the counter, until his dad comes from the shop. Finally this guy seems to know the area, although he hasn’t fished in over 20 years. This guy, like everyone else today is really nice to me, and seems to really want to help me. You know the saying “the whole world conspires to help you when you are on a quest.” He says the fork running through town is in fact the Virgin, which would match up with all my info that it is the East Fork. “Go past Glendale and just past there you can turn up a canyon that leads out at Stout Canyon, which is where you can camp. If you continue along 89 you will get to Tropic Reservoir. The river running out of that is the Virgin. Whaa-laa I believe I have found what I am looking for. Still it does not match up with the slot canyons I have seen people fishing one line. But all the same, I drive it, I scout it, and I find a lot of it still covered in snow. But who knows it may be melted off by the end of the month.

Now for those who know me, I know you are asking if I got my line wet in the East Fork of the Virgin. Well to do that I would have to bring a rod and reel with me, along with at least one fly. Well, it just so happened that I did bring at least one of the above items with me. The section I stop at has a fence, as I am going over barb wire the thought does occur to me that it may not be public access area--but who can say for sure, and I do hear the river calling my name.

Post script: little mistake here, I said the East Fork of the Virgin is fed by Tropic Reservior, which is not true if feeds the East Fork of the Sevier. The east Fork of the Virgin was really tricky to figure it out, it bubbles up from a spring. March 9, 2013

Jumpin the gun

I thought I had the weather prediction all dialed in--no really. I talk pride in reading the weather, sort of being able to predict when their is a change of season. I watch the little subtle things, and if read properly you can say with confidence "fall has arrived, or in this case WINTER IS OVER."


I felt the gentle little shifts in weather, birds singing, changes in the sky, cloud differences, oh yeah baby I thought for sure today would be one of those early, early spring days on the river, where the beloved sun shows his happy face, and heats the day up to maybe 41 or hell maybe 42. No, I was wrong, and the day was windy and cold. Old man winter still has his bony grip on the neck of Mother Nature. At most holes, we had to bust through the ice. It would break off in huge sheets and float down river; this lasted all day.


However with that said, I am going to further predict that even though I was wrong today, winter is on the way out. Oh we will still see snow, rain and some cold days. But they will not be the hard hitting stuff we have felt for the past few months. Old Man Winter's hands are still on her throat, but they are only loosly placed there, ready to pull back. The snow we see in the next month or so will come one day, and be melted off the road by the next day or two. Mornings will still frosty, and the snow piled up on your boat in your front yard will not be gone tomorrow, but pay attention lovers of spring and sunshine times they are a changin.

Winter Blues

Winters gloom is sticking to my everything; filling all the space with its chill and worse its inversion. I have been cooped up inside for too damn long, and today I was bound and determined to get out, regardless of how the day went.

Honestly, I love winter, well mostly I love winter. Well, I can say that I like it. To me there is no greater mountain-scape than when its wrapped in winters white coat. There is a certain tranquility that winter and snow bring, that no other season can touch. I enjoy the snow, and not just skiing in it. I actually enjoy it for what it is.

I can handle the cold, I even like it, when I am properly dressed for it, and geared up for it in my mind. I dig winter fishing, waiting for the day to heat up, and the midge to get moving, then seeing the water boil with trout slurping them off the top. You know you have only a small window of time before the sun fades, and the fish stop feeding, so it makes the time you have all the better.

With that said though, I have had enough of winter. I am ready for a change of pace, and today I did not care if I froze to the bone I was going to get my waders on, and my line in the water. The only river right not that is supposedly fishing well is the Provo. I love the river itself, but I usually do not like to fish it. It just has too many people on it. And today sure enough everyone was there.

Actually it didn't start out that way. Evan and I were there early, about 8:00 and no one was in the parking lot; we turned left at the first light coming into Heber Valley. I don't know what they call that section, but if you fish the Provo, you know where I'm talking about. Honestly I can see why everyone fishes it, it is an amazing river--all you can ask for.

It snowed most of the morning, and you could tell the sun wanted to come out, and so did the midge. I worked it hard all morning nymphing and dry/dropper fishing--with only a couple bites. Then they started feeding off the top. I worked it hard with tiny dry's but nothing. I decided with them feeding off the top like that, I would have luck swinging softies. Bingo.

There was one point for about 15  minutes where I was on fire. God it was fun. I say this all the time, and I stand by it: you don't have to catch fish to have fun. But when you do, it really does add to the pleasure. I would have had a great time even if I didn't get one bite; I really need to get out. But catching fish does not suck.

Viva Naughton

Yes I went back again to Viva Naughton and the Ham's Fork--this time with my oldest daughter Hannah aka Beezer. She is going back to St. George on Sunday to go back to school, so it was a chance for us to take a drive together, and see the rocking Wyoming country side.

No one can say that Wyoming doesn't know how to turn the heat down in the winter; damn that place can get cold. I can only imagine what its like when it really gets cold--ouch. Before we went to Viva Naughton Damn, to check out the river, we stopped in town for a bit in Kemmerer. That place is a zoo--for deer that is. Wow I have never seen deer so unafraid of humans. We turned off on a little street off the main road, and there were a bunch of doe's walking right behind Hannah. We saw a little spike sitting down in the snow looking all sad. As we turned the corner, I saw why. There were big bucks walking around with not a care in the world.

I was taking pictures of them from the car, and wondered if they would spook once I opened the car door, which usually frightens the deer away. They could care less, even when I walked toward them. I was half wondering if I had something they wanted to eat if they would let me pet them. Who knows, I may have been able to get a bucking buck ride--grab on to that huge rack and giddy-up! I feel confident to say if you were a deer hunter, it would be worth it to check into getting a tag in that area.

We went to the damn at Viva Naughton, and walked down to the spillway. Oh what a beautiful river. I cannot wait until early spring to don the waders, see if the fishing is anything like deer hunting would be. If it were, huge 20 plus inch Browns would impale themselves on bare hooks.

Review of 2012

Thank God the world didn’t end. But if it would have, I can say it was one of my best years yet. It brought fame fortune and glory—well maybe that’s not the best way to describe my 2012, but I was a year full of event and good fortune.

To begin with, I celebrated my 25^th anniversary with my Sweet Melissa, commemorated by a Mediterranean cruise. It started in the fabled Venice, made its way down the Adriatic Sea, up along the Mediterranean and ending on a Spanish island. I think it was the only vacation we have been on that we didn’t fight even once. I got lucky to get that woman. As for her, well…nobody said it was fair, sorry I got the better end of the bargain.

I have seen all three of my beautiful girls really develop into themselves. I am so proud of each one of them, not because of what they accomplish, but because of who they are. When you have little children, they are still so open and undecided about which roads they will travel. When they hit the early teen years, they really start making decisions, and they start laying track on the path they will travel. I am proud of the track that each one of my girls is laying. They are each one their own person, with their own style and traits. They all make me proud to be their father. I have complete faith in where they are heading.

It was not without its problems, my dad was diagnosed with lung cancer. But what was initially identified as stage 4 was reduced to stage 3A which is much better. He’s still not out of the woods, and who really knows how it’s going to play out. But stage 4 is basically a death sentence, and you are treated in a manner that helps reduce your pain and perhaps buy a few precious days. I am working on accepting what may come, because in the end no one is getting out of here alive. But maybe the old man can have at least a few more years here. I love him.

I had a great fall fishing trim. I changed it this year, and did not go with any buddies, and went with just my dad. It was a trip to Colorado—just the two of us. We hit some fabled river: The Frying Pan, The Roaring Fork and The Gunnison. I love all of them, but I broke a personal fish record on the Roaring Fork. The boys at the local fly shop did not believe me when I told then I landed a 27 to 28 inch Brown. My dad was up river with the camera about 50 yards, and I could not trek down river to take a pic. But I yelled to him and held the fish up. I could see his face light up with surprise and amazement. I laid the mammoth on the ground and put his tail at the butt of my fly rod, and his head was about 2 to 3 inches short of the first eyelet. Later when we were back at the truck I measured the eyelet at 30 inches. Who cares what anyone says, dad and I know how big it was.

I cherish my friends, both new and old. I have friends that are in the words of Roger, “better than I deserve” I have been blessed to have met such great people, and to keep them in my life. As the years roll on, and I think of the times spent with them—I go into that nostalgic part of myself. When I see their kids become adults, for example Tom, who’s daughter is now the age when we became friends. I feel the circle of time, and I rejoice in it. Some friends have been lost along the way. Who knows, maybe they will return again down the road.

It was a year with financial prosperity. I worked hard in 2012 and it paid off.

So here’s to a great year. Here’s to 2013 being even better!

Ham's Fork last post of the year

Ham’s Fork River, Wyoming

Utahan’s like to throw both Idaho and Wyoming under the bus, tagging the residents as backward ass hillbillies living out in now-where’s-ville. I’m not really sure why, until I see what was once a fantastic little fox--shot by some idiot, then displayed up on the fence at the lake access parking lot.

I am not really sure what anyone would get out of doing this act of I don’t know what would you call it… “territory marking?” This is not the first time I have seen this, including in Utah. I’ve seen plenty of coyotes in the basin area shot, and strung up on the fence. I just wonder where this bizarre custom comes from. Is it some ancient primal Neanderthal custom where cave man screams to the world “I rule these lands beware both man and beast,” by displaying his most recent kill. Does this guy think if he kills foxie and sticks him up on the fence that others of its kind will come sniffing around, see one of their own and run and hide, never to be seen again? Well there’s the question, why would you not want to see a fox again? Are they eating your cattle? No. How about your sheep—stupid question? No! How about your chicken coop? Maybe, build a better coop then. So what in the hell are you killing such a magnificent creature for? Here’s the thing, what makes a place beautiful? It’s more than just the environmental surroundings: the mountain structure, trees, river, lake… The beauty is also found it the animals who live in the wilderness. If you kill and eat, or kill in skin something—no problem; but to kill the stunning fox just to strap bloody and lifeless to the fence—No!  I realize they are predators, and that a large part of their diet is also game birds like pheasants, that the fox is in direct compitition with the hunter. That still does not justify the act of killing them and hanging them on the fence.

With that said, I am not going to let it jade my opinion or Wyoming, or the people who live there for that matter. After all this could have been one or two stupid teenagers, and you can’t judge the whole state by a couple punks. Still—

This was my first river adventure with my old time buddy Tom. Although it’s the heart of winter, we both needed to get out a little bit and “get some air” so to speak. I have been studying maps of Idaho, Montana and “Forever West Wyoming” for days. To me all three states are fly fishing meccas, and of the three I probably steer more toward Idaho than the other two, but I love all three for both their rivers and mountain ranges.

Many years ago when I was a teenager I remember fishing the river in Kemmerer, which I did not know was the Ham’s Fork; I was just thrilled by all the huge fish we were catching with our Mepp’s spinners. I also remember being chased across a field by a bull—it scared the hell out of me. I was screaming like a school girl running toward my older brother and uncle to same me. I remember is so vividly. Aside from that adventure, I have only driven through the area, on my way to Jackson.

This was also one of my first escapades to a river that I did not even pack a rod. Even in the heat of the day I bet it was not even 20 to 25 degrees, and as it got later in the day I bet it was easy 10 below. Even at 25 above, that pretty much shoots you down. The fish are not feeding at those temps and your line turns to a frozen rope in a matter of one to two casts. But fishing was not the purpose of this trip; it was a time to explore. It’s not like Tom has never seen a river, or stopped and sat at the bank of one and enjoyed its solitude. But it is still nice to take a friend to the places that mean so much to me, places that re-charge my soul, and help wash all your troubles away.

The Ham’s Fork did its job on both of us. We pulled off the road just below the spillway and found a ladder going over the barb-wire fence. Someone else had the idea of paying homage to the river before us, and broke a trail through—we followed it down to the river bank. It was really cold at this point, cold enough that we were not going to stay too long. But I did get some shots, and got to listen to the sound of the river.

Ham’s Fork falls right into my favorite size of river, not too big, not too small. It looks to have a wonderful rock bottom, and good flow, which helps to create the right environment for bug life. And we all know if bugs grow in a river, then fish eat the bugs; and if the fish eat a lot of bugs that means they become big fish. Another aspect that makes this river so interesting to me is all the oxbow bends and twists to the river. This creates excellent holes, and pocket water that I love to fish. I cannot wait until early spring to see what this river looks like, and fishes like when winter’s grip starts to loosen.

I will have to return with Tom on an early spring day when the big clumps of snow and ice are falling off the branches, and the birds are swarming, from sparrow to the eagle. Find out if the river speaks to Tom, when the life expands, when the fish are rising to the tiny caddis on top of the water; the muskrats, otters, beavers are making themselves busy. Maybe we will get lucky and see the return of Mr. Fox bouncing around with his proud, full orange tail.