Southern Utah

Southern Utah

6th Water

 

 

 

 

 

Jimmy, Pete and I would fish Diamond Fork a lot in the teenage years. My most powerful memory of all comes from the hot pots—in particular one night we got chased all the way down the canyon onto I-15 by some crazy drunks. Who were the drunks, you ask? Well, good question? Let’s just say we evaded getting a serious ass beating by throwing full beer cans from the back seat  directly into their windshield, while careening 90 mph down the canyon;  getting away only by driving through the median of the freeway and booking it the other direction.  This sounds like a fish tale—well aren’t all tales?

 

In terms of fishing Diamond Fork, well we did a lot of that too. But for the life of me I can’t honestly remember if we fished the tribs of that river. If we did, I can surely tell you that we did not know they had names like 5^th Water or 6^th Water.  Least of us three who would know what the hell was going on was me, I was the youngest “tagalong” I was I  just happy to be included.

 

At any rate, enough of tripping down memory lane. Let’s get current. I told the Oracle  the other day that I was at the point that I can say, "I have fished pretty much all of Utah!" Quick note: "The Oracle is another one of those Roger Eastman's, a guy who knows too damn much about the terrain of the Wild West. I realize by saying I have flushed out the state, that this does not mean all the little tribs and ditches locals know in their little stretch of the state. But for the most part,  I have fished almost all the major rivers & streams of the land of Zion. It took The Oracle maybe 1 minute to dig into his little bag of rivers and pull out 6th Water.

 

Okay, maybe I’m not done. Let’s dig into the deeper cuts. This trib is not unknown, but it’s deep. Go into any of the local fly shops and I'm sure the guides know of it, but...its not on the radar for most fishermen. I drove up the canyon as far as I could, but was shut down. The gate was locked past the hot springs, so I was forced to go down river a bit, and work up the tributary on foot. It was touch going, and I never did get to the area The Oracle spoke about. But I put on miles, and got back to my truck about 4:00. I was starving and just beat to hell. But I was happy; happy to be tired, and happy to sit on my tail gate and listen to the brats sizzle in my pan. I guess I will have to wait for another day to fish the section he talked about. Maybe we can make it a hot springs trip---ouch.

Leeds Creek--An angry Land

“Brethren—you and yours shall travel to the new Zion, to the southernmost region of our new lands, and ye shall farm the land, and tame the land, and multiply and be fruitful.” I can see Brigham saying something like this to newly converted young Mr. Tobler, fresh off the boat from Switzerland. He is ready to do his part for God’s new chosen people. So he loads his young family in the wagons, and pull carts, and makes the painstaking journey south, to a land blistering with heat, prickle pear cactus, Sage, Angel Wing Cactus, Agave, Thistle, Desert Sandwort, among other hostile flora of the land screaming—“go ahead and touch me, I dare you, see what happens!” 

This is the land of Dixie, the southernmost region of the Mormon pioneer, that despite its extreme heat, deep cliffs and angry hostile plant life, the Mormon pioneer did manage to tame, and bend this land to his will.  If you pay close attention, you see a “Rebel” inside the modern Dixie men & women of St. George—an attitude that was perhaps shaped by the harsh land, independence and separateness to the inhabitant of southern Utah. I’m not even going to get into a discussion about the Pligs or Monster truck confederate flag flying hillbilly.

Our journey to the land of Zion is of a much more light hearted and playful nature--the pursuit of a true native to the land, one not actually of the land, but a species that survived and sometimes even flourish despite very little water, and extreme heat—the Bonneville Cutthroat Trout.

Our brethren, the one we refer to as “The Oracle” selected some of Southern Utah’s tiniest of streams as a spring break get away. Our ultimate goal is to go deep into Leeds Creek and find some of its tributaries, like Horse, Spirit and Pig Creek. Now keep in mind these streams are tribs of a creek that in its entirety is considered a very small Utah stream. Put another way, most fishermen would look at Leeds and say, “Wow we drove 5 hours to fish this overgrown trickle?”

To make matters more completed, our “go to man” on this trip “The Oracle” had some family things come up, leaving us with a couple maps as our only source of information to find intricate veins that are maybe a little bigger than horse piss, running over the intimidating southern Utah land. In total we ended up with three of the Magnificent 7’s finest: yours truly, Big Daddy Tom Szalay, and one of the southern Utah’s pioneer decedents James Tobler. We met one of Tom’s buddies who drove from Sonoma county named John Hurvey—a retired teacher who now grows grapes for one of the wineries.

With every one of my blog posts, it is vitally important to limit how much information I give to my readers, and lets be honest that’s really just one person—Roger Eastman, and he already knows everything about the rivers of the western states anyhow. But in the remote chance someone other than Roger stumbles upon a posts, it’s my obligation to not guide fishermen directly to what I have painstakingly earned. I have no fear of over informing with this creek—there is a reason St. George is not the holy land for fly fishermen. Aside from freaks like The Oracle, and M.R. Montgomery, the author of “Many Rivers to Cross,” who else is obsessed with beating the hell out of themselves just to catch 8 inch Bonneville Cuts?

Just to get to the river, you have to bushwhack through some of the angriest vegetation I have ever encountered. If you’re a plant in this canyon and you don’t have huge spikes or barbs completely covering you, well, then you’re not in this canyon. Once your bloody legs reach the water, they get about 10 steps before you have to bound, duck or slither over some obstacles (boulders, logs etc.).

You have to look for every little hole you can get, little pockets, or a boulder that offers some type of shelter for a little cuttie. And don’t even think about casting, maybe every hour or so you get to what you would call a hole, and a chance to actually cast. Even at that, your couldn’t really call it casting, you are always forced to be very mindful of your back cast as well as both sides of the river. We pulled some fish out of a pocket no bigger than a dinner plate.

Who would want to do this--who would want to fish this hard in a overgrown, trickle of a stream just to catch little cuts that are at their biggest maybe a skinny 12 inches—Maybe! Who wants to work this hard just to see these little sprats slowly rise to the top of the water to take teeny dries? That’s right your already know I’m gotta say, “I do!”

I cant really even say why its so thrilling to ninja creep up on a tiny hole, get down in the water on both knees and meticulously place a bow and arrow cast with a size 22 pmd in a minuscule riffle, and wait for the slow take. You cant even set the hook, because if you miss, you back cast snags in the trees; you have to let the little guys set the hook themselves. Sometimes we were even lucky enough to keep them on long enough to remove the hook.

We fought hard to work up river to hit the little tributaries of Leeds; Horse, Spirit and Pig Creek. Not much success, but I can only imagine how small and tight they would be. How small can you go? I was fishing with the smallest rod I have, a 6ft 2wt and I would have liked to chop a foot off. I don’t even know if they make fly rods smaller than 6 feet. We worked up one canyon and found a literal dribble running through it, but all we could see was willows growing in the middle. Even a tadpole would have a hard time thriving in that water. Was that Horse or Pig Creek? Looking at the map it was hard to tell, but we could not find an area that had more than 2 inches deep of water.

Pioneer descendent James Tobler lived up to his southern Utah pioneer forefathers. Whatever the land threw at him, he fought back valiantly waving his rod in defiance to the angry land. I don’t know if we can say that we tamed the land, but I can confidently say that it did not conquer us. Even Big Daddy defied the advice of the Oracle and delicately tiptoed through the cactus despite his healthy Hungarian ankles. He may not be called a ballerina on this trip, but he was as light on his toes as I’ve ever seen.

The last day our trip our little band parted, the two Californians headed back to the land of grapes and vino; while the Pioneer and I traveled a little further south to try our hand at the Santa Clara near Pine View. What a beautiful canyon!

The river was open and much more fishable, but we got skunked on this river. I think we fished a section that is just pounded by kids/ campers and bait fishermen. All along the bank we saw empty cans of power bait, and bobbers. Upon a return visit, I will go above Pine View Reservoir.

So in the remote chance anyone other than Roger reads this post (very unlikely) then I dare you—take a shot at Leeds. In the next month or so, the gate leading up Leeds canyon should be open, and you can certainly access the tribs. Pack your smallest rod, long sleeve shirts and nylon pants. If you have a pioneer like Tobler, bring him along too.

The Force is strong in this one...

The force is strong in the older sister; the middle child grew up with a light saber (aka a fly rod) in her hand, but the younger has only really awaken to fly fishing in the past couple years. Now it seems that I don't have to beg her to go with me, perhaps this Padawon learner  will be a great Jedi!!!

We started the day off at this honey of a hole with streamers, a particularly beautiful streamer Jac and Melis called "Vegas Show Girl." I call it a Brown imitation. But I guess when its dry, it sparkles like a Vegas show girl, once its wet I believe the fish see it as a brown minnow. Who really cares what they think, as long as they eat it, that's all that matters.

While the young Pasawon was slaying them with the "Vegas Show Girl," momma was catching it all of film. Todays pics are courtesy of Melis--great job Sweet!

Getting Lost

 

 

There are simply not enough days like this; days on the river where all the stars align to make the whole experience perfect—or as close to perfect as a person can ask for. How does that old saying go, “a bad day fishing is better than a good day working,” what fishermen wouldn’t agree with that? Let’s add to it with, “a good day fishing is better than damn near every other day.”

It started off right when Johnny and I showed up on the river, and he noticed this huge buck down in the valley, crossing the field, just off the edge of the river. He was so majestic with his chest all puffed out, and walking with such swag, is if to say, “Yes I have survived many a hunting seasons to earn this huge rack.” He didn’t spend too much time out in the open, so watching him was short lived; he crossed the river, and entered thick brush, not to be seen by us again. If I see this scene a thousand times I don’t think I will ever tire of watching it. Watching that monster buck for a limited amount of time made it all the better—short and sweet.

When we got to the river, the first section we looked at was boiling with big fish feeding off the top. Little fish make a big splash, but big fish know that the bug is going nowhere and they exert only the amount of effort needed to eat the bug: hence big fish small splash. The hole was alive with small splashes. I figured they were going after little black midge, and buffalo midge would be the best bet. But files that small are so freaking hard to see, I opted to do a small attractor pattern off the top that would land gentle, and act more like an indicator with a soft hackle dropper about 18 inches below. It worked like a charm. The Browns were beautiful with full vibrant colors being in the spawn.

We spent the day socking up nearly perfect weather. The water level was low and slow creating a total advantage for the fish. As much fun as fishing was watching Johnny sneak up and painstakingly place each cast in that sweet spot. Sometimes he was successful and other times the breeze, the branches and the back cast obstacles just wouldn’t let it happen. We laughed through most of the day with our own stupid little jokes; most of them old jokes we have told each other over and over, just with a little new updated spin on them. We have the some conversations over and over—it just changes slightly with updated news of each others lives. I like it that way. I am content to be a stupid simple minded fool.

 I wish I could bring the right words together in a way that would capture the joy of this day; the way all the variables came together to create a feeling of total relaxation and appreciation of the natural world. I find myself lost in one moment with absolute concentration on the cast, trying to make it land in just the right spot; then the next moment just watching a weed bend in the breeze. The clouds were full of life, sometimes blotting out that needed light to watch the drift, and that warmth of direct sun. I watched a little white mink make his way past us. He looked at us as if to say, “what up?” and then back on the hunt.  There are simply not enough days like this—a perfect day on the river.

Carp, Trains & Ugly Junk

When does a boy become a man? Or a better question asked, primarily by women, when does a man stop acting like a boy? Honest men will answer, “When a man is dead.” For me personally I hope the day never comes when the boy inside the nearly 50-year-old human named John Engel puts away his childish ways and behaves like an adult.

Would fishing be as fun for a man, if he acts like a man instead of behaving like a boy? I shudder to even think of finding the answer. When I get together with friends go on a fishing trip, commonly referred to as “Man Time.” But honestly it’s time to be a boy, and to let the boy bust out of the house and run wild in the fields for a bit.

Playing football on summer nights pushing past dinner time, knowing you will catch hell from your parents, but doing it anyhow, burns deeply into your boyish fibers. Wading up to your hips to get your lure out of a snag in the river, almost getting swept up; carves into the genetic fibers of a boy’s life. Jumping your bike over a huge puddle of a burning gas; while friends cheer you on, etches into how a boy is going to act for the rest of his life.

So when that boy turns 49, and he spends hours going after gigantic stinking carp with a fly rod, you can trace, what he does back to those formative moments when he technically was a boy. When he drinks whiskey at the campfire, spitting and swearing, when he’s camping and wakes his friend up in the morning by farting in his face—you guessed it, trace in right back to the juvenile years. When grown men take pictures of ghastly nether regions, then send those pic’s to friends to wish them happy birthday—oh yeah you guessed it, its man love with origins trailing back to his high school days.

So, here’s to the guys who joined the Magnificent 7 fall boyish fishing trip 2015. Go on, keep acting like boy’s forever!