Boston to Butte Epic Road Trip

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Epic; that is the word that keeps coming out of my mouth, when referring to the longest road trip I have ever taken—Boston to Butte. Up to this point, I have only done road trips in the west, say Salt Lake to San Fran, Portland, Montana…whatever, but never that far east. Every time I have traveled east, it has always been a flight to one specific destination. To get the chance to travel from Boston all the way west to Butte; to see the ongoing changes in geography, topography, to talk to and meet people in those areas, and see all the similar/different has been…well epic.

 

I love the east coast, the people are great, it’s so green especially compared to the west, fun happening cities, and best of all the cities are so close to each other. Think about it, if you live in SLC, or Denver, or Phoenix, you have literally hours before you get to another large city, with the exception of the California coast line.

 

This was my first time to visit Maine and New Hampshire—great time. We drove from my friend’s house in Marshfield Mass, which is about 40 mi from south of Boston, to the small coastal town of Ogunquit Maine. We got a room right on the beach, and had a wonderful dinner. Maine just may be my favorite city on the east coast.

 

“River Tales” is dedicated to “fishing the world one river at a time,” and although this trip was not about fishing, isn’t everything about fishing? Before leaving, I packed a rod in hopes of running into some small stream in Pennsylvania, or upstate New York, Minnesota, Wisconsin whatever comes along--whatever. How am I supposed to drive through that many states and not come across a few rivers, and fish them for even a half hour?

 

Hate to say it, but the only thing I say (off I-90) was huge slow moving water. It was not trout water, and I just was not geared up to fish for the slow, warmer water species. I’m not against fishing for Bass or Carp or Stripers or whatever, but I was just not prepared for that situation.

 

Once I hit Wyoming, we drove over the Tongue River, and I had to pull over and at least take a look. Hell, I was the one driving, and it wasn’t really even something I did, the truck just sort of decided to take a break and pull over. Once I took a look, I just sort of felt obligated to give it a shot. It was fantastic; I wasn’t there for more than a half hour and I caught a couple small ones, and missed a big bow on a dry.

 

Montana really is the holy land, from Billings to Butte there are more fabled rivers than you can shake your rod at—ha ha. It has big water, much bigger than I am accustomed to in Utah. I sampled the mighty Yellowstone, and one of its tribs—Boulder Creek in the town of Big Timber. Just listen to those names, if you speak them out loud, you must use your deepest most manly voice! If you’ve never been there picture a terrain similar to Utah’s but less quakie, and more pine. Big Sky country is very high mountain big rugged water and a lot of it. I have fished other rivers in this area a few times before, but this is my first time this far east in Montana. There is reason person from all over the world flock to this place, and a reason why Robert Redford filmed Brad Pitt and his stunt double reaching out with 80 foot dry fly casts—Montana really is that special.

 

In total we were on the road for 5 solid days, taking I-90 was not the quickest route from Boston to SLC. I still can’t believe we didn’t kill each other, or that were still friends. Who knows perhaps I’m actually growing up and that means maybe I’m getting more patient. No matter whom you are with, in a little Toyota single cab pick-up you are going to get on each other’s nerves. But we both really held strong. In fact if we had more time I think we both would have been up to going all the way to Seattle—coast to coast baby Boston to Seattle. But I was gone long enough and I really did miss all my ladies back home.

 

This trip has had a profound impact on me. I have developed a deeper love and enriched passion for the “road trip.” I have a real bug in me now to keep doing it. I want to hit Hwy 10 which goes from L.A all along the bottom of the country to Florida. If you really wanted to get crazy you could take the 10 down to Florida, and then take I-40 back home.

 

It is amazing to see the country gradually change as you pass from state to state. To go from the east coast with its deep green trees through upper state New York and Pennsylvania then down into the Midwest and the immense amount of corn fields. As you get further west into Minnesota and South Dakota you see it change into wheat, then “Welcome to the West,” as you enter Wyoming. The West is the best, and my body felt a sense of home when I saw the sagebrush in Wyoming and the endless vastness that the west has. I felt like a fish taken out of its native waters, returning home and all the elements around me telling me welcome back (over dramatic).

 

Where ever you are in the world, people are people, and it’s amazing how much we all act alike. But even within your own nation, there are such obvious differences in people’s attitudes, manners, the pace they move, the way they talk, their accents… even when they are neighboring states. Prime example is the Boston accent; (all about the hard ‘R’ sound) some people in the community have a very discernable accent while their neighbor will not. Drive a few hours to Rhode Island and the similar accent changes slightly. The east coast moves faster--us west coast folk claim they are harder or rude on the coast. Every time I have been there, people have always been very nice and polite to me. But there is an edge that just isn’t there with us happy pioneer folk.

I wanted to discover the ma and pa shops, I wanted to break away from the chains and franchises. I wanted to feel the “Heartbeat of America” if you will. It’s still there, and each city has its own feel, but the pulse has moved to the beat of one heart; the corporate American heart.

 

I still have a lot of America to see, and I want to see her roads, her little towns, her people—in all their shapes and sizes. Oh, and one more thing, let’s not forget her rivers. Maybe next time I can carve out more time to explore more of her waters.

Lake Powell with the Ladies

If you don't like Lake Powell, there is just quite simply something wrong with you--seriously wrong! As 'ol boy Zog says, "it's one of the most beautiful places in the world." It's hard to argue with that old pirate, but how could anyone not like Powell??? Okay, I will admit the heat is turned up pretty high, but once you sort of give in to that, and let it wrap its sweltering arms around you, its...I don't know sort of healing???

I was the solo man with 5 women, the wife, the three daughters, and Hannah's friend Carley. They were the best, and aside from a little bickering with the little women, we all got along smashingly. My girls, especially Jac the little one could be dragged along on a tub all day long.

Fishing did not happen, but make no mistake about it, I saw a lot of carp and stripper--many feeding off the top. You just have to see a big fish come take something off the top of the water and your blood gets cooking.

With any luck this will be the beginning of a yearly tradition, and just maybe we will be joined by friends...

Okay, I would be wondering what in the hell is going on with this shot too... brief explanation, it comes from my daughters friend from cheer leading, she would do these huge jumps into the air, and her name is Leah Bill. So we have a tradition of doing this where the shutter is set to take about ten pics of everyone jumping into the air. Here's the funny part look at me, I look like I either pulled something very painful, or perhaps I pooped in the shorts... you decide. One last thing, I was the skinniest kid in the world, where did the fat come from???

Big fish vs. little fish

Stalking big fish vs. catching a lot of little fish

When the stars align and the moon is just right, and your Quan is perfectly aligned with your Chi, then it’s possible to have day on the river where you catch those monster fish, and catch a lot of them. Actually think about it, rivers that you know hold the big boys, got so big by doing something that the little fish have not done for very long: survive. Consider how many fish in a river never make it to 5 or 10 inches—primarily because they usually become food for those big ones. So getting back to catching those big fish, genuinely whopping fish, and catching a large amount of them…well it’s not an everyday occurrence right?

With the blatantly obvious said about how big fish become big, lets also be candid that those big fish are a lot harder to hook and land. If they weren’t, I doubt we would be drawn to the sport. Why does a hunter dream of getting that royal 7 point elk, and better yet, why do some hunters dream of doing it with a bow, or with a black power rifle? I think the same can be said about getting that huge Brown to rise to a little caddis you delicately drop just above the hole you see him feeding in, making sure your line lands just so, and that your fake bug drifts perfectly into his tight little feeding zone so that he thinks that bead and feather hook really is a caddis. Slurp, a slow and deliberate take, let him eat, and count “God save the Queen,” set the hook. It is at that exact second, you see the line go tight and you feel the weight and mass on the end of the line and you know you’re in for a heavy weight title fight. That exact second where you have worked so hard and also gotten so lucky to do all the correct things to get this fish on your line, for me it just doesn’t get any better than that. The fight to come will be awesome, and whatever the outcome, either you land him or he gets away, that’s another matter. But for me it’s that tiny sliver of time where you know you have at least gotten the chance to fight this fish that draws you in.

I don’t think I care about landing that big fish as much as I quiver in getting that full-sized fish to take the imitation caddis believing it was the real thing. You may need your waders for the BS I’m about to pile up, but I think the one that got away means more to me than the landed fish. On a river that I will not name I hooked into a trout of unknown species, with a nymph that felt like a snag. I was pissed because I just tied a new one on, and I was just hoping I could release the hook without losing it. But then the snag started to move, I was almost more afraid then excited. I was in for a 15 round heavy weight fight, and I knew it. About a minute or two into the fight, or what would be about the third or fourth round, this champ ran down river under a log; but I went deep into the water, and forced my rod under the log, and instantly applied opposite pressure. I would like to think that at point into our battle that my fish gained a bit of respect for me. I picture him saying, “okay it looks like you’ve spent at least a little time in the ring…” He then ran up river just ripping my line out, like the reel would catch on fire (a touch of hyperbole) I moved up river, keeping the rod at the side, and I kept constant pressure on him. Without writing an entire novel, he took me to my backing 3 times—honestly. At this point I’m thinking the fight is over, and I will have my hand raised in the air. No! It’s what I think is maybe the 13^th round and that son of a bitch pulled the Rumble in The Jungle on me,  and totally KO’ed me by driving deep, and wrapping me off on a branch or something. Here’s the best part, I did not even get to see this mammoth fish. I did not get to see just how big this fish was. I started screaming and crying like a little baby, yelling for Greg to come help me. What was I thinking, help me do what…? He was gone, and I knew it. But never seeing that fish has haunted me to this day. That fish was by far the best fish I have ever hooked, and never landed. I will never forget it, and I will always wonder just how big he really was.

Sort of opposite to perusing the colossal fish is finding a river that you know doesn’t support the Mohammed Ali of fish, but instead houses the feather weights. I’m talking about rivers that don’t have the right conditions for fish to get really big, and the conditions are so that a lot of fish are in there and they don’t get that immense.

A lot of factors and circumstances must exist for fish to get big, but without getting crazy and just keeping it simple, it has to do with food. If the conditions are right for a lot of bugs to thrive, or larger prey; things that hold a lot of calories for fish such as frogs or sculpins or large terrestrials and the fish can just pork out all day, well they will get big. As my buddy Colby always says, “Fish gotta eat.”

Fish also need the right home to keep them safe, and oxygenated, and you can usually tell those rivers by looking at them. Of course it’s not like this is an exact rule. You can find a small ditch that will hold 22 inch fish.

If a river has a lot of small fish in it, about 3 inches to no bigger than 13 inches, its usually packed with a ton of them, and they all have one thing on their minds—food. Now how does this differ from the big fish we were talking about? No difference except one thing, those big fish actually get a chance to feed that hunger. Those little fish are fighting tooth and nail to get every little morsel they can in their little fish gullets. So when you find one of these rivers, which are typically higher in altitude and do not have huge deep holes, you can look forward to a day of tying on most anything in you fly box and getting action. And if the day is going to be like that, why not select flies from your dry box?

Another perk to these types of rivers, it that they tend to be in a beautiful setting. Which is exactly the case with The North Fork of the Duchesne, a river that simply has to rate high on Utah’s beauty scale. I love everything about this river, from the drive there, to the size of the river, to the stunning mountain range that surrounds it.

The gateway to the Grand Daddy Uintah Mountains, the North Fork has been a popular camping destination for our family and friends for years. When the kids were little, we would camp with our friends at a group spot at the highest campground, at Iron Mine. The kids have great memories of playing baseball out in a field right next to the river. If you didn’t trip on a hole made by the thousands of pot guts and gophers in the area, you were blessed. I can’t say for sure, but with any luck my girls will have that river in their blood stream, and they will site the North Fork as one of the first ones that got into their veins.

Partially everything I put on brought some kind of action from small rainbows, and a few 10 to 13 inch Brookies. At a particular section of the river things turned crappy. Colby attributes it to all the cows pooping into the water. How can you argue with him, I’m sure cows and in particular cow shit is not a big draw for any species of trout? As the day progressed into the afternoon the top of the water was alive with almost every cast.

We took along 3 guys I work with, and one guy in particular, Chris, was brand spanking new to fly fishing. Yes once again, I am playing the role of guide. Seth was new to fly fishing, so I matched him up with Colby, although he is a pretty experienced fisherman.  I must admit, there is particular joy in seeing someone enjoy the peace of the river, and it’s a bonus if they actually get a strike and maybe a fish. Billy, the third guy was nick named “Big Foot” because he disappeared as soon as we got there, and we luckily found him at the end of the day. Chris has a successful day on the river and actually caught fish—a big deal for a new guy. At one point Colby, Seth and I were positioned at this amazing hole created by a huge log across the river; our goal was to achieve a trifecta, each one of us hooking up. It was trifecta time over and over again.

The battle with small to medium fish will obviously never etch into anyone’s memory like the trophy fish. But as I say over and over and over again, going fishing is not really about catching fish; it’s about fishing. I love a day of action, especially when its top water action, and the North Fork delivers baby! I can’t say I’ve fished every river in Utah (not yet) but I have seen enough to say the Basin area is heavy weight champ even on small fish streams.

North & South Fork Ogden

I know it’s too early to tell, but I think my baby, Jacqueline, may be joining along in the pursuit to “Fish the World One River at a Time” she joined her older sister “B” and I for an afternoon on the North & South Fork of the Ogden.

I can’t say how much she will actually fish, but who really cares if you are hell bent on hooking up, or if you are just out there to enjoy the river? I don’t think Beezer is really that much into actually fishing, I think it’s more about getting into the mountains, and out of the city. What does it matter what anyone’s motivation is, as long as they are there with you—the rest is up to them.

If you take a look at the pic’s, it just won’t do it justice to how many caddis were coming off the water. I don’t know if I have ever been in a hatch like this one. At one point I turned a corner and so many caddis were flying up river, swarming past me, I had to close my eyes and mouth. I have seen a hatch going off, but never one like this. But here’s the odd part, I did not see one fish rise—not one.

I kept tying on a variety of caddis patterns, but not a single slurp. I assumed that maybe they had their fill, and that they just couldn’t stuff one more yummy caddis down their gullet. But that doesn’t make any sense to me either. When do fish ever really stop eating, especially during a hatch like that? When the dinner bell rings it’s time to eat baby!

I decided to swing soft, who knows maybe they are sub surface eating these bugs before they are hatching, besides we are working down river anyhow, and that technique will lend itself perfectly. Bingo got a few little ones to play. What I’m not really sure about is was it getting the fly a couple inches under water that got them to take…?

 

 

Echo

 

 

 

 

Echo/Lost

 

The best way I can think of ending a school year, is to spend it on the river. A small but deadly group of us to made plans to converge at Lost Creek for a little time getting our feet wet. I am feeling pretty happy sporting my new “River Tales” tee shirts made by Silk Screen Master Sham, as young stud “X” Matheson and I pile the gear into the truck. We will meet his father “The Oracle” up there as well as Colby Wilson and his family. He’s bring his son Ruby and his parents. I’m most excited to meet his dad—Ralph. He was in Viet Nam, and he lost one of his legs and an arm from a land mind exploding. I have heard many tales about this “true grit” guy. Colby hooked him up with a Tankara rod, so it will be cool to see that in action as well. For those not familiar Tankara is a Japanese style of fishing with a long rod and no reel. So naturally it should work pretty for a guy with only one arm.

 

As we are almost to the fork in the freeway where I-80 and I-84 split off, and we decide to go the I-80 direction so we can spend a few hours on Echo Creek before we get lost on the Lost. What a cute little river Echo is, small with nice little holes and frisky cuts. We are not breaking any records, but we’re doing just fine. However, we both know that we could so easily just fish the entire day away on Echo. It’s the “time inside of time” issue I have talked about so many times. I think it’s what draws men to fishing, the opportunity to forget everything in life and just get lost in playing. When you fish, time, obligation, worries, projects--whatever melt away. I always say it makes me feel 8-years-old again. That was my golden age, a time of play; and does any real man ever grow up?

 

It’s back to the truck for us, to meet up with the others for a little bite to eat at the Polar King—I love their Jalapeño burger. We are having a hard time getting across the fence; the barb-wire is doing its job, making it hard to decide to push it down, or pull it up or hell, just find a better spot. We walk on; tall grass loving life--all is good. X lets out a yell, you know the sound, not like he got hurt, but the danger sound. “What is it?” I ask. “Oh my God, you almost stepped on that snake,” he yells. No one likes a snake in the grass; that’s where the saying came from—right! But when you fish rivers you are used to running into water snakes all the time, no biggie; but this thing is in a pile like a cow pie, and it has a diamond head—and I’m not sure but I think I see a rattle. The thing is big, Diamond Head, multi- colored, and brown, tan and yellow, but no movement what so ever. Okay, now I can say I am afraid. I am thinking of the Oracle’s text before we left, “take care of my boy,” and he has only one child, it won’t be good if I bring him back with a rattle snake bite.

 

We are both a little freaked out; I think we both have a just dodged a bullet feeling. We meet his dad at lunch and tell the tale. Then off to Lost Creek, hopefully Colby will be there. When we pull up to the area we park, some idiot with Oregon plates is parked right in our spot. What are the odds that some out of state Yahoo is parked here, and they’re obviously here to fish? I can see a lady in the passenger’s seat, so I send X to ask her just what the hell she’s doing here. She said her husband and her son are fishing. Here’s the part where I feel really stupid—Colby told me he’s bringing his parents and kids, and oh that’s right his parents are from Oregon. What can I say “Stupid is as stupid does…”

 

Hearing stories about his one arm, one leg father is one thing, but to see this guy working down a steep hill to get to the river—wow impressive. I guess when you’re in his situation you have only two doors: get help from others, or be fiercely independent. It’s easy to see which door Ralph picked. No wonder Colby’s such a bad ass.

 

Remainder of the night The Oracle and I keep tying on flies while X lures in some big cuts. Its great watching him cast and set. At one point this big boy rises up and sniffs his size 22 Griffith’s gnat, follows it, circles around, goes down river from it a few feet, then slowly slurps it in. As The Oracle would say, “it doesn’t get any better than this.” It sounds cheese-ball, but to see deer all over the place, hawks and herons fly over-head, the sun setting bouncing off their wings…who really cares about fishing? Does it really even matter what your after when your go fishing? Do you even need to think about it, or try to understand it, or even better, do you ever need to try to explain to anyone why you find it almost essential to your existence, and that they too should revel in it?