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!

Black River Arizona

 

 

“Can a fishing trip be enjoyable, I mean really fun, if you’re not catching fish?” Asks Paul. I set my drink in the chair’s cup holder to tend to the campfire; which I consider one of life’s pure pleasures—stoking the fire. This is not one of those questions that I can just bust out an answer to. More accurately, I can bust out a quick answer, but then it would be followed by days of jabbering on and on in an effort to really expand upon the topic.  Sadly though, I doubt I would get any closer to any understanding.

 

“Yes,” I reply. I sit there for maybe 5 seconds. Wait for it… “Well, let me explain…” I blather…

 

Night one:                    4-day annual fall fishing trip.

 

Destination:                 White Mountain Range Black River

(Including East & West forks)

 

Cast of Characters:      Same as last year’s trip (John, Paul, and David

and Erik)  this year each character takes on nick name based upon their select method of Mafia style of killing (Johnny “Ice” Engel, Paulie “Six String” Judd, David “Chippa” Skelton and Eric “Tommie” Hammer)

 

Let just say Paulie’s question was never really answered, and I don’t think he expected and answer. The query was laid out there to see how everyone felt about this year’s pick; what they wanted to see, what they hoped for, along with catching a few fish—who knows maybe even catch an Apache Trout.

 

The Black River and the forks of it are impressive. I love their size, and they have fairly good access. All my experience with boiling hot Arizona is Saguaro cactus and baked dirt; the White Mountain range caught me off guard. It’s kind of like mixing the Sierra Nevada’s with the Wyoming tundra—tall beautiful Ponderosa Pines; open meadows with tall grasses. They had a pretty healthy fire a few years back that left a lot of those beauties scorched toothpicks, but recovery seems fast.

 

Saturday turned out to be the day of going deep and dirty. It was decided to get the hell off the beaten path, avoid the bait totting Bubba’s, bellying up all over the East Fork, and try to find bigger fish then on the West Fork.

 

We hiked down a half-mile of so following a small stream leading to the confluence.   I broke off with the man who selected the Tommy Gun as his mobster weapon of choice, so I’m supposed to refer to him as Tommy. But with a last name like Hammer, I just gotta stick to Hammer; it’s just one of those names that is better than any nickname anyone could come up with.

 

I can’t say for sure, because this is my first time on in this area, but I think we got to some of the best this river has to offer. The fishing and the beauty of the canyon did not suck. Hammer decided to go Euro Nymphing and hooked up on a nice Brown no more than 5 to 10 minutes into the game.

 

Although the fish weren’t big by any means, we were catching. I remained hopeful that on the end of my line would be an Apache trout—as much as I wanted one of those Browns to be, they were not.

 

A lot more questions were asked that day, as well as around the campfire: questions, chaos, mischief and mayhem. Each man had to stay ever watchful due to an angry, lethal dive-bombing squirrel. He was bounding from limb to limb on a full-grown Ponderosa above us just going nuts dropping green pinecones on our tent and camp area. I am convinced it was because of Paul’s I-Pod playing Nickel-Back every other song. Let’s be honest, one Nickel-Back song is too many. Half the other songs were produced by Nickel-Back—who can blame the little pinecone bomber!

 

Questions or not I learned a lot. I thought I knew everything about fire—wrong. I know volumes about keeping the core hot, I work up to a log that I refer to as “The Grand-Dad” and there is a real process to heating that bad boy up. I learned that smaller logs can’t be longer than a pit; they must remain fairly flat; energy/heat is lost by moving up past logs instead on focusing on the fuel—thanks Paul.

 

Good God David can cook; I’m not even close to understanding smoking and basting. I aspire to be an outdoor cook. David and I spent the entire time building each other up, an entirely new concept for us. Our traditional method to show each other the love is cut-downs, laying hands of pain upon each other, and general berating. More times then I care to mention, I reverted back to bitch slapping David down; old habits die-hard.

Pine Dale/Wind River Mountain Range

There are so many factors that go into considering a river or a mountain range beyond just great, but at that level that you would call it fantastic or “as good as it gets.” For the fly fishermen of course it has to have fish, because that is actually the name of the game. If you don’t have a chance of catching a lot of fish, or a few big fish, then well, its not fly fishing.  But unless your that guy that has to count every fish he catches, and measure every one, then get a pic with you pushing it out in front of your chest with that dumb ass grin on your face so you can show everyone how cool you are at work on Monday morning well maybe it is just about the fish.

But a select few guys get that it’s about immeasurable fine details that make fishing the West like nothing else in the world. A chosen limited people get that fishing its rivers is about having a complete love of the West from the high timber river with pure water gliding over mountain boulders to the delicate stream running through desert red rock.

This love of the West and worship for its river and streams comes about from years and years of having fathers, grand pa’s and uncles taking us to these holy places. It develops when we see their faces light up when they approach its waters, and climb its peaks. And all of these men have those select areas cut deep into the bone, and in a strange sort of way they are sort haunted and tormented by these destinations.

These men have oracle like qualities about them, and when we are lucky enough to get them to take us deep into the rings of their cache of knowledge, we see them at work. There is no exact recipe they have for enjoyment, but it always starts with the drive. Fishing does not start when your line is in the water, it starts on the drive. Once you get out of city limits and on your way the devotion begins.

These people get that the delight is in the details. It’s looking for wild life on the road while driving. It’s knowing where to stop and get that jalapeño burger at a family owned business. It’s about chewing the fat with the old lady at the gas station; it’s about knowing which hotel to stay at along the way. It’s about knowing which little street to turn down in that tiny forgotten town to see the first building erected by the first settlers west. It’s about knowing which rivers have just a little more magic in them then one ridge over. The list doesn’t stop and the pursuit lasts a life time.

I have analyzed this topic infinitely, and I will probably spend the rest of my fishing days blathering on and on about what makes fishing, and what makes a river and a mountain range worthy of being placed on that list of “must fish before I die!” I pray that the blathering last a long time and that I have the good fortune to spend it standing knee deep with all those people that get the journey and the reason.