Fremont, UM Creek, Bicknell Bottoms Kick the summer off right

Let hear it for guest writers Nicole Reitz-Larsen and Colby Wilson. Photos by John Engel & Colby Wilson.

Dear Blog followers Please stay tuned in for comments by both



Nicole Reitz-Larsen:
June 18, 2013
 "Good times fly fishing with friends."



Colby Wilson:
June 21, 2013

Early, early, early… that is the start the day.  I think God wasn’t even up when I arrived at John’s house around 4am.  Unfortunately, due to some bad luck, poor organization and just plain busyness the last time I looked at the red light alarm clock on my dresser, it read 1:13 with the vague little dot denoting A.M. that I can barely see with without my glasses.  Luckily I was not alone in my groggy, sleep-lacking luster, John had also had a late night mixing it up at some graduation party.

Our condition was made only more obvious when we picked up a bushytailed and bright-eyed Nicole, who gets up most days around 4am to hit the gym or herd the kidos.  We loaded her up, hopped in the truck and headed out with excitement- anticipating a good southern adventure. 

Then I fell asleep.  Then John hit a dog/fox/coyote/very big raccoon/really, really big squirrel/mutant chipmunk.  Nothing he could do, either the thing was engaged in some initiation or hazing ritual to join a gang or it was suicidal.  Either way, the hit was solid and the death was clean.  Just the way I want to go.  Quick, clean and, since I am dead, without much regret, unless I’m not wearing pants.  That would be a little weird.

We traveled Highway 24 through pinion pine and sagebrush (in the sunflower family, which I always thought was cool crazy), and in an area that probably gets less than 10 inches of water a year.   This road skirts the Koosharem Reservoir.  A thin, shallow chunk of blue that is probably less than 4 fathoms at it’s deepest.  The first time we were through this area, winter was just creeping out and the ice with drifts of snow gave the place a barely there feel.  If not for a map I would have thought the place was just a farmer’s hard work of cleared ground.  I grew up around reservoirs like this.  Reservoirs that were small and shallow; put up with more of a hope to catch and contain a creek or stream than actual fact of catching the stuff that grows sustenance.  These loudly speak of struggle, suffering, defiance and strength.  We humans try so hard to scratch out an existence in places not suit to hold us.  These reservoirs are both silly and noble.  We try so hard with courage and determination against Nature that does not care about intent or honor and just grinds on and over.

Turning east from Highway 24 onto Highway 25 we start the climb to Fish Lake.

I was struck by the subtle, but dramatic change that occurred in just a few miles and a few hundred vertical feet.  My favorite parts of this world are the transitions, where one environment meets another and the two are mixed.  Beaches and tidal zone are extreme examples of this- a marine environment crashes up against a terrestrial environment.  More subtle is the transition we experienced going from the desert valley floor of Koosharem (I really like to say that word out loud and in my head: KoosharemKoosharemKoosharem) to the alpine mountain of Fish Lake.  Sagebrush and pinion pine trees give way to blue spruce and quakies (a good species name: Populus tremuloides) with all species pushing to the edge of their respective environments for a survival just eked out.

Fish Lake was grand and gorgeous, had no wind and fish were rising.    We stopped; I geared up, and waded in.  The spot was remarkably shallow and after wading out about 30 feet I was only mid-thy in the cool clearness.  After about twenty cast without interest we moved on.

After Fish Lake, we moved closer to our target with a stop at Seven Mile Creek that feeds Johnson Valley Reservoir.  This is a tight little creek where we say no fish and were unable to coax any from a few holes I threw into so we turned around with eagerness to hit the Fremont.  I am now kicking my self as I have looked at maps of this creek and realized we did not give it enough distance as the creek becomes very interesting up above where we turned around.

Onto Zedd’s Meadow; the short of the long is that we gave up on Zedd’s.  The water was muddy, high, and without many bugs.  The wind was strong and gusty.  We last a few hours then bailed for lunch.

At lunch more issues arose from the wind.  Grill wouldn’t light, and then wouldn’t stay lit, we forgot beer, and I wanted more chocolate…  On the bright side some friends found us.  Bob from West High and his wife, Barbara, knew we were going out their way, as they own a home in that part of the country and thought they could find us.  They did and we had a wonderful lunch.

During our lunch adventure, by the way we did get the brauts cooked with a miracle from Bob, the topic of Koosharem was discussed.  Barbara informed us of two pronunciations of Koosharem (which I will let you guess at as I have no idea or time to type phonetically) and that the name is for an Indian tribe.  With a little Googling I quickly discovered Koosharem is an Indian tribe named possibly for an edible tuber, which I find funny because Kamas is also name for probably the same edible tuber, Camassia quamash.  We humans live by our stomachs.   Lunch was great, then we moved onto Bicknell Bottoms. 

Except, we stopped at UM Creek.  Another tight little creek with lots of brush and logs and trees and just stuff made out of plants that made walking around hard.  Iceman dove straight in.  He was awesome and on fire.  Moving into the brush like banshee in the swamp, at home and ready to haunt fish.  Nicole and I moved up stream hitting holes where we could find access.  Hopping over muddy springs and under fallen trees, Nicole was a trouper in very difficult fly fishing conditions.

We hooked up with Iceman as he was standing over a hole pulling fish after fish out. Nicole maneuvered to try the hole but the luck had run dry.  Later standing in another hole she was able to hook up with a nice tiger trout thus avoiding the skunks.

My take away from UM Creek was nettles.  Stinging god-forsaken nettles.  They were everywhere and I was in shorts.  My shins were so swollen the next day that I was motivated enough to look the bastards up on the Internet machine.  Which leads us to the science lesson for the day:  Stinging nettles produce tiny hairs on their stems and leaves.  These hairs are actually hollow and filled with acid and histamines.  The acid burns and the histamines cause swelling.  When used in tandem, as this godless plant does, the body has a hard time neutralizing the acid at the site of contact because of the decrease in circulation caused by the histamine.  The short of it is that I now have a profound hatred of these things.  Iceman got some on his hand.  He’ll back me up.

Back in the truck we headed to Bicknell Bottoms.  We missed the turn-off and pulled onto a gated road for a do over.  Iceman suddenly yells ”Whoa!”  as this little Fiat thing comes flying in behind us, really tight.  Amazingly, another friend, Gina, from West with a home in the area recognized Iceman’s truck and came to say howdy.  She told us to follow and took us to paradise.

The Bottoms was amazing; a sea of green juxtaposed on red rock cliff in the distance.  The walk to paradise was a little strange as the ground we took to was squishy and soft, like a garbage bag filled with marshmallow cream and smelled like I was going to need a stick with a rag tied to scrub all my parts clean.  But the trouble was amazingly worth it.  The river is a sandy bottom thing with deep holes, undercut banks and big fish.  I say this with ease and confidence with the understand that hot spotting is a crime in the often snooty world of fly fishing.  I will say it again:  the fish are big.  And I say to you reading good luck.  Bring you’re A game. Then double that.  Your pockets should be stuffed with every good luck charm you have, as these fish are smart, spooky and strong.  Iceman and I both agreed on the way home that this is the most technically challenging river we have seen in a while.  So I say it again good luck.  Iceman only managed one, and the dude knows his shizz.

Overall- great trip.  Nicole was a trouper for being new and having us take her to three of the most difficult conditions in fly fishing:  dirty, high water with wind at Zedd’s meadow; tight brushy little creek at UM; and amazingly smart, almost psychic fish at the Bottoms.  Iceman was the poet warrior as always.  Throwing tight lines into small places and pulling fish out especially at the Bottoms, and waxing the philosophy on life, death, fishing, sex and pooping.  Incredible. 

Ham's Fork (Al & Johnny)

Today signifies a change in the normal routine. The photos will be provided by John Engel--just like all the other entries. However story will be provided by guest writer Al Hille. Additionally video footage will be provided by Johnny Tabish on his You-Tube site, "Fly Tales" the name of the post is currently unknown. Soon to follow will be a link directly to his site.. Please look for post script story by Al Hille. Look forward to up coming post entry by guest writer  & fellow fly fishing addict Colby Wilson.

 

Asay Creek (An unexpected treat)

“Did you bring your fishing stuff?” asks Melis after Beezer’s graduation ceremony. I chuckle inside because that’s like asking a fireman if he has an ax lying around. But we did not come down to St. George to fish, we came down to do two things: attend Beezer’s graduation and to pack up her stuff to take her home. Oh, we also want to go watch Frank compete in Iron Man, which happens to be going on at the same time. But to make it perfectly clear we did not come down here so the dad could go fishing. “Oh, I may have some fishing gear with me in my truck, why do you ask…?”

I don’t know why I try to play it coy, there is no fooling her, plus it doesn’t help that Al, Erica’s dad the latest inductee into the fly fishing brotherhood, has this huge smile on his face. Of course Melis reads his face, then looks at me and the expression says it all: “don’t act like you don’t want to fish.” But we all know that they want to go hit the outlet malls, and we don’t. But impressively enough they actually want to go hiking in Zion’s.

As it turns out the stars align and Al & I are off to see yet another hidden river of southern Utah, one that I would guess only locals know about and real dedicated fishermen in the state—Asay Creek. This is one of those spring fed rivers, and I have never met a spring fed river that I didn’t absolutely love. Cold, clear water usually leads to big healthy trout. Surprise surprise as it turns out Asay Creek falls right in line with the other spring fed creeks I have fished.

It’s one of those slow moving, deep winding rivers that don’t really have holes to speak of, but more of a river where you look at it and you could invasion fish in any spot. As Al and I were rigging up we could see fish feeding off the top just ahead of us. You could tell it was a big fish; by the way it slowly slurped off the top. It was hunkered behind a clump of rocks and tall grasses. You know it was just about one to two foot out of the river to create a little cove for a big fish to rule.

My intention was to show Al where the fish live, how to get the fly to them, how to make it land the way that that type of bug would, how to mend the line on and on and on. I realized I was being annoying and the best thing I could do would be to leave him the hell alone, and figure it out. Here’s the best part, I could see that I had opened up a vain, just like my Uncle Sam and my Grand Pa did to me, when I was a kid. My older brother Pete and my cousin Jimmy also added to the love I have for the river, and even though Al is actually older than me, and he is an adult, I got to see him be 12-years-old again. That feeling will never get old. It’s enjoyable to see him join in on the addiction of fly fishing. It’s nice to be the one to bring him in, and it’s joyous to see him walk slowly, willingly, freely into the love of fishing. With your kids, you know there is a good chance they will get to be adults and not really like fishing. The bottom line is it’s gratifying to see anyone, of any age get into the greatest pastime in the world. Let’s just say it out loud together fellow fishermen, we are the top feeders, our passion is better than any of them; golfers, hunters, hikers whatever, fishing rules!

It was getting dark, and I am upstream from Al, and it dons on me that we are on a golden ticket, we are not on a normal fly fishing trip, we are in Southern Utah to see our daughters graduate from two years of college. We are here, as fathers, not as fishermen. I must head down river, get Al and get back to the girls. I am working on a big fish up river, he feeds with the classic slow slurp, and he waits for the food to come right to him. I have been casting to him for a few minutes, and I’ve been placing it in his general vicinity, which is not working. I have to drop it right on the dinner place; actually right in the middle of the dinner plate or he’ll just let the fly pass him by. One more cast, that’s the deal I make with myself, one more cast win or lose--period. I gather my line to get is straightened out and to sort of gather myself, sort of get all my ducks in a row. I work out a bit of line and aim really small and tight. I put the Stimmie exactly where that big fish is feeding, middle of the dinner plate. It swirls in a little eddie for about two seconds, slurp, set and yes sir it is a big fish. There is nothing like the feel of a large, heavy fish. If you have hooked into a pig, you know what I mean. This river has some fat fish; I will stop here in fear that you may actually make the drive, because this river is at least worth the drive one more time, it warrants a full dedicated day of fishing it.

I get Al, and it’s not easy getting him to leave. We didn't realize how far we have driven. I should be honest and admit that I made a mistake. Okay I admit it, I made a mistake. I drove too far to fish, when I should not have… Welcome to the club Al.

Dixie Rebel

How many clichés are there for time flies, or in the blink of an eye, in two shakes of a lambs tale, it seems just like yesterday, before you were a gleam in your father’s eye... however you say it, they all apply here to describe how I feel about my daughter finishing up with her Associates Degree from Dixie University (yes it is now a university but still has the same name, which is another story).

It seems like just yesterday Hannah and Erica were hell bent upon becoming Dixie State Rebels—there was no discussing; their minds were made up.  She was ready to become a “big girl” and live away from her mom & dad, and sunny St. George was far enough away to do that.  We went to dinner at The Black Bear Dinner, and the tears flowed, and flowed—no not ours, hers!  There was a nice waiter kid I think his name was Sam, a British kid, who saw the melt down. He was on it and offered to show her around the next day. She would have none of that and preferred to cry instead. Hours later we were just happy to break free of her.

That was 2 years ago, and is now she is shopping for a school to finish up her bachelor’s degree. Hannah & Erica both regret attending Dixie and are none too fond of St. George. I think in retrospect they will look back with fond memories, and appreciate their time there. They have both become more mature and independent. They dream of moving out of state and attending some exotic school—honestly I can’t blame them. That was always my dream too. It’s a difficult thing to do though; there are a lot of pieces to put together, and I could never put those pieces together to leave the greater land of Zion.

I am proud of her, and no matter what she picks, I know she will make a good decision. She has always been very driven and dedicated. She has an enormous amount of talent shoved into a little body—she gets it from her mother. But my little Dixie Rebel is too young to realize how wise she is, and how much grit she really has.  

Keen beginnings share the love/show the love

Keen beginnings: share the love/show the love

 

My oldest daughter, Hannah aka Beezer, is almost 20 years old, and I can’t remember a time when she was so thrilled by getting a new pair of shoes  as she was her latest pair; purple Keen sandals. Maybe it’s because she’s living on her own and has developed some appreciation for the cost of buying things like shoes.

 

Let me back up a bit on this latest tale, and set the stage. Hannah & Erica are the absolute best of buds, and have been so throughout high school, steering  them to moving out of the house together to St. George to become two of the cutest Dixie Rebels ever (that’s another story). They are about a month from obtaining their Associates Degree, then planning on making the big move out of Zion into Sin City to attend UNLV. Erica’s dad, Albert aka Al and I decided to drive down and spend a weekend camping with the girls.

 

Watching those two girls together warms my heart, and simultaneously freaks me out. They have such a love for each other, and the way both of them takes care of the other one is astonishing. One morning Al noticed how tenderly Erica went into the tent, knelt down and started rubbing Hannah’s back. I know what you’re thinking…and why wouldn’t you, it’s not like we all haven’t. But if you knew these two, you would know how much they wish they were gay.

 

The rough plan is to continue the quest for trout in the slot canyon of the East Fork of the Virgin. We’re also thinking of investigating up hwy 89 past Orderville into the small town of Hatch or maybe as far as Panguich. When we get to Mt. Carmel maybe we will call “Little Dick” a local guide to see if he can shed some light on fishing in the East Fork slot canyons.

 

But all great adventures need to begin with some shopping, and apparently both girls have been Jonesing  for a pair of Teva’s for years—(no Teva’s aren’t Lezbo.) I actually came prepared with a pair for Hannah from her mom, worn maybe once. So we’ll swing by Dick’s Sports and get Erica all decked out with a styling pair. I don’t even know why I would say that, we all know we will be getting a pair for both Erica and Hannah. They picked two different shades of purple. The new shoe buzz lasted the entire trip; I don’t think 30 minutes went by that they were not saying something about the love of the new shoes—no complaints from us dads; it’s nice to see them so happy. Share the love; show the love, even if it’s for new shoes.

 

Once you get out of Zion’s Canyon on HWY 9 you hit Mt. Carmel, travel south and you are heading toward Arizona, Lake Powell, The Colorado River and Pink Coral Sand Dunes State Park. The pics do not do that sand justice. It’s not just the stunning color; it’s also the finest sand I have ever felt.  All of us were compelled to fun fingers and toes through it over and over; the girls would not stop and kept poking at it over and over in their own little way. According to the little brochure it is the product of a wind vortex that has been working for millions of years to create the amazing Pink Coral Sand Dunes.

 

The girls were not very interested in fishing, but wow I have to vote Al the rookie fly fisherman of the year. He said it was the first time he has ever fly fished, but honestly I’m inclined to believe he’s wielded a fly rod before. I was baffled at how good he could cast. We worked up a section of Duck Creek right below the reservoir. Fish were feeding off the top and I thought it would be appropriate to tie on a Fat Albert for Albert. To his left was a mess of branches, to his right was a bank of weeds. He needed to get the fly up river about 20 to 30 feet without disturbing the water too much. The wind was blowing a bit, which makes it hard to cast no matter how good you are. It took a few casts, but he laid his Fat Albert right in the zone. It drifted down about 10 feet and wham! He set the hook perfect. It is so much fun seeing a grown man have that much fun catching a fish.

 

We drove on to the booming metropolis of Hatch, which thank God had a little place to eat lunch—good soup. The Sevier River runs right through town and we worked it for a maybe about an hour. It was a bit colder than we hoped for, and I think it sort of drove the girls away from fishing. But the trip was not about fishing, it was about an adventure together. So we decided to head back to The Barracks and check out an area that Erica likes, and see what the East Fork of the Virgin looks like. I do not think the East Fork slot canyons exist…but the group decided not to call “Little Dick” to see what light he could shed on the topic.

 

We found a really cool cave on the way to The Barracks, it was great exploring through it—see pics. We spent a little too much time just sort of driving and walking around and the sun slipped low into the red rock. I wanted to get back to camp before it got too dark, to make Hobo dinners—tough to do in the dark. We made a smashing team, with Al and Erica on fire duty, and Beezer & I cooking we rocked the camp.

 

Sitting by the fire, watching their faces, seeing the relaxation, feeling the love, sharing the love, it’s impossible to top that. Watching my big kid move into adulthood, and seeing the woman she has grown into, I am proud to be her father. I can sit at the fire, a fat contented cat and enjoy being with her. You are required to love your children, but not like them; I really like this girl! I see Al’s face and it says exactly the same thing. Further, I want to think that the girls tranquil calm faces is a mirror of some of the same feelings toward their dads—share the love show the love.

 

Packing up camp Sunday morning we all agree this should not be the end of our father/daughter outings; but rather this should be the first of an annual trip. I am all about annual trips; I do it with fly fishing buddies, all the more reason to do it with your kid. Here’s to 2013 being the first of a long line of the “Daddy/Daughter annual adventure.

Ham's Fork Wyoming

Ham’s Fork Wyoming

“Talk to me Goose, do you still want to go in the morning?” read my text to Colby, I was checking to see if he was still in to going fishing to Ham’s Fork the next day. “The weather report say it’s going to be 9 degrees, I’m in if you are Ice Man,” replied Colby—oh don’t ask me about the Top Gun reference it means nothing, it’s just fun to call people Goose.

I was really hoping that the weather would be a nice 60 degrees, and the fish would be starving and feeding like mad, but I would have been happy with upper 30s low 40’s I realize we are a couple weeks early, but I have heard it’s not uncommon to catch 20 inch brown, bows & cuts. The problem is that it’s just too hard for me to get all psyched up about a fishing trip, then change plans—or worse not go at all. I always say “it’s about going fishing, not catching.” However when we parked just below City Reservoir and the thermometer read negative 8 degrees below zero, just what was the Ice man thinking!

We geared up in the truck, with the heater cranked up—I figure get the core as hot as you can before you go out in 8 below. As you can imagine the eyelets were frozen after about 3 casts; I just stopped casting and stripping line in. As the day heated up, which it did to a balmy 30 maybe 31 so did the fishing, we both caught more than 50 Browns and Rainbows each, and the smallest one was at least 19 inches. I caught so many fish I got sick of catching. Okay maybe I’m exaggerating a little bit, well actually a lot a bit. Instead of going after the bland and every day Brown & Rainbow we pursued the handsome and hardy Sucker Fish. You haven’t lived until you’ve hooked into one of these beauties!

I seriously doubt that’s how Colby looked at it when he realized the big fish on his line was not a trout, not even a white fish, but a sucker fish. He released it, and started fishing again and bang he hooked up again; lucky him another sucker fish. Fish after fish, the sucker fish and Colby were one. I too managed to land a few myself. “We came all the way up here just to catch Sucker Fish?” Colby asks in a flat sad voice. “And why not?” I ask, what’s really wrong with the sucker fish? Is it the sucker mouth? Well that could do it, because they do have disgusting mouths (see photo). But other than that, what’s really wrong with them?

Honestly I have to say that was the first time I have ever actually gone after the sucker fish on purpose. We’ll let me re-phrase that, we didn’t go after the sucker fish, it’s just this hole we had was awesome, we busted ice off from it and pushed huge sheets down river; then returned to it about fifteen minutes later. We were reeling in some really big fish, and although they may not be the greatest fighters in the world, they still throw down. Why leave fish to go find fish? Sucker fish or not.

After who knows how many hours, we headed back toward the truck, as fun as it was, I was starving, and ready to eat. We brought a little bbq’er and the brats were calling my name. We ran into another school of fish, by God it’s just hard to pass up fish. As luck had it, another school of Sucker fish. After dancing with some more of those highly prized fish, we somehow broke away to get lunch.

I end on this note: when I was a kid they called Carp a trash fish. Now if you are a fly fisherman and you go after Carp, you’re on the cool kid list. Well my friends if you hook into a big fat sucker, but leave without a smile on your face because it wasn’t the game fish you had it mind, who’s the sucker?