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?

 

West gets holy

The last time I gathered all the boys from West,  we traveled south, to fish a handful of sinfully exciting rivers. This go around I've got plans to baptize a new guy, Evan Anthony Smith; and attend fishing services with two seasoned fly fisherman--The Oracle and his stud son "X" at Holy water. Of course it's just not a trip without the beloved Tommie Bitchin Szalay, Baby Bear Bo Maciejko and the overgrown avatar Mr. Wilson.

Here's what I'm thinking: make everyone happy--take these guys to Rock Creek which is a beautiful river, full of hungry fish, then follow it up the next day with a shot at a fish that will make you pray to Jesus on Holy water. we'll camp at my property "Desert Nirvana" which is centrally located between the two rivers.

Monday morning, back at the grind, reflecting on all that went on...there is just too much fun on the river, and too many antics around the campfire to tell it all. I have written too many blog entries that give a detailed blow by blow of the action. I'm going for a change of pace--bullet points of the items that float to the top. Note: items are in no particular order or ranking.

 

 

·         The drive there with Evan; talking and getting to know him a bit (I am a talkative social animal).

·         Watching Holy work its magic on Mr. Wilson—he runs to his Greek Goddess teeming with love.

·         Watching Tommie Bitchin (who is later in the trip re-named Big Daddy) ever so gracefully make his way up Rock Creek, throwing dry flies.

·         Happy that “Baby Bear Bo Meciejko” fit the trip into his schedule.

·         The camp fire, the Dutch oven cooking and eating, and all that goes along with it.

·         Seeing X, and his father The Oracle walking down the road toward us (father & son magic).

·         Arguing with Evan that you can’t make up your own nick name (he self selected Scorpion)

·         Fishing with “X” and seeing his raw, youthful determination and passion.

·         The feeling in the pit of my stomach that we have started something really cool.

Wait for photos by Big Daddy

 

Farewell to an old fishing friend

For the past couple weeks I have been dealing with the death of an old friend, Greg Cleverly. The hard thing about his death is that my relationship with him dates back to when I was a kid in college. So many good and bad waters have flowed over our bridge since then. The reason I say “dealing with” is that his death is the result of him taking his own life. It’s just hard to say suicide , because you feel like if you say those words aloud, or worse yet if you print them, that your are spitting in the face of all that love and know him, and that you are somehow being disrespectful. I do not want to show any disrespect for him or his family. I love them so much, and I do not want do not want to hurt them in any way. But I was so deeply affected by him that I am struggling with what happened to him, and that he would end his own life. I always say that some people “get into your blood stream” and those that do, remain there forever. He is in my bloodstream.

For over two years we have not spoken; I have shut him out of my life. We were involved in business, and things just went bad. Throughout the past couple years, we have had very little contact. He found out that my dad had cancer, and he reached out to me. We came close to reconnecting, but I still had pain in my heart, and I did not feel that it was time to let him back in my life. Over a year passed, and in that time, I think he went into a dark place. I had no idea how much light was shut out of his life.

His funeral was hard for me. I was asked to speak and it was tough. It was not so much difficult to speak, or to be there, but it was hard inside to sort out my feelings. I wish that it would have turned out different for him. I wish we could have bumped into each other some place, at a store or at some event and all the pain and problems from the past would have melted away and we could go fishing again together again as friends.

My mom has always said that you are lucky if you have one true friend in this world. I must be one lucky son of a bitch then. I have had the good fortune to have many friends that I would count as in that category. I have a handful of old friends that I would go to the end of the world for, no matter what the cost, and some new friends as well. Greg was one of those friends. I wish so much in my heart that the trouble between us could have been resolved. I guess I can blame him for leaving, and I can blame myself for taking so long to get over things. Or perhaps I can find a way to make it right with those that are still living. I miss my friend. Greg, I hope you are waste deep in a new river.

He was the best damn fisherman I have ever wet a line with! 

Holy is as Holy does

 

Spring break and the ladies of my clan decide to head down to sunny St. Geezie. As much fun as being stuffed into a hotel with a bunch of teenaged girls and one lovely 40 something year old mother sounds, I opt to stay home. Also I really am buried with a lot of work. A day or two before they leave, the Beez, decides to stay home with me, and go camp/fish for one night. Our destination: Holy Water and Dessert Nirvana.

Colby is planning on meeting us there at least one of the days. We pull up to the spot we normally park, and his car is there along with about 6 other vehicles. It just sucks when every Yahoo in the state hears about one of your special places. You can go on line and watch video of people talking about the experience here, and they pretty much walk you right to the water. I suspect the net has done that with every river across the country. I have probably added to the problem. People can look at my pics on my blog and figure out every river based upon the information.

We meet up at a hole we refer to as “The Greek Whore,” Colby actually named it that; I think in retaliation to all the New Testament names. I suspect his goal was to add a little flavor to the names. Like any good whore, she put out; but not until she first taunted with us with the wind. Once you have figured out one or two of these fish, you know you are in store for a great day of hooking up.

The brought the dogs, little Blain was just beside himself with curiosity when he would see a fish come it to the shore. Check out the pic of him deciding whether he’s going to run or attach the brown on the end of the line.

We get back to Nirvana with just enough light to find some fire wood, and get our Dutch oven dinner ready.  Dessert Nirvana is some property I have in the area. It’s currently just land, but the hope is that one day I will have some money to put a little cabin there. But for now, just sitting by the camp fire, poking at the stew in the Dutch is fantastic. Walking away from the fire is amazing. The moon is full, the air clean and brisk, and the feeling of just not being in the city renews me. I just don’t get to do this enough. I need to spend more time sitting at a camp fire watching the flames.

In the morning we decide to drive to Rock Creek. She has to be back home by about 5:00 to go to class, so I use the few precious hours to throw a Fat Albert to the hungry little fish. As I start out walking up river, I don’t see any fish feeding off the top, so I add a dropper. I catch a bunch of little ones, off a Prince Nymph. Like a switch being turned on the top of the water is just boiling. I don’t even think I will have to match the hatch, but just stick with Albert. Sure enough they are as happy to eat him as they are the midge coming off.

I make us some brats with fresh sauerkraut. There is just something right about a brat in the mountains. But then again it seems like anything you BBQ in the hills tastes delicious. I don’t want to drive back home, instead I want to stay for about a week, fish, Dutch oven cook ,and watch a fire for days on end. Actually I want to stay for as long as I want, to wallow in it until I say “enough, no more fish, food and fun.” We got home in time for her to go to class, and I took a shower and went back to work.

Corn Creek

"Your right, exit at Meadow, then head to K-Town, that's what we call Kanosh," said Naquita a nice girl who worked at the Subway shop in Fremont. Once you’re in K-Town you just head up the canyon. Which follows right along with the Oracle's directions. What he didn't tell us was that the canyon is still gated off. So for us to get to the fabled "Second Stream" tributary, we would have to hoof it about 4 to 5 miles.

 

We walked for quite a while, and we got past the North Fork, and past the camp grounds, then we arrived to a tributary that looked to be what the Oracle would call a "3-beer" stream; meaning it has about as much flow as pouring 3 beers into a river bed.

 

We worked up one stream for a bit, but we were having a hell of a time finding areas that weren't extremely overgrown with willow branches. We went down river after about an hour, and found an area that was great, open and full of hungry fish, taking pretty much any dry you threw their way.

 

Working our way down river was more of the beginning of the day. We were bush-whacking at every hole and getting beat up in the process. There was little to no ability to back cast, or fore cast for that matter. (I wish the Oracle would have told us to bring a machete or chain saw). The fish were very alert, and stealth was almost impossible.

 

I can't throw the Oracle under the bus, because we never got to the exact area he told us to go. But I can’t imagine there would be a lot more access to the river up further. I don't care how well you can fish, when every hole is covered with brush, you can't get your fly in there.

Overall, beautiful canyon, and it looks like a great area to camp. The fish were plentiful and eager to eat. However the overgrowth was just too much to drive two and a half hours to get to. Sorry Oracle, I we don't see eye to eye on this one.

No-Tell-M- Creek

"Take XXX road and look for a lone juniper tree ; from there fish up-river,"  directions from Mike  Mathison aka "The Oracle." Okay, to be honest its never that simple with the Oracle, it also involves him jumping up and down, waving his arms from hell to breakfast and like type displays of joy and excitement. I did exactly what the Oracle instructed, and I went alone. I went with plans of fishing hard all day; and boy howdy did I ever. I arrived at the juniper tree about 10:00ish and yes-in-dee-dee I worked up-river.

The fish were small, but those little fish put a big smile on this boy's face.  The canyon was isolated and peaceful. My first plan of attack is to use a hopper dropper with a soft hackle as the dropper. I also using beetle patterns and Fat Alberts for the dry. Honestly I don't really  expect anything from the dry this time of year, I mostly use them as strike indicators--wrong! Some pretty good size fish give me the slow deliberate slurp. In my world of fly fishing I just doesn't get any better than seeing a nice brown slowly rise up and slurp my dry! Slightly less good is when they are just about to slurp it and something spooks them, and they reject it.

At any rate, I told the little woman that I was going to go forth, and not expect me until way past dark, which again is exactly what I did. I somehow pull myself out of the water to find the road.  I really put on some miles, and I had a long slow walk (most of it in the dark) back to the car. Not a soul was in the canyon; complete bliss! I spend all my days with people needing this thing or that, and to be alone even for half a day was the best part of this river. Dear God its nice to trade your cell phone in for the RIVER!

Thanks again Oracle!

Oh one more thing, if you know this river from the pics, your wrong its not that one...

Mr. Wilson Rules!

The story will follow, but its safe to say Mr. Wilson kicks ass--but we already know that. Today he was the man on Holy Water. He caught fish, while I caught moss. Normally that would be fine, but this is my river man.

The good news was that "B"came with us again. I was not too attentive to her today, I was too busy spooking the fish, and kicking up moss. But none-the-less I love it when she joins in.

 

Chalk Creek

Chalk Creek…or should I say No Creek

Once again The Oracle is right—but then again you don’t get a name like “The Oracle,” for nuttin. Chalk Creek should be changed to “You Can’t Fish Here Creek.” I have to add here that The Oracle is not the only person to say that Chalk Creek is pretty much locked up by private land owners, and there is virtually no fisherman’s access. Colby has suggested that maybe we try fishing it all the way up in Wyoming—that may be the answer.

I took a few pics of some areas that I didn’t think a farmer, or worse one of the mini-mansion owners would come out with a shot gun ready to blow my head off--just for being close to their land. Chalk Creek has more mansions along its banks than it has farms. Usually when you see rivers that are all locked up by private land owners, they’re usually farmers. Maybe it’s just me, but somehow I have more respect for them, guarding their land from encroachers, then the yahoo who builds a mill-&-a-half home on 20 acres next to the river.

I get why the land owner becomes a little jacked up about idiots tromping across their property; especially when you get people cutting fences, and littering. I want to say that behavior like that doesn’t happen, but I have seen a lot of it for myself first hand. When David, Hammer and I met on Mammoth Creek we camped in the exact spot I camped in a few months before. The whole areas was littered with whiskey bottles, cans, just trash—tons of it. So I have seen firsthand what people can do. But, and here comes the big but—is it really fair that you lock up and entire river? Can’t we look to Idaho or Montana and find the simple agreement in the middle where land owners have rights, but fishermen can still just fish.

Maybe it is worth the time to drive all the way up Chalk Creek Rd into Wyoming, and maybe we can have access to what looks like a fantastic river. My daughter, Beezer and I hit the Weber on the way home, which is always nice. We didn’t catch any fish, but she did make friends with a few cows.

South Fork Ogden River

Okay…why I haven't fished the Ogden long ago is beyond me? I love this bad boy! I have actually fished the south fork maybe 15 years ago but I really don't remember it. If I recall when I fished it last, it was a really dry winter and I fished it in the spring; the water was supper low.

We didn't catch a lot of fish today, but the fish we did catch we're beautiful Browns. I imagine that during prime fishing months a ton of fishermen swarm these banks; it just makes sense-- it's close, and it has so many impressive features. To begin with I love the size of this river--it reminds me of the Provo but a little smaller. The river bottom is rock covered which is great on a lot of levels; it creates an environment for bugs to live and prosper, and it's nice to step in--it doesn't kick up a ton of mud. The water is clean and clear with a very fishable flow. My favorite aspect of the river though is the way it fishes, or the holes. I can’t wait to fish it with hoppers in the summer months, it has long runs, with extensive amazing riffles.

As we both expected, it was all about little midge. We nymphed most of the day with little black nymphs (zebra, disco midge) and a number of common patterns as well. But oddly enough the winning fly for both of us was a little cream midge Colby ties up himself; it’s a simple cream body with a black head.  The method was strike indicator with nymphs at various depths. This time of the year, and the way the river laid out, it was really the only technique to use. At the end of the day we saw a number of fish slurping off the top, and we tried swinging soft hackle to them, but no luck.

We wanted to connect with our chum Tommy Bitchin, but he didn’t call until later in the day, when we were already on the river. From the way I see it; I think he’s hooked on fly fishing. I don’t know how much he really likes fishing; I think it’s more about getting out. But for me those guys make the best buddies on the river anyhow.