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Musings of a Trout Bum  Trails worn and torn. Sunsets bathed in neon. Rings of phantoms floating off- Dissapearing seconds after birth. The life beat of man and wind, Conflict in line and time. All come together to create poetry- A seemingly magical feat. Phantoms rise- Rings. Reel screams to the world... Perfection in the form of flesh. Memories buried deep as world closes in- Doubt. Hurt. Lonliness. Confusion. One who chases phantoms, One who finds the human physical false. A non-existant trail brings joy. Pretty faces: Pain. Road less traveled by, thin blue lines on a map. Trout Bums explore the void-hoping to find salvation. Can I be saved? This past Sunday, my fishing buddy Jason and I descended south into Spanish Fork Canyon in the hopes of finding trout of purportedly gargantuan proportions. The day started out with blue bird skies and blinding sunlight as we headed toward a destination overlooked by many if not 99% of the angling population of Utah, and as we pulled up to our destination, I did not know what to expect. All I had been told about the Spanish Fork River was that it was a muddy river that did not hold very many fish if any fish, and that if the water was clear-the chance of hooking up with a literal monster was possible. Armed with little intel, and an overwhelming curiosity to explore, we set out to throw some serious meat in hopes of finding a myth. And like many quests, we found nothing but empty holes, muddy water, and received a very good tan and dehydration as a reward, but that is why I love exploring new water so much-it can either be one of the most rewarding experiences that you have ever experienced, or a bust that makes you appreciate the surroundings around you more than than fish you never saw. Finding a little place off the beaten path that you can call your own in the presence of wild fish, big fish-in the end it doesn't really matter about the amount of fish you bring to your hand. You are at one with your surroundings in a way that you can't explain; it just feels right to be chasing fins in solitude. Every fish is a gem, some more memorable than others, but everything adds up to be one great whole that keeps me young and itching to climb a distant ridge, or walk the bank a couple of miles more. And on Sunday, that is exactly what I did. I just kept walking, just kept fishing, cast after cast, moving upstream and covering the water in a methodical sweep. There was the occasional chaser, and I even hooked a fish, but I really wasn't expecting anything that great to happen. The most memorable part of the day was spent sitting on a downed tree, soaking up the unusually warm day, and watching Jason work his way upriver to me. The sound of the river, the warmth of the suns rays, and the feeling of content just sitting down and relaxing meant so much. I was lost in a state of meditation, and I was almost able to forget about the flies I had lost searching the cut banks and log jams in search of 25+ inches of gold. Almost. Well I never thought that I would ever say this, but I am getting to the point lately where I am not very motivated to go fishing. It might be a natural sense of the change of the seasons affecting my motivation-I think it is because I am just experiencing an urge to branch out and get into fighting shape and play lacrosse once again. I know my doctor told me to quit, my uncle who is an orthopedic surgeon has told me to stop playing after my last surgery, but I love the game too much. When I see it being played I have to lace up my cleats and join in the fun. It has become a part of my soul. I still get chills of adrenaline throughout my body when I step onto the field, and every goal scored is as good as my first one. The feeling of youth and invincibility has been contagious, and I am now on the brink of re-entering the game. At St. Marys I learned how to hate lacrosse. Being yelled out constantly, working my butt off for nothing, having a coach who didn't keep his commitments-I was so busy just trying to get a chance to play that I completely forgot why I played lax in the first place. I was so stressed out that I couldn't relax, and all of the time hitting the wall or lifting weights couldn't overcome the frustration I was feeling. Life out here is a new breath in so many ways. I have mountains and rivers to lose myself in, I can run mountain trails to get into fantastic shape, and lacrosse out here is competitive-but fun. I know that it isn't the hot bed of lacrosse, but it is just so much more enjoyable. The whole east coast attitude of being in a constant rush, having a huge ego, or not having the common sense to just sit back and relax is so noticable compared to the relatively laid back pace of life that Utah is. It took two years before I finally realized that those on the east coast have no idea how good of a life we have out here. More and more are, unfortunately, migrating out here to experience our little slice of heaven, and soon it will be time for me to pull up the stakes and move on to something else. New Zealand, for some reason, sounds really good to me now. I might just have to get a work visa after I am done with college and go on down to experience a year or two of the Kiwi lifestyle. I cannot wait until i get the fishing bug back, because by the time I do, I am going to be itching to go fishing for another ten months, and the Skwala stones will be coming off in Montana. Life is sweet when you are a trout bum, but having the urge for a change of pace makes getting out on the water all the more enjoyable. In the middle of the Utah desert, a little jewel winds its way down a narrow canyon. Surrounded on all sides by majestic mesas and miles upon miles of alien landscape, one could easily relate the San Rafel Wash as a look into Mars itself eons ago. The emptiness of the land appeals to me; why I cannot really say. Perhaps I feel as if I can lose myself forever, a nomad to the trout gods-going wherever the fishing takes me. And yet, it seems as if I am trying to lose my past demons and memories in the rough and ragged landscape. Can one find salvation in waters full of trout? Can I drive reckless and risk death to shake off the shame that has continually dogged my entire life? Answers to a puzzle that I cannot seem to complete to save me. I can't drive reckless anymore-two speeding tickets back to back hurt, especially the 94 in a 65, so now I can do nothing but remember, think, feel, and hurt until I enter the water. What made this jewel special, besides the fish, was the clarity and uniqueness of the stream. Surrounded by towering spires of sandstone, running as clear and cold as gin, the current broken by semi sized boulders, and the complete sense of satisfaction in seeing a fish slowly track your fly while rising from the bottom of a 10 ft. deep hole. So slow, sure, and the thrill of it slurping your fly while trying to restrain your instincts from striking. A heart beat later, the rod is raised, line tightens, and I feel life on the end. So like New Zealand. You don't blindly cast hoping fish will rise. You find a target, stalk it, creeping on your hands and knees in the mud, and ever so slowly raise your rod in order to present an offering to a fish that is scared of its own shadow. The trout in this little oasis are not New Zealand trout, they have not felt the need to develop spooky and inhospitable mannerisms towards those that hunt them, but I am only 2 hours away from home, and I feel as if I have left this world all together. That is a sense of peace no amount of money can buy-and for two hours I am free of my memories. Priceless. The drive to Kemmerer is a blur of blue skies, coffee, and paranoid glances in my rearview mirror for a Wyoming deputy itching to ruin my day. The fishing license is purchased, my senses are ready, and I embark towards Lake Viva Naughton ready to bide my time, and explore the lower stretches of the Hams before it dumps into the city resevoir. I am quick to put on my gear as the cold wind that Wyoming is notorious for slowly starts to increase. I am not bundled up as much as some would deem necessary, but I would rather freeze a little and be moblie than look like a slug and be happy. Sometimes suffering a little makes catching a fish all the more rewarding, and today was going to be no exception. I decide to take a long walk, down the lower beat of the river, to explore and see what I can possibly turn up seeing how I haven't ever taken the time to walk the entire stretch of private property. I walk all the way down to where the property to the ranch officially ends, and I decide to jump in from there and make my way back up river-all the while hoping to run into a hatch of BWO's or midges later on in the day. I spook a rather large trout attempting to cross the river, and I know that it can't be helped. The edges and slower currents of the Hams are frozen solid, but not solid enough to hold the weight of a 20 year old trout bum. Cracking the ice is as bad as shooting a rifle in the air when deer are around, and I am thankful that only one fish was spooked by my incompetence. Nothing is rising, it is too damn cold, and my fingers are starting to feel like stubs of wood: Perfect conditions for twitching a streamer. I rig up my rod as best as I can, my fingers looking more like little red sausages than the agile apendages they were in the warmth of summer, and I start my methodical Platte River Swing. The swing is nothing short of idiot proof. You cast your fly towards the opposite bank and at a downstream angle, let the current swing your fly, and let the dynamics of flowing water do the rest for you. Great on a cold day, where you can't feel anything in your toes or fingers. I work my streamer through the whole pool time and time again with not even a bump to showfor my efforts. I strip it past a clump of weeds while letting it swing, and it is suddenly strip, strip...WUMP!! My rod bends, reel sings as a rather large fish takes off down river, and my trip is not in vain. My lack of activity lately via livejournal has been to a combination of fishing trips, laziness, and overall lack of inspiration. That being said, I have spent the last couple of days I have had off fishing Montana and Wyoming, and enjoying amazing success in each trip and outing. My solo adventure to Montana, to fish the waters that molded my love for the sport, was as full-filling as a revival and it gave me the sense of truly being home for the first time in months. Blue Wing Olives, October Caddis, little Red Copper Johns...all were effective and the fishing was hot. The few stands of golden aspens provided a nice backdrop to the snow capped mountains, and the old cabin was unchanged as I imagined it would be. Life is so very clear to me whenever I have the time to run away to Sula; almost as if I am lost boy who is coming home to Neverland, to a place where time means nothing. It all came full circle as I landed three very nice, very beautiful native Westslope Cutthroats on dry flies, and had it not been for the real world forcing me to retreat back to Salt Lake, I would of been content to fish the Bitterroot for a month. Wyoming also proved to be a great trip, but this was one shared with my fishing buddies. Eddie, Jordie and Warf(Eddie's dogs), Jason and I-all went to experience a last hoorah on the Pork Fork before it closes down until next may. It was a trip full of bullshitting, beer drinking, verbal harassment, and big trout. I had the hot stick all day, landing multiple fish, some very respectable fish, and one huge bow that made the trip all the more worthwhile. In all my years of fishing solo, I have only recently come to appreciate and cherish my time on the water with my friends. It has given me a perspective on the qualities of comradeship that I have never experienced outside of sports, and it makes the memories of the rivers we fish all the more haunting in our minds. Constantly beckoning us back to be healed and complete in its depths, and forever flowing toward a new horizon. q2You know you are a trout bum when: 1) You think about your next trip the moment you get back from fishing 2) You will sleep in the car to save a few bucks on the road 3) You would drop everything and possibly be fired in order to pursue big fish around the world. And the big finale: 4) You would not remeber to call a cute girl to go out on another date, and instead go fishing rather than call her and hang out. Guess what I did? No, I did not get fired, I would never bite the hand that feeds me, but I pretty much pulled a number four hardcore, and I can probably expect to get the finger or a "fuck-you" for it. Oh well, girls are in large supply, good trout streams aren't. HA! That being said, I had a bomber day on the Pork Fork in Wyoming with my fishing buddy Jason. Good cloud cover, minimal wind, few people, and loads of itty bitty baetis and midges made for an epic day of fishing. I took a fish on my first cast, and as I was about to slide down the bank, I spotted a much bigger fish eating a mere seven feet away from me. Lying on my belly, trying to keep my little fish from spooking its older brother, I motioned Jason over to take a crack at him while I remained motionless. Sure enough, first cast, the big bow honed in on Jason's baetis and sucked it down without any hesitation. I took this to be a sign from the fish gods that it was to be a good day, and while Jason definitely got a good amount of big fish, I stung ten fish that I know would of been 15+ inches, and lost a big bow that would of been 20 inches. That being said, I still caught a ton of fish, but none of the big bruisers that I lost. I curse the sky, and Jason was there to give me a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon for comfort. The day was one that I will soon not forget, and it makes me want to explore Wyoming all the more. Looking at a Gazeteer, seeing all all of the obscure blue lines running through its vast emptiness, a trout bum like me cannot help but imagine what possibilities lie beneath. I guess it is just a property of water that calls to us from hundreds of miles away-the chance of finding big fins and breaching noses. This is a little piece that I started on a month ago, actually after we got back from our shop trip to the Henry's Fork over the 24th of July. So, enjoy: Musings of a Trout Bum: Henry’s Fork Saga It is hot as hell, my reel is missing, and the string of last minute customers is never ending. We have done our duty; stayed behind to tend to the shop while everyone else is out fishing the legendary waters of a Fork whose boots I have never touched or had the pleasure of gracing…until now. After all of the dreaming, all of the imagining, all the giddy trips I took in my head as a child, I am finally living my dream. But the people keep coming, keep pushing back my date with a river I long to just see! It is so hard to care about things people need when they are keeping you from living-especially waiting until after we are closed to stop by and pick up their shit. Money talks. And as long as they keep guys like Franklin, Jackson, Lincoln, and Washington in their back pockets, we are always going to be forced to care about the last minute wants and fancies of last minute ass holes. The river is a short ride away-all we need to do is find the inner jerk inside of us and get these people the hell out of the shop, but I know we can’t. OUr shops fine reputation is at stake, and if we were to do the right thing and close, our customer service rep would ultimately be doomed. People love to destroy one another, and if you give a customer a chance, they will bite you in the ass. Not only are we forced to peddle to assholes and their money, we depend on them for keeping the shop alive, and smile and laugh at their insults and attempts to feel like big wigs in a sport they couldn’t ever hope to truly understand. Stein, Kenny, Zak and I take their shit, but we also take their money, so the universal balance is appeased. The door locks, the sign that had been flipped CLOSED at four has finally been enforced, and we are all in a hurry to just get the fuck out of dodge. The register is taken care of, last minute cleaning, the silencing of the shop ambiance, and the visible relief that is written on everyone’s face is short lived-it is now 6:20 PM, two hours after we have closed another asshole has shown up to get his last minute bullshit taken care of. Stein, furious and frustrated as a kid left standing outside of a toy store eternally, plays it very cool. Fortunately for all of us sweating in the Jeep, the customer understands that we are closed, and walks away… FREEDOM!!! I slip into unconscious and consciousness somewhere around Ogden, and regain it outside of Pocatello: home of the conservative, gun-toting, bible thumping, curiously addicting sub shop of Papa Kelsey’s, and more Mormon churches in a square mile radius than a Provo suburb. We get out, order, piss, bullshit, and gaze upon the locals as if we have taken a step back into the late seventies. Apparently, the trickle down affect of having a fine educational institution such as Idaho State hasn’t managed to overcome the gross number of young, misguided Mormons manning the cash registers and fast food joints in Pocafellow. Lets face it, when the Mormons get to down to fucking, you can be sure that it’ll get done. This dogma is visually emphasized by the sight of a girl, no younger than eighteen but no older than twenty, being the proud parent of three little bundles of LDS joy in Papa Kelsey’s. Young, beautiful-I pondered if being a parent at such a young age was what she really wanted, thought about what possible dreams laid beneath that bleach blonde hair, and feeling sorry that she got stuck with the total zero at her side. All of my deep thought and contemplation on this lass is virtually thrown out the window as all of my colleagues comment on how much they would love to ride that tight ass of hers, and all of my attention that had been given to studying her striking facial features is now focused squarely on that very tight ass. “Yeah, I’d hit that too,” was all I could say. And I would-minus the kids, location, religious orientation, and that I happened to meet her with a pack of Trojans in my pocket. Night is falling, Zak is recalling his encounter with the ice bitch at the Winco Foods who ungraciously denied us all licenses despite the fact that she closed down shop ten minutes early, and we are bound to Wal-Mart. Ah, Wal-Mart, life blood of white trash and migrant workers of America Inc. across all fifty states. Providing people with shit whose reliability is as low as the prices they sell it for, and aggressively promoting being a positive force in the community- despite the fact that they have forced numerous businesses to close and are literally raking in all the profits and not giving any back. A cool sensation is running into my happy place, and for a brief moment, I am very content. I look down to discover the source of such coolness, and only feel a volatile mixture of guilt, fear, embarrassment… I have spilt beer on my lap, and it looks as if I have just royally pissed myself. The boys waste no time in jumping on my back for such a stupid goof, and after a few seconds and five hundred insults later, I am officially dubbed ‘Rug-Pisser: Soiler of Jeep interiors across the globe.’ The embarrassment is destined to get sweeter; I have to now walk into Wal-Mart sporting a brand new stain near my happy place, all the while trying to keep screened behind the rest of the boys. It doesn’t work, and my embarrassment turns into “I don’t give a fuck”, and I proudly show my stain until I am able to hide it behind an Idaho Hunting/Fishing Proclamation. Our licenses taken care of, my status as a rug pisser unanimously agreed, we are ready to do battle with the famed rainbows of the Henry’s Fork Ranch section at first light the next day. The trip to Last Chance is a very disorienting and odd series of events-between Stein and me singing along to some of the most obnoxious pop songs our culture has ever produced, to the random fireworks lighting up the one horse towns of Rexburg, Ashton, and the seemingly unnoticeable climb onto the Henry’s Fork Plateau. After seeing nothing but blackness torn by the burning gaze of the Jeeps headlights, we finally turn of the highway into a mouth of trees, and are greeted by the dying embers of a once proud fire welcoming us with the occasional flicker of sparks. Joints creaking, mouths yawning, we are welcomed by our colleagues and their curious inquiries on why we took so long to escape the hell that had become Salt Lake. I learned that in the last hour and a half of mad scrambling, we had managed to rake in over $2000.00, and that our total for the day had topped out at around five grand. All in all, an extremely successful day despite the theft of my reel, and the fact that people in Utah seem incapable of reading a CLOSED sign. As the embers were dying, my ability to stand was as well. Tents were pitched, conversations died down to brief sputters here and there across the camp. My little one man tent, my sanctuary for the trip, soon encased me in welcoming darkness and quiet, and then I overheard an argument taking place between Stein and our lovable shop rug Mikey. I don’t remember what exactly was said, but I do recall Mikey saying something along the lines of, “Oh yeah Stein, well I have a banana”, and then the unmistakable and contagious laugh of Kenny filling the quiet summer night. Next day I awoke to the sounds of Jenny and Munga standing around the fire pit, and am amazed that I had the willpower to wake up at seven in the morning without anyone having to tazer me, and I know that the day should be great for fishing. Somewhat blue skies with clouds closing in from both directions, and the lack of wind signal one thing to my brain: great fishing. After a breakfast of bagels, the crew splits up to converge on two different sections of the Ranch. Half of the guys head up to Last Chance, while the ranch rookies pile in with Kenny to experience the quintessential section of the Fork: Millionaires Ranch. We pile out, set up our gear, and my adrenaline starts to pump as we hit the trail, and come out onto a magnificent sight of meadows stretching for miles to the northeast, and the sight of glassy water that I had wished so hard to see for years. The sight of the river was as good as Christmas, and I could not wait to step into the water and be baptized in its fame. Fortunately for our small band, the fish were hungry, and as if on cue began to rise methodically and often to a hatch of Flavs, Callibaetis, and PMD’s. Zak and Kenny headed out to do battle with a pod of fish rising just below us, whilst Stein and headed down a little ways to find fish willing to duel with us, and possibly revoke our status as Ranch rookies. We didn’t need to walk far, just a hundred yards downstream from Zak I saw multiple heads rising steadily, and I knew that my lesson on how to fish the Henry’s Fork was about to begin. I am walking along the steep trail of loose rock, following a game trail that is at times nothing more than an enigma, and possibly being followed by a mountain lion. The light is fading fast, I am without a headlamp, and I have no first aid kit or cell phone. All of this is running through my head as I take a fateful step, and the earth all of sudden falls out from underneath of my feet, and before I know it I have slammed my knee against a rock and I am sliding down the slope. A willow breaks my fall, and amazingly enough, I instinctly kept my $600.00 dollar fly rod from being damaged at all, but my leg is starting to swell and I still have a mile and half to get out. Amazingly enough, I am not afraid. I know that I am able enough to get out, and that if a mountain lion wanted to kill me, that there was nothing I could really do to stop it from attacking. I have had some pretty close brushes with death in my short 20 years on earth, and I have always found it odd how I am unafraid or more focused on surviving whenever my life is called into question. Or how at peace I am at the fact that I may die. But I was not in a life or death struggle yet, and I sure as hell wasn't going down without a fight. I shakily got back up on my feet, and began the long limp out-fly rod in one hand, and a very large stick in the other. I figured that the stick would help me crutch out, and at the same time, allow me to at least whack anything that decided to make my good day a bad one. Fortunately, I am able to walk off my injury, and I make back into the world where a path made by humans beckons me toward my car. But, much like the trout bum I am, you never ever leave an area with alot of rising fish, and I just happened to pass a beaver pond/pool with rising trout coming up everywhere. Four fish later, I am satisfied, and I am able to limp out in the fading darkness with a sense of wonder and love for the Strawberry River and the fish that dwell in its gin clear water. I gave some flies, blood, and sweat getting in and out, but the pay-off of being alone with eagles and in the company of wild fish-well I guess it speaks for itself. I am in perfect position to fish the next hole, and after losing one fly to a very respectable fish, I am wary. I only have two Schroeder's Hoppers in my box, and over eight hours of daylight left to fish-time to conserve and experiment. I tie on a Letort hopper and let 'er fly. It plops so convincingly that I expect it to be consumed with a gusto...but nothing happens, and the hopper floats back uneaten and rejected. I try to make my case yet again; the hopper plops, skids a little, and a larger more demonic golden ghost appears and snaps at my fly. Gone in seconds, my fly intact, I am left thinking 'if only, if only' as cast after cast receives no attention. Time to move on, but where to? The trail continues a little farther downstream, and the water continues to look better and better around each bend. I decide to forgo fishing up the river, and continue to trek farther down into the unknown. The canyons awesome vista is so stunningly beautiful as I pick my way across a boulder field that I almost miss the rattlesnake slithering a mere two feet from me, and I instantly freeze as it decides to continue with its day to day agenda. The realization that I am three miles into rugged and unforgivable country, alone, and without a first aid kit equipped with anti-venom really hits me. No Bueno. Yet the call of further exploration and good fishing gives me courage, and I pick my across the field of rock. I step with the care a soldier would take whilst attempting to cross a minefield, and before I am clear of the rocks, I will cross paths with five other rattlers, and dodge tens if not hundreds of others that I do not see. I have no option of going farther once I reach the next bend. I must either bushwhack through overgrown clumps of willows, or brave even more rattlesnakes and perilous loose shale rock slopes if I wish to continue on further. I remember just how long it took me to get to where I could go no farther, and I realize that the farther I venture in, the less light I will have to find my way home. Using the stream, and fishing my way back upriver, I run across a species of trout that I have been searching for all summer to admire in my hands. Using one of my two little Schroeder's hoppers, I begin to pick my way back upriver, and in one deep plunge pool, I am rewarded. A native Bonneville Cutthroat, the one true species of trout from Utah, slams my fly with a gusto that I have been searching for all summer. And after a brief skirmish, 13 inches of wriggling, unrelenting beauty is in my hands. It is hard to believe that this fish's ancestors called the Strawberry River home for more than 10,000 years, back when the huge freshwater lake that bears this fish's first name covered what it now Utah, Idaho, and Wyoming. This fish has a history that I cannot even begin to compare with, and I take extra care to release this native back into its ancient homeland. Making my way upriver, I continue to encounter more and more wild golden ghosts, and my hopes of finding larger natives to tempt with my dry flies is fading. The mighty browns of my ancestors homeland are simply too warrior like. Built to survive, built to kill, built to be successful, they have overpowered the balance that had existed for thousands of years. I appreciate their golden beauty, and I appreciate their wild, fighting ways-but in the end, I would prefer beautiful natives to once again call this stream home. Yet, the browns seem to be more willing to rise to my flies today, and I am pleasured to be able to spend my time in the company of such beautiful fish. Silver flanks, copper bellies, fins trimmed with egg white lines, and large leopard spots mixed with red dots add a pleasing and striking touch to an already handsome fish. I am so entertained that I nearly miss the fact that parts of the canyon are becoming shaded and dark. Looking up at the sky, I realize that the sun will be setting in an hour, and in the middle of mountain lion country and following a very unclear trail, I was going to need all the light I could get to be able to make my way safely out to fight another day. I left the river, and decided to head back up into the hills in order to bypass the tangle of willows that I had forded earlier, and was soon walking along at a nice clip when disaster nearly had me at the mercy of mother nature. More to come as I conclude my day traversing the canyon to find great fishing. Oh, My guided trip went pretty well yesterday. Got the guys on fish, caught fish, and ended up with a $200 dollar tip. Life is sweet when you are a trout bum. |
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