Utah Browns - Secret of Nimh

The theme most of the year has been larger oversized bugs. Today's adventure followed suit. Drew and I met up at the standard time of early, really early… pre-dawn early. Then we are faced with the "where to go" syndrome. Drew is relativity new to the areas around these parts, so the decision landed in my lap. Over the valley and through the woods we finally arrived at the target…when we discovered a car parked in the lot already. How in the hell did someone beat us, it's early, remember. The question - "are they fishing"? We'll see, rigged up and headed to the water… conveniently walked by the parked car looking for the obvious signs of a fisherman; rod tubes, bags, packs, waders, scattered flies, empty Red Bulls, power bar wrappers, empty ibuprofen bottles… you know, the usual stuff. We spotted a whole lot of nothing, nada, not even a speck of dirt could be seen. I'm not sure what they are doing. I suspected that if they are fishing, it’s a quickie before work. We entered the water and as luck would have it, I landed a fish right out of the gate. I'm sure we both thought in our minds that this is going to be a good day. A few nice holes later we hadn't moved a fish, nothing spooked, then we discovered the problem and answered the big question. Up ahead three fishers are walking down stream, headed in our direction. We talked story and learned they had only fished up around the bend before they turned around… and they are headed to work. We exchanged some information before walking up to where they left off, I couldn't get the grin off my face.

It was pretty apparent where they stopped fishing, as soon as we entered virgin water fishing started to pick up… and fast. It’s a rare time when likely holding water is actually holding a hungry fish. Today was one of those days. Drew tossed on a Rainy's Marshmallow hopper and I had been tossing a Rainy's Mudfoot. For the rest of the day we took turns smacking the water and releasing fish. Half way into a perfect day a few unexpected surprises caught us off guard. After a few hefty fish things couldn't get better… but they did.

Approaching a long slow run we conversed about how to approach it. We broke it down into three sections; back, middle, head. Drew took the back and pulled a few beauties out, things were going as planned. A few pictures later it was my turn. I took the middle of the run leaving the head of the water for the last section. The hopper hit the slow quiet run with a large splat. Drew and I were in the middle of a lazy conversation when out of nowhere a trout latterly did a cannon ball on my hopper. It was the biggest splash that either of us had ever seen, like a large boulder would create with the "vacuum after splash" effect. We came really close to getting wet, I felt as if I was at Sea World. I didn't get a good look at the fish but the splash hinted at a large specimen. The fish dove as I set the hook; the odd tugs directly afterward felt as if it was false hooked, my heart sank. I tugged, he tugged right back, and now I thought for sure it was false hooked. I at least wanted to see it before he broke me off so I horsed it in to get a hopeful peak. When the fish came into view the first thing I noticed was the behemoth size, the next thing I noticed was the hopper sticking out from the corner of the mouth… its on. For the next few seconds the fish did everything it could to break me off, take off up stream, dart for the bank, rub me off on the steam bed and then it turned and headed down stream with lightning speed… towards the very fast water filled with many large sharp rocks. I did what anyone else would do, held my rod high trying to avoid my line from snagging up on the rocks and made a run, literally sprinting down the slippery river after the fish. A realistic 4-5 minutes later after a brilliant fight from the fish, it was now coming in for a soft landing. Due to the size of the girth my only option was to try and tail it. Luckily the spring Tiger Musky handling lessons paid off and the process was a gentle one. After releasing the fish, I clipped off my fly and I reeled up. I was satisfied and wanted to enjoy that experience for the rest of the day. On the way back to the car I was able to show Drew a different method of fishing that he had never done. Its kind of a Czech nymphing/streamer style mixed in with a dead drift. Think of it as fishing a wooly bugger and all the possibilities that its capable of. It was awesome to watch someone have so much fun while fishing. A few dozen fish later Drew was on fire and really getting the hang of it… I still had a smile on my face and am still trying to relive that 4-5 minute battle to this day… I love fishing.

Above pics shot by Drew K.

The Myth or Legend - West Fork of the Allred

"I'm in, see you at 5am", hung up the phone and frantically started packing my gear. By 3am my eyes slammed shut. Alarm goes off, I swear just closed my eyes. Grizz and his trust sidekick will be here shortly, I better not hit the snooze button, dam it's early. Load the gear and were on the road to….

"Where are we going again?" I asked

"Not sure, any ideas?"

You have to understand that some of the trips are all planned out but the others, well, nothings really decided, and nothing is ever set in stone, this was one of those times. On the freeway, with a map in hand, the question not easily answered, we estimate that we'll be at the crossroads in about one hour, so we need to decide the path to take. Our options… left, right or straight.

"I'm going to close my eyes and put my finger on the map" I told Grizz

"Sounds good" he replied.

I opened my eyes to see an area that I am not familiar with. Grizz knew of it (of course), he had heard rumor about a place that's supposed to be a myth and it's hypothetically in this area. Because none of us know anyone with first hand information that would be reachable (not me) I did what anyone that needs off-the-beaten-path info would do… I called Ralphy. No answer, oh well I am calling him at work. Ralphy had some good information. A few things stood out from our conversation, first its private and there's very few, if any, public access and none that he personally knows of. Second, it's rumored to hold monster fish and third, it's a very tight-lipped river and its not talked about lightly. Sounds like a challenge. We made a choice in about 2.9 seconds, West Fork of the Allred it is!

Within a few hours from the outlaw signature we should be in the tiny town. As the co-pilot I am trying to locate any information on this fable and the whereabouts of its treasure. Then I spotted it,

"There's a fish and game office in town" I blurted out in excitement.

"They'd know what's going on if anyone does" Grizz replied.

Arriving in town we have one goal, to get information on the river… at all costs. Rolling down the "main" road the sign to the F&G office was spotted. We took the turn and are now headed down the information highway……. After some time…. like 20 minutes, things are not adding up.

"You think its down this far?" I asked

"Not sure, but I've been down this road before", "hey, look at that fire over there"

Off in the distance and following our same course is a wild forest fire. Its on the ridge line and appears to be in control at the moment, that’s right, the fire is in control. Twenty minutes goes by before we figured that we must have passed it. So the back tracking began and we ended with the same results, no F&G building located. What the …… Heading back into town we noticed a Town Hall, were both thinking the same thing; they have to know where the building is. It's an old building, more like a old house, something that reminds me of New England. Two ladies are working behind the counter, one is what you think of when quiet small town comes to mind, simple and kind, the other, well, she looks to be weathered and not to be trifled with.

"How can I help you" The kind lady asked

Grizz replied, "Were looking for the fish and game building"

The conversation quickly went from directions to the West Fork. That’s about the time when the lady in the back came out… with a glare.

"Its private property" she said in a stern commanding voice

That caught both of us off guard. With only a millisecond to respond we asked if there is public access. "Its private property, you're better off at Lower Blue, there is plenty of access there".

"Nah, were looking to get on the West Fork" Grizz told the lady "is there public access?"

"Well, yeah" she replied "but its private... how many of ya?"

"Two and a dog"

The lady slightly dipped her head when she asked "what kind, do you have it with ya?"

I am certain that Grizz was thinking the same thing, the dog is our in.

The quiet lady in the corner piped up "she's the local dog catcher". I looked over nonchalantly she was staring at us with a sinister grin on her face. There goes that I was thinking to myself. But the lady started to ramble, naming a few areas and offering us access on her property. Sweet!

Finally, I thought, now were getting somewhere. Walking out he door I felt as if we had just gotten the crap beat out of us. Instead of asking questions we somehow ended up getting interrogated by the local dogcatcher. We did gain a few puzzle pieces, such as the fire has tripled in one day, the river is private, locals hate the rich bastards a few mountain ranges away and that we should have brought our bullet-proof vests as we might get shot at for fishing it… but at this point things are quite foggy. F&G will know something so that's where we headed next. After talking to the lady there, we left F&G with the same basic information, same as town hall but without the attitude. The lady was helpful and gave us a ton of maps, but they were for another river all together. We are now faced with one last dreaded option, the fly shop. We discussed our strategy. We are going to wait until all customers leave before we ask any questions, as we know the words West Fork are not openly spoken around here, especially from out-of-towner's. We'll buy some flies and make small talk, that's when one of us will pop the question. As we entered the shop we immediately noticed that nobody was around. The old shop guy greeted us with a smile. We laid it down, right then and there. He started off with the same rubbish that everyone else has fed us, "its private property" and the over played "go down to Lower Blue, there are lots of access points". I started to fumble though the fly bins, some cool flies I haven't seen but overall a weak selection. Finally, the guy cracked and started talking. Nice going Grizz! Every time he answered a question, somewhere in the rebuttal, references were made to what a pain the access is and how the land owners are watching with spotting scopes to make sure that nobody is trespassing, etc, etc. Then a map came out and more information was being spilled. All was going well when the owner, I think, walked in. The guy quickly pulled the maps down off the counter and hid it underneath. It's all over now; the guy's not going to talk any longer, I thought. Small talk was made and we again heard about he rich yuppies coming into their turf. Jeez, it's like Hawaii here, tight lipped and locals only…. I love it! The owner walked into the back. We bought our flies, grabbed he map (a piece of yellow-white paper with smeared black lines) and left… a bit confused.

There were a few key things that the shop guy said…. Everyone uses the same shuttle service; the river is private (again) meaning no anchoring, no wading, and no standing, floating on the water only. The fact that everyone is trying to detour us from fishing it makes us even more determined to get on it. We decided to follow the information. Instead of booking shuttles from that shop, who'll call the only shuttle service as well, we decided to head straight to the source. If anyone knows access points it has to be these guys. Getting out of the car I couldn't help think that this is our last hope. The shop wasn't really a fishing shop at all, although there were a few things here and there, but there wasn't much. A nice employee greeted us and we laid it out, blatantly. He knew the river, but when he didn't know exactly where the access was he shouted over to a fellow employee who was putting line on a spin reel. Over in the corner of this little shop, but packed with a ton of stuff, was a short and stout fellow. You could tell that he was a climber by the way he carried himself and the clothes that he was wearing…his name is Josh. Josh is nothing flashy, actually the opposite, a humble honest dude from the mid-west living the life way out here in no-mans land, raising a family, climbing and fishing. After five minutes of talking with Josh we had more information than all the other combined. One of us finally just asked, "Where would you go?". He shared that information without hesitation. He pointed on a map, "here but it’s a 12-hour float." We booked a shuttle for tomorrow morning without blinking. Josh also told us where to camp, its relative out of the way yet close to town. The fly selection he used (along with everyone else) was basically three patterns. A generic Chernobyl ant, a muddler minnow, and another sub surface fly was it. Nobody has heard of anything that we were packing, no articulated flies, no 4" death monsters, no sinking lines, no sink tips. Interesting, very interesting. We thanked our new found savior and skipped to the car… well, Grizz walked, I was probably skipping.

We found the camp exactly where Josh had told us. It was right next to a beautiful stream and tucked out of the way. Unloading our gear I realized that I tossed my newly bought flies in the garbage at the grocery store I didn't want to go back for them but I hoped in the truck and headed to the garbage. At the garbage can I was getting eyeballed by the locals, the bag of trash was buried but I dug it out anyway… I found it! Now the travel back to camp, hope I can find it.

Dawn came and I was stoked, Grizz was too. Over a cup of coffee and a Red Bull we discussed our options. We'll rig up a dry rod and a streamer rod and go from there. We arrived at the launch site. "Are we in the right place" Grizz asked "hell if I know" I replied with a surprised look on my face. Were both in bit of shock, the river is about as wide as the middle Provo, maybe. Josh had told us that the only way in was a small tributary, which flows into the larger river…. this has to be it.

The start of our journey was filled with excitement. The stream was small, really small. We bounced off walls of brush, scraped bottom more often than not, crossed though large orange tarps that are draped across the river and dogged barbwire. The large orange tarps are attention-grabbing…. they have large slits every few feet creating, imagine an old school car wash that you'd see in the movies, the ends of the tarp sit in the water conveniently collecting moss, algae…what I'd call sludge. There is only one way to get past these things, straight through. The long rectangle strips of florescent orange tarp slap you in the face as you make you way underneath the hanging cable that holds this giant eye sore. Now back on track, the odd thing about this tributary, it's the gem clear water but not a sign of a fish. Grizz was on the oars as I pounded the water with no response, no movement, and no nothing. Almost an hour later of battling the tight S-turns we came to a fork where the water spits, now the tributary is half the size. By this time Grizz is pushing and/or pulling the boat over the shallow river bottom. Trespassing? Perhaps, but we have no choice. I put the rod down and grabbed the back-up oar to push us away from the brush wall of the river… or at least slow us down from ramming speed. The river is tight, really tight and some areas it's moving rather quickly. Grizz was killing it on the oars. I am a rookie at best and am dreading my turn.

Just when we'd almost had enough of playing bumper boat Grizz spotted it, the entrance to the West Fork. Off to our left was the other half of the water that left us earlier. To its side were other smaller tributaries pouring into this larger water… the river is whole again. Immediately entering the junction the bottom of the river was alive. White fish covered the pools and the trout held on the outskirts and near any structure. Tens, twenties, even thirties of Whitefish held tightly to the bottom then moving out of the way as we floated over, The bottom looked busy. The first large trout was spotted pretty quickly; it was large to say the least, then another and another. This was a gem in the middle of nowhere. It banks are filled with Bald and Golden Eagles, Ospreys, other birds that I don't know the name of, Deer and Beavers, its untamed… oh and the moose, up close. We heard an awkward bird cry and looked up to see a Bald Eagle squawking relentlessly. Neither of us had ever heard this particular sound before, so we watched this bird with curiosity. Floating by, our eyes still fixed to the bird, we rubbernecked all the way around the bend waiting for something to happen. That right about the time we spotted a bull moose standing right in the middle of the river and that's right about the time when we started scraping bottom in the shallow small gravel and right after that, we came to a complete stop just a few feet away from the large animal. Holy shit, we need to get "beeping" out of there. Grizz quickly hoped out of the boat and started pushing. The moose wasn't bothered though, it actually he walked away with a disgusting look on his face. The last few hours of the float it started to rain, actually pour, we pushed out to the car.

Back at camp we planed our next assault. Were going back to the same stretch. The basic scenario is this, we have one shot at each hole and a few casts per run and the fish we are targeting are rather large, not to mention that we didn't move a fish on top. There was only one choice, streamers. We achieved our redemption, another great day. We picked of some hefty fish, lost even more. I learned the "what not to do's" on the oars and feel pretty good about the technical crash course (literally) that I had the pleasure of participating in. As soon as I got behind the paddles I was nervous, alert and realized that its way harder than Grizz makes it look. I am glad that I didn't wreck the boat and was able to get him in range of a fish… even if it’s a crazy behind the back cast with an awkward mend, I'm still trying to figure it out.

We thanked Josh on our way out of town and learned that this will probably be the last week to float it. We had no idea that there is a two-week window all year to float it. The rest of the year is private property…. The fishing God's were definitely smiling on us this trip.

Above pics shot by Grizz

Utah Fishing - Along the Tracks

Drew and I headed out at the crack of dawn. We had an epic day of tossing the big bugs a few weeks back and we are anticipating the same results. Spicy had some good Cicada Intel, so that pretty much sealed the deal on the location. The fishing this year has been fantastic. the last four months consisted of slapping large oversize dry flies. As of late, Cicada patterns have been producing brilliantly… but a good thing never lasts.

The drive is distinctive. It leaves the pavement and winds through sagebrush and scrub Oak. Suddenly, the road gains elevation rather quickly and the steep climb to the top of the ridge-line begins. Once on top of the mountain ridge the road travels for a few miles along the top. The view is of the surrounding peaks and ridges, its pretty dang cool. Looking below into a dark valley you can make out that small blue line of water in the gut of the gorge. Traveling along the ridge you get a sense of being in the middle of nowhere. The road starts to drop in elevation right about the time the vegetation smoothly changes from grass and sage to Aspens and Pine trees. The temperature drops as we head deeper into the forest. Winding down the last hundred yards my eagerness grows… ah, water.

We rigged up and headed off, up the tracks to solitude… right as another car pulled in to the lot. Well, there goes the solitude. I walked over to talk to the guy, who's in a hurry to get his gear together. I thought a little friendly communication would be best so that everyone can have a great day. There's only three of us and miles of water so nobody needs to be fishing behind the other. I introduced myself and told him we are headed up a ways. He told us that he was headed up also, then explained that he's fished the area for a long, long time and knows it quite well. Sweet I said and asked a few questions and rambled off a few obvious stretches… that anyone familiar would know. He fumbled around, started to answer that was followed by a bunch of nothingness. I finally just told him we headed 3 miles up and that should be plenty of room for everyone…. noticeably he's foreign with most everything around these parts. We finally headed up the tracks and laughed about what had just happened.

Hiking next to the river causes me to be restless. I needed to remind myself to push on, even though I was staring at a beautiful pool that looks oh so fishy. The hike is full of conversation and topics usually include, fish, patterns, nature, life, ideas, solutions, jokes, the dude who knew too much, etc, etc. It's an enjoyable part of fishing and it passes the time. I looked back a few times to see if the guys had started his walk yet but we never saw him.

Drew picked up one and another came unbuttoned. I however was getting rejected and spooking all my targets. After two Red Bulls I had "wings" (Red Bull ad), instead of changing patterns I tried to just shove it down their throats with a few hundred more casts. It got their attention all right…they swam away. We reevaluated things. Drew picking up a few fish on Cicadas didn’t help matters. I didn't know what to do. Cicada or not to Cicada, that is the question…. Then I heard it, or didn't hear it…. no sound of the Cicadas, no crazy clicking or buzzing. Dam it. I shouldn't have been in such a hurry. Observing the water, foam line and back eddies where we found some PMD's. We heard some faint Cicadas but not what we had been previously accustom too. SO… on goes the PMD emerger.? We spotted a fish feeding at tail of a nice riffle. The river bottom suddenly drops straight off, like a ledge. The water is fast and at the seam of the drop and slows suddenly in the deepness. It's a perfect feeding lane for a fish, the faster turbulent water makes it a great place to hide and the location of the ledge would be compared to the end of a conveyor belt, the fish is basically holding at the end of the line. I told Drew to get em". A few casts with the Cicada were presented with good drifts, all rejected. Drew then gave me the go ahead. Once it saw the emerger it eagerly ate it. Sight fishing to a picky trout and sticking it makes all those other times that failed seems meaningless and forgotten…. Although, this wasn't one of those times, the fish just wanted a PMD emerger, it really didn't care who tossed it or what pattern it was. Things started picking up after that, we spent the rest of the day hooking fish. …and spooking the big ones. We harassed some large Carp, picked up some trash and headed back to the car.

We fished on the way back down the tracks, Drew was really fishing with confidence and it was showing. He hooked and lost what would have been the fish of the day along with a few other fatties. I'm sure by the end of the day he was sick of my "coaching", five more feet to the right, two more feet to the left, yada-yada-yada, mend you line, set set set, etc etc etc. I just want him to catch them and I get so excited that I find myself, well, a little too excited. But he listens and humors me…and then makes fun of me. We ran into a few other guys fishing right by the parking area and proceed to target sipping fish. A few more and we called it a day. At the parking lot the first guy's car was gone. It seems that both of these parties are just fishing from the car and up a half a mile….if they only knew what was up river. I suppose that it pays to be curious, eager and willing to hike miles.

Small Stream Secrets

The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and all science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead: his eyes are closed.

~Albert Einstein

South Fork of the Snake - Part two

It was midweek when the call came in. Grizz was on the South Fork of the Snake camping and floating in the "canyon". Fishing was heating up, Golden Stones, PMD's and Little Yellow Sallies were abundant. He mentioned that he was going for another three-day float, coming home then heading back up. "You want in?" he asked, I didn't hesitate to say hell yes. My Trout fishing is mostly done hiking in the backcountry, floating in a drift boat is new to me. This was a great opportunity to go somewhere new and take some notes from a good fisherman/oarsman.

I immediately went to see Ralphy at Fish Tech to see what I needed. Pink PMD's? You sure? Huh, interesting. I spent the next few days search for any information on this place. I became increasingly eager, almost impatient, for this trip, spirits were high. The jaunt to the water was filled with fishing tales and river history. I learned more in the four-hour drive than I did the past two weeks searching the internet. Fishing lodge information is bias in my opinion. It's to lure the rich-fisherman for the all-inclusive dream trip. Not about the history, lore and adventures.

Arriving at the river we packed the boat and slid her in. Grizz recognized a longtime friend and mentor. I have heard the tales about this fisherman and was excited to observe his fishing ways. We agreed to rendezvous down the river on the island. We shoved off and in no time I witnessed the power of this river. Water hydraulics sucking down water like black holes is not to be taken lightly as Mother Nature is truly powerful. Although the river looks like its flowing slow there is much more power once you on it. It was real and I was aware of the detrimental effects one bad move could have. Out here mistakes have severe consequences. I was a bit nervous as drift boats are new to me but I knew that Grizz was a Jedi hand I'd have the best coaching that anyone could ask for.

At the island I witnessed some great fishing and some beautiful fish. I learned a few new things and was handed a fly by a master. Hanging out at the boats and talking story I decided to rig a rod. That's when the discussion took a different direction…it went from, uh, a general something to what fly I was going to use. The fly in particular was the "grumpy frumpy". It created some unique conversation and interesting theories…then I was put on the spot. The grand master wanted to see the fly in action. "go over there and fish it" he said. At that moment I was shocked. I said something like " oh were here for a few days and you guys only have a few hours left to fish, I wouldn't want to be greedy and fish the run" hoping that was enough to get me off. "Nah, were good" another guy said. Oh boy I thought. I walked slowly towards the run, not because I was nervous but it was because my eyes were closed as I was praying. I think I promised to be a monk or something if I could just catch a fish. First few casts produced nothing. Oh no I thought but then the miracle happened. The fly was attacked and it was a good fish. It ran up the riffle only to turn down stream. I gave chase and ran past the Jedi council and one of the boys netted the fine specimen - a healthy vibrant bow. I reeled up and sat down with satisfaction. "You done already?" someone asked. Oh no, not again I thought. So back over to the riffle I went, prayed again. A few casts produced another vibrant sample… phew, that was lucky. This situation happened once more with the same result. I finally sat down and doubts were soothed, the "grumpy frumpy" was receiving praises. The Jedi examined the fly and asked a few questions. I offered to give him one but he gracefully declined saying that he going to tie some up. It was one of the luckiest moments I've had…. if I could only remember what I promised.

Entering the "canyon" was something out of an adventure novel. The rain didn't bother the beauty it only added a mysteries hue to the dramatic scenery. The rain started as a slow pitter-patter in no time it gained momentum to a steady shower, turning into heavy rain with thunder and lightning. Arriving at camp the setting was nothing short of awesome. The rain had stopped and the sun was out. Camping on the river is one of the coolest things. Fish rising, music playing and the smell of BBQ ribs on the grill was nothing short of superb. I can't wait for tomorrow.

The morning float was magnificent; the view alone is worth the trip. The river breaks up a bit, braids of water branch off and flow at their own pace away from the busy main river current. We parked the boat and ventured over to a hidden braid. The lush green grass tickled your chin as you walked through it. I can't remember the last time I saw eight-foot tall grass, walking through it I felt like a kid again. Grizz stalked this small slice of heaven, enticing some beautiful fish to take his fly. The scenery was energetic and gave you that warm fuzzy feeling that everything else in life that you'd given up to chase fish for was worth it. It felt like home.

The clouds were on the move and followed us thought out the day. We stopped again at another braid. That’s when we witnessed an amazing display of Mother Nature's beauty once more. It started off as a slow sprinkle and it didn't take long before it gave way to a full-fledged downpour. Nothing amazing about that, right… But that’s when it happened. The sky opened up, sunshine broke through but the rain didn't stop. It was incredible to witness no clouds, sunshine and a hard rain.We made our way to camp. The river was alive with emotion. We floated though a dense cold mist, ghostly to say the least. Then we spotted camp. Arriving there the skies were closing in again, rain was brewing. We decided to hurry and set up the tents just incase. Well, midway through you could feel a few drops hitting your skin, then a few more. The sizes of the drops were increasing as well as the speed of which it was coming down. Right about the time the tents were secure the rain transformed into a violent hailstorm. Not tiny-weenie size hail but nickel size, perhaps larger. It pounded the ground for what seemed like hours. Hail, rain, wind it was all here now. Then it stopped; the clouds gave way to the sun and nature acted like nothing happened. Everything was soaked but we didn't care, we were fishing.

Morning came… it shaping up to be another remarkable day. We made our way down the river fishing. Coming to a stop at a backwater braid. It was here that I experienced what I'd like to say is a profound moment when I realized once again what I already knew, I'm not cut our for the city life. Anchored in a riffle casting dry flies to beautiful sipping Cutthroats while listing to a live recording of Neil Young made my arm hairs stand straight up, it was intense. You'd find yourself casting to the beats to magically hooking up at the beginning of a guitar solo and fishing it all the way through the climax of "Cortez the Killer", this is something that will never be able to be duplicated, this is something that I will always remember, this is something that money cannot buy. I'm not sure how the rest of the day went, I was a bit side tracked. The scenery on the row out was a testament of nature beauty and only enhanced the thoughts of adventure. My mind was on the magical riffle, where Neil and the fish were, where I wished I were, where I hope to return to.

South Fork of the Snake - Part one

Many of my trips are with friends and I thought it be cool to see what it was like from their perspective... and to save my fingers from typing the same old stuff ; )
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Tributary

With tales of nickel hail.

Dust to dust. And to the rain. And to the wind.

It was a fairly easy jaunt from the mountain to the city; I’d beat the punch of the early morning risers. The road was dark, but clear as night. Excluding a rear taillight & half my conscious mind, we were safe. Mr. fishing buddy was wide-awake & waiting for the sound of a busted head gasket, or broken tippet. I arrived as quiet as a mouse & wee loaded the bear necessities for another “wherever we land” type angling journey. The endless pursuit of the mightiest of fish. A quest, a journey & an ever eager cast toward any & all answers we might ask while casting a flurry of wild hair at our most wide eyed prey. A morsel. Feed.

I’d been fishing with Bryan enough over the summer to know that he had an agenda, a very serious agenda. Hooking fish, hooking good fish & landing a lot of good fish were 1^st & the up-most priority. But, & let me stress BUT, we were really up in the air on this journey, this one had no set direction. East, West, North or South? May as well unfold a map, close our eyes, drop a finger & ponder no further…just drive, and that’s exactly what we did. It was a unanimous decision.

The destination was set & what a fabulous place it would be. We made the hasty decision while descending the lower end of the back half of the 1^st sister. Good thing we acted when we did, u-turns on a 12-lane highway are not easy labor…or safe. We were headed towards names rock, in rattlesnake country, where even the gnarliest of wading boots would crumble within minutes & Indian braves once warned thee white man of great spiritual presence & angst. A personal memorial to one of thee west’s great explorers, a homicide carved on a stone. If only they’d known of the true gold treasure we were after. The one stolen from under them like some $10 rug or dried out jug of whiskey. A theft, one of histories most thuggish thefts. I swallow with a forked tongue. Tar nation & Judas Priest.

To be honest, an extremely peaceful place. Once again I felt safe, we’d escaped the mystique & flume of the fiery angling mob. Cruising in the right direction. Straight to free. Down the road.

The brave highway gave forth to many unsuspecting dreams & ‘ol lore. The blue fork of the East fork was hallowed water. Water as deep as the sky is wide & slow as a day goes. A shallow water boat eater. A true thug of a river & a water that held true barracks of trophy trout. Well-conditioned trout that looked that they’d went through some sort of top-secret military training. We breached the curtain of protection & drifted out in to

Smile.

Peace

Christopher Andelin - 08

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A big thanks to Grizz for writing a little something for my blog and the opportunity to go on one of his adventures.