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A Philosophical Rumination on Life, Fly Fishing, and Family
The title above says it all. However, you are just getting my perspective on the matter--and I think it fair that you get to see the other side of the coin. So, against my better judgment, I'm providing links to thoughts by my sons and nephew--Mike, Josh, and Todd. Mike uses the pen name of Royal Wulff and Josh uses the pen name of Trout 60, and Todd uses Floyd. Where those names came from is beyond me. The epistles they write will add perspective to my thoughts on life, family, and fly fishing.
The Wulff, Floyd, Trout and I were at it again, hiking into an almost inaccessible canyon to find some hungry Cutthroats. Our plan was to find our way to Area 51, and then fish upstream as far as we could get before quitting time-whatever that was. We had found Area 51 two years before (see below) and were a bit unsure how to find our way back, although we had some sense of the direction.
The drive to the starting point was short, and we barely had time for a beer before suiting up. Our rigs were workable from the previous day's fishing, but we each had a pair of wading boots to get on. The last time we had hiked from the road to Area 51, we had parked about a quarter mile below our present parking spot-so had to adjust our initial heading accordingly. Even in this day of GPS and all, we were dead reckoning based on memories established two years earlier.
I started off and slanted toward the east. Once over the first hill, we came to a marshy area-Floyd and I thought this was the marsh we had traversed climbing out of Area 51, but once we got near it, we knew we were mistaken. We kept working east and eventually came to the marshy area we were looking for. Once there, it was just a matter of working southeast down a small draw until we came to a steep drop to the river. It was at this point that we changed direction to the southwest, climbed a small ridge, and scrambled down to Area 51.
Area 51 wasn't much changed-the water was a bit higher-but it looked to be the same. It was early and it was cloudy, and there didn't seem to be much in the way of a hatch going on. Wulff slipped past us as we crowded around the water's edge. Before we knew it, he had a dry fly drifting across a small hole just below Area 51. On the second cast he hooked a nice cutthroat. Trout took his time fixing a dry dropper rig and proceeded to catch one fish after another-all on nymphs. That convinced Floyd-he had a nymph on in no time. In the meantime, Wulff had changed to a streamer type of thing and was dragging it across the current, catching fish on most casts. I was sitting on the bank, thinking things over-it didn't look like good dry fly fishing, and I wasn't sure I wanted to go to another mode. Eventually Wulff got tired of catching fish and offered his rig up to me. I took him up on the offer, but wasn't quite as smooth at the flinging and stripping. Where Wulff was catching fish regularly, I worked for several minutes before getting my first fish-and didn't improve much thereafter.
Area 51 was just as good as we remembered, but we had more fishing to do upstream. After drinking a beer and chewing on Dill Pickle sunflower seeds, I convinced Floyd to head upstream with me.
The climb out was a cardiac event-no subtle climb-pretty much straight up for several hundred yards. I led the way and Floyd was patient with me when I stopped to catch enough oxygen to get myself uphill another ten yards. Once on top of the box canyon, we looked upriver-clear sailing for at least a quarter mile. On this venue, we didn't have a clue about what was coming around the next curve, but a quarter mile seemed a gift.
The descent back to the steam was delicate-delicate like we picked our way across ragged cliffs, slide areas, and drop-offs that promised oblivion with a misstep. As we neared the stream, Floyd pulled up and pointed out a fair sized cutthroat holding in shallow water behind a rock. It looked close quarters trying to get a fly close from our approach, so I worked upstream to a large boulder just above the Cutthroat. Once on the boulder, I dropped a Stimulator over and let it drift-the Cutthroat came up and smacked it hard-fish on. Just as I was hooking the Cut, Trout walked up to see the whole thing. It looked like a good day of fishing was before us.
Wulff had worked downstream after climbing down, but the fishing in our vicinity had petered out, so Trout, Floyd and I decided to work upstream-fishing slow enough so that the Wulff could catch up. Besides, it looked like there were fat Cutthroats in about any water that could conceivably hold a trout-and some that you wouldn't think held trout.
Fishing as we do on these unknown streams means we have a lot of faith-faith that we can, in fact, make our way up whatever stream we might be on. Some seem more accessible than others, but there are no guarantees. This day we were letting it all hang out. Our original experience getting to Area 51 had taught us that navigating this water was a chancy thing. It wasn't a walk in the park. It was more of a Houdini routine-stepping from one slick rock to another, crossing the stream in strong currents, and navigating steep slide areas to move past outcroppings of granite.
From a fly fisherman's perspective, the water bordered on miraculous, I think making a play for one of the Seven Wonders of the World. There were nice holes scattered all along the river, but even better than that, there were nice runs and soft currents between the holes, and they all held hungry cutthroats. Seldom did we move more than ten yards without catching a fat cutthroat.
I climbed out of my sleeping bag about 7 a.m. and headed to the cooking area to get the coffee on. Trout was right behind me, followed by Floyd, and then the Wulff. There was a mess of dinner dishes, so after the coffee boiled, I hauled a dish pan of water up and set in on the Coleman stove, pushing the coffee slightly to the side, but not so far as it wouldn't stay warm.
Once the dishes and kitchen were clean, Trout set about putting together a batch of blueberry pancakes with sausage. Our plan for the day was to eat a big breakfast and then start fishing upstream from camp-foregoing lunch and building a big appetite for the 90 oz. prime rib scheduled for dinner.
The pancakes were great, and we filled our stomachs as best we could. We knew there were jerky and trail mix for snacks, but figured they would just keep the edge off. Once breakfast was out of the way, we suited up and headed to the river-it was about 10 a.m.
For several days, Floyd had been taking the water temperature and found the water warmed from 42 degrees to 54 degrees throughout the day. I'm not sure at what temperature the fish started moving, but it wasn't 42 degrees. We fished without much production for a couple of hours.
Our plan was ambitious, fish upstream as far as we could go. We knew that after about a quarter mile, the going would get tough with canyons, big rocks, and hazardous footholds. There was some concern we wouldn't be able to make it upstream. It was treacherous going, but we kept after it, even though the fishing was slow.
Eventually the water warmed, and the fish started moving to our flies. The Stimulator was working well, and I think we all had some version of that on. We caught fish, and scrambled up steep inclines to get past small box canyons. There were magnificent waterfalls descending steep drops, and the water in the river was crystal clear.
Our fishing order upriver could probably define some new mathematical principle. It wasn't completely random, but bordered on that. One time I would be in front, and next thing I knew, the guys had passed me and I was disconnected. We leap-frogged each other continuously-and at times it was hard to tell where each of us was in the fishing order.
One time Wulff and I joined up as we climbed a steep bank to avoid a big drop and pool that couldn't be negotiated on the north side of the river. When we got to the top, we sat on a high, rocky cliff that surveyed the river below. We popped a cold beer and snacked on jerky, all the while watching Trout and Floyd fishing fifty feet below. They caught one cutthroat after another and we smiled at their success.
The view was magnificent from the cliff, but the catching seemed to be improving below, so we headed down. Getting on the river from our perch wasn't exactly an easy proposition-it required an uphill trek to connect to a steep ravine that plunged down to a large outcropping of volcanic rock next to the stream. As we picked our way down, we spotted several good holes on our side of the river. We had immediate fishing, but things didn't look so good upstream. Trout and Floyd crossed to join us, and when they caught up, we sat and talked, while contemplating a steep waterfall up ahead. It seemed impassable.
Wulff, Floyd, and I elected to climb up and over to pass the waterfall while Trout fished up to the waterfall, Trout not being one to pass fishable water. Once near the waterfall, he found a easy climb to the other side-go figure.
We had another quarter mile of fishing before the next bottleneck and again leap-frogged each other along that stretch. The fishing continued to improve as the water temperature increased. Seldom did we make a cast that didn't provoke a look from a waiting cutthroat.
Eventually we ran out of room and had to once again make another steep climb around a box canyon. Wulff and Floyd were ahead of Trout and me and were the first to see "Area 51." As Trout and I reached the top part of the canyon, we looked upriver. I'm not sure we were ready for what stood before us. About a quarter mile ahead, a waterfall cascaded into the biggest fishing hole I'd ever seen on a mountain stream. Trout and I looked at each other and grinned. I pulled out my movie camera while Trout retrieved his digital camera. If there had ever been a photo op, this was it.
To get to this honey hole, we had to hike northwest to get around a deep ravine, climb a small ridge, and then descend a steep incline to the stream. As we made our descent, we stopped about 20 yards above the river and stood in awe. Wulff and Floyd were just getting their lines on the water and we could see fish stacked everywhere-we couldn't even count them. As we watched, both Mike and Todd hooked and landed fish. It was unbelievable.
Trout and I didn't spend too much time watching and were almost falling over one another as we slid down the steep embankment to join Wulff and Floyd. When Wulff stepped back to change flies, I stepped in and had a fish on the first cast. Trout worked to the northwest side of the hole, casting next to the canyon wall. It wasn't long until he had a fish on. Taking turns, we continued to catch fish for a couple of hours, until we were all exhausted. I suppose the thought of the night's prime rib did provide some incentive to start the hike out.
Whatever, we decided to climb back out and head to camp. We had a vague idea about where the road was in relation to the stream. The climb was difficult. Floyd and I started out while Wulff and Trout worked a few more casts. We weren't sure about the direction to the road but found our way to the top of the canyon, and without any other guidance, we elected to move up a small ravine. The forest in the ravine was thick and lush with undergrowth. It was perfect bear county; we cast a wary eye here and there as we trudged along.
After a while, it became evident that the ravine was probably paralleling the road so we made a ninety degree turn and were immediately confronted by a steep incline. As we started our ascent up the hillside, the forest thinned and exposed rock outcroppings surrounded by dry grasses.
Todd and I found our rhythm and reached the road in about ten minutes. We made a mental map of where we had come out of the woods, and then headed down the road to camp. It was all downhill, and we got to camp in about 15 minutes.
Once in camp, we immediately popped a couple of Coronas and sat down to relax. It had been a hard day of hiking and fishing and we were both dogged tired. Trout and Wulff came dragging into camp about thirty minutes behind us.
We all sat there, almost dumbfounded, trying to understand what we had just experienced. As we talked, each of us tried to find a center--a place where we could put the whole experience in perspective. None of us had ever seen such a honey hole. It was beyond imagination.
Finally, we stirred out of stupor and set about our next culinary adventure--a 90 ounce prime rib would be a fitting culumination to the day's events.
Just as a curiosity, I thought I would Google MILF. The search came up with
2,180,000 hits. I guess MILF is a pretty popular subject. Which leads me to the Middle Fork of the Salmon River and the MILF.
It all started innocently enough--we were breaking camp at Sunflower Camp during our third morning on the river. Most of our equipment had been loaded in the rafts when we were invaded by what became affectionately known as the MILF group. Sunflower Camp has the best hot springs on the Middle Fork and the best hot spring feature--a waterfall shower that cascades off of a rock cliff next to the river. Few parties pass this natural hot spring shower, and this morning was no exception.
I was loading the cataraft when the MILF party arrived. I sat back and watched as each of the party took turns in the shower. It seemed the men folk got their turn first, but eventually the women ventured forth. And that was when the MILF presented herself. I wouldn't say she walked to the shower, she just kind of climbed out of the raft, dropped her PFD as casually as a stripper might drop a halter top, and strolled to the shower. Her bikini was sparse, but serviceable. It did what it had to do--reveal and hide the goods at the same time.
With our rafts loaded, we set off downriver, not really giving a thought to the group that had just invaded Sunflower. We were intent on getting down river to our next camp, Cow Camp.
We hit Cow Camp in the early afternoon and had plenty of time to play horseshoes, partake of some cocktails, and talk over the day's happenings. Somehow the subject of the MILF came up, and it wasn't long until we had devised a contest about whether we could guess her name, age, where she was from, married or not, number of children, and her husband's occupation.
The next day as we floated downriver, we kept trying to "get the goods" on the MILF. It was kind of hit and miss until Vman and myself hit Haystack. The guide book says the left channel is better at high flows, while the right channel is better at low flows. We watched a raft maneuver through the left channel and decided to take that route. Yeah, right.
It was a bad decision on our part and in no time, we were hung up on rocks--and there didn't appear to be any relief in sight. We were both in the water and pushing the cataraft. There were just enough rocks to hang the raft in any direction. Unfortunately, the rocks we separated by deep channels, so it was hard finding purchase when trying to push. We pushed, we lifted, and we moved from one side of the raft to the other, spinning the raft as best we could to keep it moving. We finally got it loose into free water and paddled down to an eddy to watch for Trout, Wulff, and Floyd.
As we paddled into the eddy, we slid in next to the MILF and her raft mates. What luck. Vman, mindful of our challenge at Cow Camp, struck up a conversation, introducing us and getting the MILF's name. I smiled as Vman told everyone where we were from, and got a like response from the MILF group. We had two pieces of information--hopefully, more to come.
Eventually, we pulled the raft to the bank and got out to scout a lower section of Haystack. The MILF group also climbed out of their raft. As we were walking to scout the lower stretch, Trout, Wulff, and Floyd came into view, and we signaled them to take the right channel. They negotiated the upper stretch just fine and picked a clean line through the lower stretch, rumbling over a shallow run of rocks.
While we were scouting the lower stretch, Vman had an opportunity to talk to the MILF--one on one. I couldn't believe our luck. I was a bit upstream from them, and when Vman came walking up, his usual big smile had been replaced by about the biggest grin I've ever seen. He had gotten the goods. What are the odds of meeting up with a group on a wilderness river, vowing to find select facts about a certain person in that group, and actually getting the information?
We had worked hard at Haystack, but it had been worth it--we had solved the case of the MILF.
Name: Lori
Age: 45
Marital Status: Married
Children: 3
State: Michigan
Husband Occupation: Attorney
Unit: Shaved/Trimmed ?
It is easy to take things for granted. I live in a nice home, the furnace works well, as does the air conditioner. For a drink of water, I walk over to the sink and turn on the tap, never really worrying about the safety of the water. When it gets dark, I turn on the lights and don't think a thing about it. Life is pretty easy-or so it seems.
My personal opinion is that we are all about one step away from disaster-and that can be taken many ways-right now I'm talking about our physical well being (this was written before 9/11/2001). I live in Utah where a major earthquake fault runs along the length of the mountains to the east of the Salt Lake valley. Scientist predict the fault will let go in the next few hundred years, maybe tomorrow, maybe a hundred years from now. Who knows.
When you are involved in a disaster, you are in a "Hunt." A "Hunt" for those of you are wondering, is a term to describe that you are in a big need, and are trying to find something to fulfill that need. If an earthquake stopped by, I suppose some of us would be in a "hunt." It doesn't always take a disaster to put one in a "Hunt."
So, to get to the point, my sons and nephew decided we would add a backpacking component to our annual fishing trip. When you talk backpacking, you are talking about some serious detail-backpacks, sleeping bags, water purification, hiking boots, tents, meals and such. It isn't a given-especially if you are thinking about hiking into the wilderness at 10,000 plus feet. Nothing is a given in the wilderness-and it is less of a given at high altitudes.
The night before we were to leave for the backpacking trip, we sat around the campfire and talked things over. We were in southern Colorado in the high mountains, and since it had rained every afternoon for the last 5 days, we decided we should get on the road early as we had 7.5 miles to cover, 1500 altitude to gain, and we were starting at 9,000 feet.
In spite of our planning, we got a late start by about two hours. We hoped to be on the trail by 9:00 a.m., but managed 11:00 a.m. You can intellectualize things when you are planning, but doing the real deal is something else. We were carrying 40-pound backpacks, and 40-pound packs take some time if you are new to backpacking as we were. We got to the trailhead and changed into our wading boots because we had to get across the Rio Grande before we could start up the Ute Creek trail. Once on the other side, we sat down and changed back into our hiking boots, taking a photo opportunity before heading off.
The first part of the trail was a steep climb and definitely got the blood moving, but after a quarter mile, it eventually flattened out to something more bearable. Because of the rain, the trail varied from pure mud to dry soil and rocks, more mud than anything else. The morning had dawned with bright blue skies, and as we moved up the trail, we settled into a good pace. The blue skies didn't fool us-we knew it would be raining by afternoon. I was regretting our late start.
As we moved up the trail, we rested and took water breaks as needed. I had backpacked into the Wind River Wilderness in Wyoming a month before and hiked about 10 miles with a 40 lb. pack-but that was at 8,000 ft. and not much of a climb. I could tell from the start that this hike was going to be a lot tougher, even though it was to be 3 miles shorter. We worked hard and on many of the steeper sections, had to zigzag along the trail to the top, walking a half mile to cover several hundred yards in the direction we wanted to go.
The clouds started building about noon and kept building throughout our hike. I had my GPS and knew by looking at it we weren't making great time-probably about 2.5 miles an hour when walking, and that didn't factor in rest stops. The altitude and climb were slowing us down.
About 4 p.m. we came to Black Lake-not far from where we were planning to camp and just as we got there, a major hailstorm hit. Generally, you can count on rain or hail storms to run their course in 15 or so minutes, unfortunately this storm decided to stick around for an hour. All of us were huddled under a small tree by the trail, and after about 15 minutes of getting wetter and wetter, I went looking for more shelter-about 5 minutes later, Josh and Todd joined me.
Finally the storm petered out, and when we walked back down to the trail, Mike had a small fire going. I think we would have liked to build that small fire into something more respectable, but we knew we should get up the trail and find a camp.
We were all cold and wet, and needed to get moving for warmth. A half mile farther on we came to a nice camp spot that looked to be well used by previous backpackers. We needed fire, and we needed it fast-we were in a "hunt," or maybe we were getting close to being in a "hunt." There wasn't a lot of wood around, but I found some pretty dry twigs under a big pine tree about twenty yards from camp. Mike, Josh, and Todd found other wood-not quite as dry, but workable.
We got the driest twigs and built them into a small pyramid--we had matches and charcoal lighters--and opted for the latter. Even though the twigs were pretty dry, they still held some moisture, and didn't exactly want to burn--but finally caught.
I laugh now that as I remember the sight of us all huddled around that baby fire-gingerly throwing small twigs on the beginning fire. The fire held, and we nursed it along as it got larger and larger. Soon we were all sitting around a roaring fire, soaking up the warmth.
And I guess that is where I started this epistle-the frail nature of us human beings. We had our fire, and life was good. Yet, had that hail storm been followed by a rain storm-had we not got the fire going-who knows. There always seems to be options, but then again folks die every year with options staring them in the face. It was enough to make me think!
Nothing is a given in this life. I should repeat that. Nothing is a given in this life, whether it is a drive to the convenience store for milk, or a major hike into the wilderness. We shouldn't take our days on this earth for granted because we are all about one step from being in a "Hunt."
These days I take time to hug my wife, children, grandchildren, and friends. I hug them as best I can, and I tell them I love them. It never seems enough-but it is what I can do, and I have to be content with that.
My fingers were stinging as I clutched at the bottom of the cliff face, my feet were slightly anchored in the stream below. The grip was slipping, and I had this feeling I would be swimming in a short moment.
It is August of 2000, and having just returned from the annual fly-fishing trip with my sons and nephew, my mind is on the last two weeks. Another great trip with ones I love and cherish; some good fishing, breath-taking hiking, excellent meals, and many adventures, all made this particular trip the best so far-and that is saying something.
On Wednesday we decided to walk into the wilderness and fish the upper reaches of Ute Creek, a tributary to the Rio Grande River in Southern Colorado. After a hard three--mile hike, the trail crossed Ute Creek, and we stopped to talk things over. There was a fisherman just upstream, so fishing upstream didn't seem a good idea. On the way up, we had talked to a hiker that was familiar with the area, and we had asked about fishing down the stream--having seen cliffs on the way up, and reading the words box canyon in the description of the stream. He said he thought we could fish down and get through the box canyon, but wasn't completely sure.
Ute Creek was guarded on all sides with various sized rocks ranging from small to boulders, heavy timber, and steep inclines. Other rocks made great pocket water in the middle of the stream. One had to step gingerly here--as any misstep promised disaster. I guess the stream would be a good metaphor for life--there were a lot pitfalls. I was hoping we would be able to spend the day on this stream and return to camp all in good shape.
After a quick discussion, we decided to fish downstream to the bottom trail. We knew we were going to find that box canyon--but we didn't know whether we would have to backtrack and climb out, or would be able to get through. And I guess that is why these trips are so damn fun. There is no script--it just seems to happen as it does--whether it is the fishing, the camping, or the cooking--new and different things pop up every year.
We worked steadily downstream, catching numerous Brook Trout along the way. We would leap frog each other from one pocket or run to the other--many times stopping to watch each other cast and land fish. It was almost as good as stadium golf--we decided we ought to start a new sport called stadium fly-fishing. On occasion, we would sit on the bank, talk, and rest, all the while taking in the scenery. It was gorgeous.
There would be times sitting on the bank watching my sons or nephew fish that I marveled at this existence. What had become of all those years? I mean one day, my sons were little rug-rats running around the house, and then this day I found myself in the great outdoors on a treacherous stream, my sons in their thirties, and my nephew pushing that age--and we were having the time of our lives.
But the box canyon was on our minds, and we kept a wary eye out as we moved downstream. After a couple of hours, the roar of the stream increased perceptibly, and the cliffs were narrowing. We grinned at each other, as we knew it was getting decision time!
The cliffs narrowed, and narrowed--and finally we came to the waterfall. It wasn't big, about 8 feet high with a big pool under. There was room to climb down on the west side, a bit of cliff underwater for foot holds, and some cliff to hang on to. We huddled and talked it over one more time before deciding to give it a try, all the while thinking it would be a cold swim. Discretion has never been my strong suit, so I volunteered to go first, handed my pole to my youngest son Josh, thinking once I got on the footholds below, I could take my pole and skirt along the side. Once on the footholds, I knew there was no way I could hang on to the cliff and grab my pole, so I shouted at Josh they would have to break down the poles and attach them to their backpacks. He nodded.
My grip finally slipped and I fell backwards into the stream, and to hear my sons and nephew describe the scene, they thought a skin diver couldn't have made a better entry off of the deck of a boat. I righted myself and started swimming across the deep pool to the shallow end. My feet struck the bottom of the stream, and I stood up, dripping like a drowned dog, and smiling from ear to ear. I looked back upstream and my sons and nephew were almost rolling over with laugher. Of course, they still had their turn coming--I had my camera in my backpack and was already reaching for it.
My oldest son Mike, came next, didn't make it much farther than I had, and crashed into the stream. Todd, my nephew was the next up, and made it a foot or so farther, and then splashed into the stream. Finally Josh, my youngest gave it a try. No luck there, as he ended up in the drink and swam to shore. We were 0 for 4, and it had started raining. We checked our gear and bundled up as best we could, given the circumstance. We were cold, but safe. Yet, we didn't know what was still downstream--there could be worse coming our way, but we had committed to the stream--there was no way we could get back up the waterfall we had just passed.
The fishing was done for the day. The weather had turned nasty, and we were intent on getting through the canyon and into the valley below. After a few other rough spots, we cleared the canyon. We still had a couple of miles to the Trout Cruiser--but we knew we were through the worst.
As I hiked out, my mind replayed the events of the box canyon. I couldn't help but grin, and grin, and grin. I might have been on the cold side, but I was warmed by what we had been through. Each of us will go through a million things in this life, but of those million, we will remember a few. I knew this day brought a memory that would be with me to the end of my days, and the same would be true of my sons and nephew.
Who could ask for more than that?
Larry, my brother got up from his chair and walked out of camp; he didn't say a word. I watched as he moved along--kind of tipping his head as if listening for something. He stopped, listened, walked back to camp, saying he thought he heard something strange. Todd, my nephew and I just nodded, wondering if my brother's hearing was going bad.
We sat drinking our coffee, and chatted. Next thing we knew, it sounded like a herd of cattle were stampeding in our direction. We all jumped up, and as we did so, a huge Cottonwood tree fell over not 40 feet away. It was the most amazing sight. After it had settled, we all walked over to check it out. The Cottonwood was one of several large trunks that were growing out of a central root structure--and the other trunks were cracking and popping. We stepped back because there was more to come. When nothing happened immediately, we walked back to camp for more coffee.
For the next hour we watched as one trunk after the other came tumbling down--some easier than others. It was a sight to behold. I've been camping for most of the 60 years of my life, but I can't ever remember seeing a tree just fall before my eyes. This particular Cottonwood had to be over a hundred years old--and it hurt to watch it come down.
That got the annual camping and fly-fishing trip with my brother off to an interesting start. And it reminded my why my brother and I insist on doing this annual thing-we are not getting any younger. Our time together is precious-and we both understand that our time on this good earth is limited. I suppose that particular Cottonwood had survived all manner of indignities-floods, drought, lightening, severe freezes, insects, but had made it through-only to fall on a crystal clear summer day, in front of our eyes. I kind of thought that it was good that someone was there to witness the whole thing-such a majestic tree shouldn't pass from this existence without some kind of acknowledgement.
That Cottonwood fought the good battle, but in the end, it was toast. We will all be toast at some point, and there is no changing that. Some folks may think that a depressing thought, but in my mind, it isn't depressing, it is enlightening. It reminds me how precious this life really is, and that I should work hard to find quality time with those I love. I should never say goodbye to those close to me without giving them a great bear hug. I try not to take anything for granted-a sunset, a small child, laughter, leaves blowing in the wind, rain coming down in buckets, crickets, snow piled in my driveway, birds singing in the morning, my wife waking up beside me in the morning-so, so much more. It is what we have, and we should make point of enjoying it all-no that is not strong enough-we should grab it, hold it close, and suck the marrow out of its bones-every day of our lives.
That is my thought this evening.
I thought to myself, "shit, we are going to go over in this damn raft." We were wedged between two rocks and water was starting to spill over the rear of the raft-things weren't looking good. Mike was in the rear and Josh was on the oars, with me sitting in front. I stuck my leg over the side of the raft and pushed with all my might. The raft turned and we were floating away as if nothing had ever happened. I turned and looked at Mike and Josh and they were smiling from ear to ear. All in a day's work-or aptly, more in a day of play and fly-fishing with my two sons.
We were on the last day of a three-day raft trip on the Gunnison River through the Black Canyon in Western Colorado. Two days prior, horses had packed our raft and camping supplies down the Duncan Trail to the starting point of this adventure. The Gunnison River originates high in the Rocky Mountains east of Gunnison, Colorado and south toward Lake City, Colorado. It flows some miles until it meets up with the Colorado River near Grand Junction, Colorado.
This was the third annual fly-fishing trip with Mike and Josh. The first year we had fished the San Juan River in northern New Mexico. The next year we headed to Montana for some fly-fishing on the Yellowstone and Gallatin Rivers.
This summer we had decided to float the Gunnison and see what monster trout were lurking in the lightly fished waters. Time with your children is pretty precious, and I think that the time with your children after they are grown brings the whole process to another level. That is what I see with my two sons. When we get off on our fly-fishing escapades, it is such a high. Mike and Josh are full of life, and find all manner of things to get excited about. It may be some whitewater, or a good fishing hole, but whatever, they always bring a zest to the process that makes me feel 20 years young. I love my time with them and always regret when we have to part.
I don't know what it is about being a parent and a father that makes the process so amazing. One day your children are babies, then you watch them turn into toddlers. It isn't long until they are in grade school, and the next thing you know they are teenagers. Finally you wake up on a morning, and it is the day you will help your child load his or her vehicle and move out. You wonder where the hell the time went. It seems to happen so fast. As you crawl out of bed on that fateful morning, you mind starts to wander back all those years, trying to come to grips with the whole process.
You have this lump in your throat, and you feel like crying. You love your children more than life itself, and it is hard to let them go. But go they must-and if you have done your job as a parent, you have made this moment possible. It is part of their growing process, and it is part of your growing process. Life isn't a static thing, it is a journey of constant change and learning. So you smile and see them on their way, all the time thinking how you hurt inside, but you hold it in-mostly.
The only consolation is that they are not gone forever. The quantity of time won't be so great, but if you can work it right, the quality will be just fine. I work hard on the quality time, and my sons do the same-which makes the whole problem easier.
A new dimension has been added the last couple of years as I now have five granddaughters and one grandson. Let's see, how many years until they will be fly fishing with us? I think the annual fly-fishing trip will get real interesting in a few years.
These fishing trips are getting better and better. Last summer Mike, Josh, my nephew Todd, and myself did some fishing on the Piedra in Southwest Colorado. As part of the trip, we hiked into the wilderness area--two times.
On the first trip, the morning dawned a bit more clear than the previous days, but you could tell that there was a promise of rain--something we had been dealing with the whole trip. We had decided to take a long hike up William's Creek into the wilderness area. It was a 3-4 mile hike, all pretty much uphill—up into the San Juan Mountains.
We drove to the trailhead and got our gear together. I threw my wading shoes in my backpack and used my hiking boots to provide transportation. About a quarter mile after we started up the trail, it started getting steep and that got my attention. A mile after a big incline, we looked off to the east and saw an awesome waterfall coming off of the mountain on the other side of the gorge. We stopped and caught our breath, took some photos, and then moved on. After the steep grade we got a break and walked pretty much straight and level for another mile or so.
The San Juan Mountains are pretty breathtaking. There are a number that go over 14 thousand feet—and all are pushing that altitude. I don’t know their geology, but their makeup provides for some serious erosion. You see spires reaching up, cut by deep erosion all around.
After the mile of flat, we started back up, making a turn away from William's Creek that was now far below us. We made the turn, had one last look at William's Creek, and it was quite a sight. You could see the creek 500 feet below, and it was coming around a good section of that eroded rock that I mentioned above. You could see some good holes for fishing, but that was a 500 foot drop—straight down. No thank you.
We headed on up and crossed a couple of small streams that were feeding into William's Creek—I wondered where they really dropped off—because there was no gentle slope here. We met a couple coming down the trail—the woman looked pretty worn—the guy was leading a dog that had a pretty good load on his back. They looked like they had spent a miserable night with rain and were anxious to get down the mountain. We nodded and kept on our way.
We had several flats interspersed with some steep climbs and worked hard. I’m not in bad shape but it was hard work. Finally, we got to a fork in the trail and without looking too carefully, started down the right fork to William's Creek. As it turned out, that wasn’t exactly what we had set out to do, but it worked. It was about another half mile to William's Creek—all downhill. Finally, we came to the creek and started suiting up—waders and boots.
The guidebook we were using claimed that this part of William's Creek contained cutbows—crosses between Rainbows and Cutthroats. We were in the creek in good order, and it was apparent the fish here were pretty hungry. The only problem was that we didn’t have a lot of area to fish. We worked up stream about a half mile and had good luck wherever we fished, but as the clouds were thickening, we got to a steep canyon and had to retreat to our starting point. By that time it was raining pretty steady.
I think we were somewhat befuddled because the guidebook we were using talked about open meadows, and what we were fishing didn’t really amount to a good meadow. We tried to fish downstream, but the going got pretty hard. The rain was getting heavier and we decided to head back to camp—4 miles back down.
Weather in the southern Colorado mountains can be pretty fickle—and given the right circumstance, can be downright hellish. Depending on the year, the monsoon really gets to working, which results in mega-quantities of moist air come up from the south. When you combine the moisture with the rising terrain of the San Juan Mountains, it means rain, and plenty of it. That was the case during this trip—the folks that worked the lodges in the area said it had rained 25 of the last 27 days. They weren’t happy about it, and we weren’t either. But it was what it was, and we had to make the best of it.
We plodded along—about a half-mile climb back out of William's Creek to the main trail. We stopped at the trail forks and took a closer at the sign. We then realized we should have kept going along the main trail instead of cutting off where we did. Live and learn. It was still three and a half miles to the trailhead. As we moved down the trail, our walking order seemed to change for no significant reason, one moment Mike would be in the lead, then Josh, then Todd, and sometimes myself. Heads down, we kept up a steady pace. The mountains were green and lush from all the rain and a riot of green surrounded us on every side.
It is amazing what you notice in the mountains—little things like a small flower, or a tree growing at an odd angle—bark, rocks, the movement of water in the stream—all are of little note in our everyday lives, but in the mountains, they seem more than real. I suppose they speak to each of us in our own language, but to me, they speak of my insignificance. Trees have been growing for hundreds of years, rocks have been around billions of years, the streams have cut deep canyons over eons. How can you not be humble in those surroundings.
As I walked along, I thought of this and many other things. I marveled about my existence. I thought about my life journey and how close my sons and I are—even Todd, my nephew, who in some ways, feels like my son. When my wife told me she was pregnant 40some years ago, how could I have known that one day I would be tramping through the San Juan Mountains with my sons, enjoying the hell out of myself and reflecting on "the meaning of life" and the events that had led up to this happening. It was awesome in the mountains, and it is awesome as I write this epistle--several month later.
About a half-mile from the parking lot, we had crossed a dry streambed on our way up the mountain. The thing that struck me about it was that is wasn’t a cut, but a huge jumble of rocks washed down from above. And what had been dry was now a rushing torrent of water—crashing down toward William's Creek. We gingerly made our way across—I was in the lead with Josh behind, followed by Todd and then Mike. Josh took a dinger getting across, but nothing too bad, just another scrape to save as a memento of the trip. I always take a few of those home and kind of hate to see them heal because they are a reminder of the good company and the love I have for my sons.
On the way back to camp, we stopped and filled my five gallon water container. We also stopped by one of the lodges and bought a couple of other items, popped a few brews and talked about our adventure for the next day. We were all beat—and when the conversation turned to a return trip the following day, Todd piped up and said something to the effect that it would be cold day in hell if he was going to make that hike the next day. That settled the matter, we would find other pickings for the next day of fishing. I agreed with Todd, I didn’t have it in me.
The last two years have seen Mike, my oldest son and myself off for a few days of camping and fishing. This year we made a quick dash down to the San Juan in northern New Mexico to kill a couple of days until Josh, my youngest son, joined us. The first day included a drive from Telluride, Colorado, setting up camp, and finally a few hours of fishing. We got the camp set up in good order, and then headed off to fish.
We fished for a couple of hours, headed back to camp, and began putting together a meal. A few years ago, we discovered Dutch oven cooking and were planning two recipes on this trip-an enchilada thing that I had tried back in Utah a year ago-it was good then, and I was hoping it would be good this time. The other was called steak Italiano--and would be saved for the second night. The enchilada recipe called for hamburger, onions, green peppers, tomatoes, and a great big bunch of enchilada sauce-with some tortillas thrown in on the top.
We sucked it down and filled our tummies to the bursting point- and then sat back. During these camping trips, we talk about many things, but I suppose our conversations revolve around fishing, life, women, work, and family. That night we touched on all those subjects and many others. Mike is so damn funny and my memory is so damn bad. He does and says things that just crack me up-but weeks after the fact, I can never remember what he has said-I just remember that it was so damn funny. It must have something to do with his zest for life-he lives life to its fullest-leaving nothing on the table. That night (well all nights) he kept up a running dialogue, and I was in stitches. He usually has a toddy-in camp, and uses a big coffee cup-I suppose it would hold about a pint. He pours a good helping of vodka in the cup, a dash of Schweps Tonic, and then shakes it around-smiling all through the whole process. Finally he pulls the cup to his lips, takes a sip, smiles once more, and says, "any questioooons."
That night, the skies were partly cloudy, but we could still see many stars (what is camping about if you can't see stars?). We sat around the campfire and talked. We talked of our lives, past, present, and future. Life is an interesting proposition. It is so complex-what seems to be worthwhile, isn't, and what seems mundane, turns out to be a major life happening. At the age of 55, I'm still trying to figure the whole thing out-and I learn as much from my conversations with my sons as I give to them-probably learn more. Mike and I sat there and found moments of silence--we would look up at the stars, stare back at the fire, think about what was happening in our lives, and then talk it over. It was pretty simple-and I guess that is what I like about my life and my time with my sons. They don't expect a lot-they are content to go with the flow-they run hard when it is necessary-but can settle down and relax when it seems right. Mike and I were in a zone-the infinite zone-where you are at peace with nature-you talk when it seems right, you are silent in between-that is all-it works just fine.
The camping trips with my sons are something special. The time is so precious that we hate to waste it. That was true of the time on the San Juan. Mike, and I didn't want to go to bed-we just wanted to be together and taste the whole experience-and let it go on and on. But finally we couldn't keep our eyes open and knew it was time to pack it in. We had two big queen size air mattresses in the tent that were beckoning-we gave up and climbed into our sleeping bags.
There would be another day.
It seems I do a bit of traveling on my fishing trips and invariably end up having a meal in a nice restaurant. The last fishing trip (August 99) was no exception. My sons and I had been planning the trip since last spring and were to spend 10 days together down in south western Colorado. Unfortunately, my youngest ended up moving to Denver from Phoenix and would have to shave three days off of the trip, but Mike and I headed on down in preparation.
We did three days on the San Juan in northern New Mexico and then headed back to Durango, Colorado, to wait for Josh. Josh was to arrive late Friday night, and Mike and I went to a restaurant by the name of Randy's for dinner. I suppose we are always in good spirits when we are out on a fishing trip and this trip was no exception. The host greeted us warmly at the door, and we decided to have a cocktail before sitting down for dinner. The bar lady was quite congenial and the whole atmosphere seemed to radiate just the right ambiance--I had the feeling that something good was about to happen.
We were seated and the waitress walked up--we refreshed our cocktails and ordered an appetizer. She smiled easily--well that isn't exactly true, when she smiled, her whole body smiled. They say that 60% of all our communication is body language and Katie (our waitress) seemed to speak with 80%. She just couldn't talk with words, every sentence was augmented with such delightful mannerisms that both Mike and I were completely charmed.
During the meal we talked a lot--where she was from--about her husband (who owned a bar across the street--The Summit), how she ended up in Durango, Colorado., what Mike and I were doing there, and much more. I fear we almost got her in trouble with the boss as we did take a lot of her time. On the way out, I pulled the host aside and told him that was the most incredible waitress and service I had ever had occasion to experience--I think that got her off the hook--but it was true.
I don't know whether the stars were in alignment or what, but I must say the whole meal will go down as one of the most pleasurable experiences I've had while eating out. Life is funny that way. You go along and on occasion something special happens. It doesn't have to be a big thing--a vacation to a exotic island or the like--just something that moves you as a human being. In fact, I sometimes think it is the small things in life that are really meaningful--fly fishing with you sons, cooking a fine meal with your wife, helping a youngster learn a new skill--that is what it is all about. I was touched by a very special person during that meal at Randy's--and am much richer today for the experience.
Last spring I got a call from my oldest son--something about a trip to Lee's Ferry for some fly fishing. I knew he and his brother had been planning a trip--they both live in Scottsdale, AZ., and it isn't a difficult trip for them. On the other hand, I live in UT., and it is a bit more for me.
I didn't give the whole thing much thought--well 3 seconds and volunteered to come along. I would need to take a day off work--but that could be handled. I always try to keep in mind what is important in this life. BEING with my family is important--and I think the 3 seconds of thought were only 1 second. Fly fishing is important, but fly fishing with my sons gets right up there to a 10--on a scale of 1-10 of importance.
It was about a 7 hour trip for me, and I had to stop for a fishing license in Page, AZ., and then get on down to Lee's Ferry and get a tent up--I was due to arrive about an hour before my sons. I managed to get all that accomplished and had a half hour to spare before the kids arrived. "Kids" -- how does one call their 33 and 30 year old sons kids? It seems natural enough--I mean I spent a good deal of my life changing their diapers!! But they are grown--and I think wouldn't like the "Kids" thing. That is one of the problems with being a parent--you are always adjusting to how you react to your children. I mean, once you figure out what to do for a certain age, they grow older and you are still without a clue!!!
My GROWN sons got in (and my oldest's significant other--Shannon) and we had a few beers to catch up on things and then headed for bed. It would be an early wake-up the next morning as we had to get the boat in the water, make it 7-10 miles up the river, put up a camp, and then do some fishing--a long day.
The next day it didn't take long to find a camp spot--and get everything organized. We ate some lunch and rigged up--I pulled out a scud--and a brassie--my sons recommended them--I had never fished Lee's Ferry before and went with their recommendation. We were on the river about two hours after arriving.
Things seemed a bit slow for me, but Mike and Josh were having some luck. I chalked that up to being new to the water. However, I have to say I'm not the world's best fly fisherman--in fact I would have to say I'm pretty mediocre.
Fly fishing is pretty hot these days--and each of us brings to the endeavor different motivations. Some fishermen are groupies, surfing along with the latest fad. Some are serious fly fishermen--and have been for many years. Me--I'm just an average guy that finds pleasure and relaxation in fly fishing. At this point in my life I don't have a lot to prove to anyone. I just do my thing and take it at that. My fly fishing is also another way to spend time with my sons. Life is busy--and quality time with your children is hard to find--it was easier when they were young and captive at home, it is harder when they are grown and living in another state.
That weekend we fished hard, had a few brews, cooked some great meals, and talked a lot. We looked up at the canyon walls and laughed about how far a car would go over the edge if they drove off at 60 mph. We looked at the stars and wondered about this existence. We hugged each other and said how much we loved each other. It was a good weekend and it was way too short. Fly fishing--I managed to catch a few--but more than that, I caught my sons in a time warp and enjoyed the hell out of it.
The Black Canyon of the Gunnison is located in western Colorado--near my hometown of Delta, Colorado. The Gunnison River has cut a pretty amazing canyon through shear granite walls--some that rise 2000 feet above the river bottom. I had spent some time in that canyon as a child, but life and being a grown up seems to have pulled me away from that part of the world.
Josh and Mike, my two sons decided we should do some fly fishing in the canyon. I hesitate to mention that the flow in the canyon is a bit interesting--some pretty serious white water--but the fly fishing is good. Josh was a river guide on the Snake River, so I let caution fly and volunteered for the trip. It isn't as easy as it sounds--you have to get your raft and supplies packed in by horseback to get to the starting point--but once at the bottom of the canyon--it is pretty smooth sailing.
You can float the whole stretch in a day if you are just about going through white water, but if you are fishing, a three day trip is just about right, and that was what we had planned. If you are a parent with grown children, you probably know that any activity with your children is better with more time. Mike and Josh always have sense of this time deal and scheme and plot to slow things down--I'm happy they seem to see the matter the same as me. I think we get in such a habit of rushing in our everyday life, that sometimes it is hard to adjust and just slow down. But slowdown we did, and our first camp was about a half mile from the put in point--of course if you are packing your raft in for the start, a half mile is an eon from civilization. We had the camp up and were on the river in no time.
Mike and Josh like to fish nymphs--where I'm kind of a hard core dry fly type of person. I've learned to compromise--using a dry and a dropper with a nymph. They usually just put on an indicator with several nymphs trailing and get after it, although to be fair, they do like dry flies. They understand that fish are eating 70% of their food on the bottom and that is the best place to catch them. Me, I understand that fish eat 30% of their food from the surface and can live with that.
I love camping about anywhere, but in the Black Canyon, it is completely another experience. Sheer granite walls rise here and there--and across from the first night's camp, was one of those walls--it almost strained your neck to look up and survey the top of the cliff. The first night we cooked a meal fit for the gods, had a bottle of great wine, smoked a fine cigar--and enjoyed the each other's company while the stars revolved overhead.
Our existence on this good earth is a mind-boggling thing. It is hard to comprehend. Each of use comes to our conclusions concerning what it is all about as we may--but looking at the stars when you are at the bottom of a canyon, many miles from nowhere, is the perfect recipe to get you thinking about the whole thing. My mind can't really deal with it, so it reverts to where and who I'm with. It makes me really appreciate the precious nature of life, and what a wonderful thing it is to be floating, camping, and fly fishing with my sons.
We floated for three days on that fly fishing trip. We saw a lot of amazing scenery, caught a few fish, almost turned our raft in a section of the river called the "Squeeze," and laughed a lot. It was 72 hours and it seemed like 72 minutes. But even though it seemed like 72 minutes, I knew it was wasn't about the total time, but was about the quality time--and when you can find 72 hours of quality time with folks that you love, then life is good.
San Miguel And The Gunnison
My fly fishing trips are not limited to those with my children. My brother lives in Southern California and we take a camping and fly fishing trip every summer. My brother is 4 years older than me, and we have done a lot of fishing together.
It all started back when I was about 11 or 12 years old. For some reason, my brother got it in his head that he wanted to be fly fisherman--it might have been due to our hard drinking uncle that used to come by the house and regale us with some pretty unbelievable fishing stories. Not only were the fishing stories colorful--his language was colorful--and both my brother and I would sit mesmerized as he told the latest yarn.
But whatever the reason, my bother took up fly fishing and it wasn't long until he had me tagging along on his fishing trips. He promptly bought a fly tying outfit and was tying his own flies. In those days, fly tying was a bit different than it is today. The equipment was pretty rudimentary--and the materials left a lot to be desired. They didn't breed chickens for hackles--if you couldn't afford to buy a neck of hackles--which were just your basic chicken neck, you just went to you local farm and got your own hackle neck--and duck quills--and anything else that may have been on hand. We lived in a pretty small town in western Colorado and the local sports store didn't carry a lot of stuff so we did mail order through the Herter's catalog.
So we started fly fishing back in the middle 1950s. Unfortunately we grew up, got married, had families and kind of got away from the fly fishing. Then about 10 years ago when our children were out of the nest, we decided to take up where we left off 30 some years ago. He comes out from California every year and we head to western Colorado where we grew up--there is no lack of fly fishing water to choose from.
Last year we fished the San Miguel and Gunnison Rivers. We found a very out-of-the-way camp south of Telluride, Co., that seemed to have our name on it. It looked to be an hunting camp and was stuck way back in the woods--and we didn't see anyone near the camp for 5 days. That is the way my bother and I like it--the more secluded the better. It is not that we are antisocial--it is just that we like our personal time together--and the farther from other humanity the better.
Most of the time, your siblings are pretty special--once you get past that competitive thing in childhood. It seems that my bother and I save up all our pet peeves, gripes, complaints, observations, thoughts, frustrations, philosophies, notable happenings, and whatever for our yearly camping trip. I can tell my bother things that I wouldn't tell anyone else on the face of this earth--and then I won't tell him everything--there are some things better left for the grave. And I guess that is what a good campfire is all about--it is the primal center--the place where you gaze into the flames and let your mind wander--thoughts, thoughts, and more thoughts.
I suppose you would have to laugh if you were an invisible presence around the campfire with my brother and me. You would see two men, moving into the last part of middle age, and you would see them sitting--not a word--looking at the stars, then a thought and a spoken word. You would see us grab that word and thought and take it to its end. Then nothing, looking around--the stars--the woods, sounds in the night--all to be consumed by the senses in a kind of dainty way--you don't just slobber over it, you look at it, hold it--turn it around and try to understand.
We fished some--well we fished a lot. We caught a few--and some pretty good ones at that. But the fishing was not the deal. The deal was being together--talking about now, about the past, learning about this life and finding that we see the same rhythms to this journey. Life is a journey and the important thing is to find the heart and soul of that journey. My time with my brother finds that heart and soul--it renews me--it reminds me what is really important in this life.
Fly fishing--such an innocent thing. You get out your trusty pole, climb in the 4x4 and head to the mountains for a day of relaxation and fishing. Yet, strange things happen with fly fishing--it can lead you to some unexpected happenings--like it led me to one of the finest New York steaks I've even had the occasion to wrap my gums around.
It was the summer of 1996 and--you guessed it--my sons decided we should head to Montana for some fishing. We plotted during the spring on an itinerary--they would fly up to Salt Lake City--spend a couple of days resting and golfing, and then we would head north to Montana by way of Jackson, Wyoming, for some more golf and a visit Josh's good friend Mike Varilone.
We were schedule to stay at a bed and breakfast in Boseman, Montana, and after leaving Jackson, we had about a 6 hour drive--we did have to stop in Yellowstone for some swimming in the Fire Hole River--just to check it out. We made it through Yellowstone and the Fire Hole without drowning and rolled along talking and catch up on all that had happened in our lives the last several months. Finally we rolled into Boseman and none of us had a clue where the bed and breakfast was located. We parked by a supermarket and Mike got on the phone for directions.
The bed and breakfast was out of town a few miles but it didn't take us long to find our way. After getting our gear stored in our room, we headed down to the deck to take the owners up on an offer of a cold brew. We talked and eventually we got around to asking about a good place to eat. The owners mentioned several places and we decided on one that was about 10 miles west in the town of Belgrade--the Mint.
It didn't look like much from the outside, but it didn't look bad either. We sauntered in and waited for the hostess who promptly arrived and took us to our seats. It was close to 9 in the evening and we were all three pretty tired. Soon a perky waitress arrived and her zest seemed to energize us--we ordered a cocktail and began looking over the menu. The first thing that jumped out at me was a New York steak smothered in peppercorns and sauce.
The waitress was back with our drinks and we ordered--having a good give and take with the young lass. She was lively and seemed to lighten up with Mike and Josh joking with her about this thing and that, we were all laughing by the time we got the order in. A bottle of wine materialized on the table, along with another cocktail--yep, things were definitely starting to look up.
My New York looked to be just what I had imagined, and when I took the first bite, I wondered if I had died an gone to heaven. We ate and chatted. We talked about the round of golf the previous day--I think I got a new nickname in that conversation, but won't share it at this point. I looked at my sons and marveled at how they had grown into such fine young men. How did it happen--I mean one day they are little boys and the next day you are in Montana having a great meal and sipping a fine wine. I guess that is one of life's mysteries.
Finally we had finished our meal and the waitress brought the cigar menu--what--yeah, brought the cigar menu. Sitting back, I lit my cigar and raised my glass for a toast--a toast to the family. Mike and Josh laughed about the toast to the family, that is another story on another page--but it was a good toast.
Two days of fishing in Montana and we had a great time. The best was when we left and dropped down into Yellowstone on the way home as there were a couple of rivers we wanted to hit on the way to Jackson where our wives and girlfriends were to meet us. I can't remember the name of the river in northern Yellowstone, but we stopped there and Mike and Josh decided to have a bit of lunch while I suited up and headed to the river. It wasn't long until I had a nice fat 17" rainbow on the line and in my hand--Mike and Josh were looking over the embankment to the river as they were up high by the truck. They smiled and continued to much on lunch--and the next thing I knew I had another good rainbow on. That got their attention and I laugh still when I see in my mind's eye how fast they got suited up. It was hilarious.
We finished the trip in Jackson with the ladies. We had some great meals, some perfect fishing--and some great company. How can you beat that? There are other things to tell, but I have to go tie a fly--it is getting close to another fishing season.
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