Lost Trail Creek Watermelon Slam

 

As a kid I used to spend a couple of weeks each summer visiting my grandparents in Delta, Colorado. Those days at my grandparent's house were some of the best days of my life; I just didn't know it at the time. When you are a kid your days are all about discovery and my parents gave me a long leash to hang myself with. Something that is hard to do as a parent, but needs to be done in order to foster independence. With a little good fortune your kids will manage to keep their neck out of the noose and only manage to tangle themselves to a limited degree. My grandparent's house was the staging ground for a slew of my finest childhood adventures which are now some of my fondest memories. I could kill a day catching crawdads in the ditch that ran in front of my grandparent's house, sliding down the dirt chutes of Devils Thumb in a cardboard box, or exploring the Cuckoo River just down the hill. There was plenty to do for a kid with just a little bit of imagination and a few feet of rope.

I've mentioned the Cuckoo River through the years to my wife, Shelly, and she was always good about appearing interested in the stories of my childhood adventures. I remember the day I finally got the chance to take Shelly down to the Cuckoo River. When we got to the river, she was incredulous to learn that the fabled Cuckoo River was little more than a spring about three feet wide and no more than a foot or so deep. She just stood there laughing at me. "Where's the river? This isn't a river," She chided. What could I say? When you are all of seven or eight years old, it is a river and that's how you choose to remember it.

Thirty some years have passed since my adventures on the Cuckoo River. Today I have a wife and three kids; lots of debt and not much hair. Somewhere along the line, this age thing crept up on me and kicked my ass. Most of my time is consumed keeping the boat afloat and raising a family with results that often resemble Mr. Toad's Wild Ride. Life is extremely busy and obviously more complicated than it used to be. Fortunately I take one week each summer to go on a fishing trip with my dad, brother, and cousin. This is the best opportunity I have to get out and satisfy the appetite for exploration and discovery that was established in my youth. Instead of raising kids I get the chance to act just a little bit like a kid again. It's the Cuckoo River on a grander scale and a damn good time.

My dad and I take a little heat over the fishing trip from our significant others. Nothing serious, just a comment here and a little jab there. I'll go out on a limb and say that I believe my wife and Mom both understand why we enjoy our summer fishing trip so much. I also believe that they feign a mix of loathing and bewilderment (my mom more loathing, my wife more bewilderment) when the boys get together to discuss plans for the summer sojourn. It's just a cover for their envy and I don't blame them. If I actually spent eleven months each year planning a week long trip for me and my wife, I would win the "Husband of the Year Award" and be a reoccurring guest on the Oprah show. It's safe to say that that's probably not going to happen anytime soon.

The summer of 2005 was our seventh trip with the current group configuration that includes my brother Mike aka The Wulff, my cousin Todd aka Floyd, my dad aka Scrap, and myself aka Trout, the trip leader for the 2005 excursion. We headed to the Rio Grande in Southwestern Colorado, a venue not unfamiliar to us with three trips to the area in previous years. What was unfamiliar to us was Lost Trail Creek. Lost Trail Creek looks like your typical Colorado high mountain stream. There are thousands of streams just like it that dot the mountains of Colorado. Over the years we have driven past Lost Trail Creek a couple dozen times or more, but never thought much about it. Forest Road 520 crosses over Lost Trail Creek just past Rio Grande Reservoir. Lost Trail Creek runs under FR 520, through a camp ground full of Texans, and then into the Rio Grande about a half mile below the camp ground.

Let me elaborate on the campground full of Texans. June in Colorado means Texans and lots of them for the next three months. Throw Texans and fishing together and you'll get a shit pile of guys in hip waders. Not only do they all wear hip waders, but 90% of the hip waders are a camouflage pattern. I'm still searching for a reason to wear hip waders in small streams during the summer and haven't made much headway. Throw the camouflage thing in and I'm totally baffled. Maybe wranglers on Texans are like garments on Mormons. They never take them off and thus need the hip waders to keep their jeans dry? Or maybe Texans are stealthy trout hunters that have a phobia of lightning? I'm just not sure. The good thing is that Texans have single handedly kept Red Ball in business while donating some of their oil money to the Colorado economy.

A day of fishing and exploring Lost Trail creek was on the docket for 2005. I had performed a little research, but not much information was available about the creek. This can be a good thing or a bad thing. Either the fishing is really good and nobody wants to write about the creek and expose it or the fishing is really bad and there is no reason to write about the creek and expose it. Since this was our fourth trip to the Rio Grande area, I figured we could afford to burn a day checking it out. The day dawned slightly overcast and we took our time getting organized and loading our gear up for the short drive to Lost Trail Creek. Mike had driven back to Montrose the day before to take care of some business that couldn't be pushed back. That left Floyd, Scrap, and I to carry out the reconnaissance mission to Lost Trail Creek.

I often joke that without Mike in the group we are like a bunch of lost souls. While that is an exaggeration, there are some people in this world that are like oxygen to a flame. Mike is one of those people. The conversations are always lively and entertaining when he's around and we tend to feed off of his personality like Alfred Packer in the dead of winter. I suppose that Wulff, Scrap, and Floyd each add a little wrinkle to the dynamic of the group with their personality. Scrap is a thinker and a doer. He could be pegged as a left wing liberal over cocktails and a right wing conservative at tax time, ready to boldly tread both sides of the political divide as the conversation ebbs and flows. Floyd is the color commentator of the group who tenders up unconventional perspectives on whatever subject is being tossed around. Ever the individual thinker, Floyd will either make you laugh or go hmm??? As for me, I'm like vanilla ice cream and honestly not quite sure what I bring to the table. I just know the table is set for four with my name on a chair each year and it's the best table in town.

With Mike in Montrose wrapping up business, we were loaded up and on the road in no time. The drive to Lost Trail Creek was about thirty minutes from camp. Initially we thought that we would park at the Lost Creek Trailhead, hike up the trail and then drop down to the creek to start fishing. As we pulled up, Scrap suggested that we park right past the bridge and just start fishing up the creek from there. What a novel idea. Less hiking and more fishing, God damn Gump!

It's hard to explain the feeling you get when you are exploring a new stream. It's kind of like being a kid eating a box of Cracker Jacks to see what kind of prize you will find at the bottom of the box. Or maybe it's more like the feeling a teenage boy gets as he is working his hand down a girl's pants for the first time. He's not quite sure what to expect, but he can't wait to find out. And he's thinking to himself, man this is going to be fun. I guess that's why they call a great fishing hole a "honey hole". Makes sense now that I've thought it through.

Scrap, Floyd and I went through the usual drill. Set up chairs, open up beers, string up fly rods, remove lime from boot, put on wading boots, open up beers, put up chairs, start to fish. Fishing three or four people at a time on small stream requires a bit of maneuvering, a pinch of courtesy, and a healthy dose of restraint. We pull it off well with each person getting an opportunity to hit some quality water. I'm always amazed at the amount of ground we cover when it comes time to start hiking back to the vehicle at the end of the day.

We hit the water at the same time and started working our way up Lost Trail Creek tossing a fly at any water that looked like it could possibly hold a fish. It wasn't long before I hooked and landed a small brookie about six inches long that somehow managed to get a one inch Chernobyl ant in his mouth. As I released the brookie, I looked up and noticed a large green object floating down Lost Trail Creek. I followed the object as it was carried by the current over rocks, through chutes, and on down the creek. Once the green object was close enough to see clearly, I discovered that is was large watermelon, probably 20lbs or more, with a big gash in the side revealing the pinkish-red fruit inside. Now let me try to put this in perspective for you. I'm fishing a creek in the middle of the Rio Grande National Forest. The only road that crosses the creek is about 800 yards below me. There are no campgrounds above me; there are no four wheeler roads above me, and a watermelon that weighs 20 plus lbs. just floated past me. Now how the hell does that happen? It's Ripley's.

I moved on up the stream and ran into Floyd who was working a small pocket of water behind a rock. A couple of casts later Floyd hooked and landed a ten inch trout that we initially thought was a brookie, until we got a closer look. Turns out this trout was a rainbow. It was about that time that I started to think about the possibility of a grand slam. Everyone has heard of a grand slam in sports. There's the grand slam of golf which includes the Master's, U.S. Open, British Open, and PGA Championship. There's a tennis grand slam which includes Wimbledon, U.S. Open, Australian Open, and French Open. The grand slam of fly fishing is to catch a brook, rainbow, brown, and cutthroat trout all in the same day. We were half way to the grand slam of trout and only thirty minutes into the day.

I looked at Floyd and said, "Did you see that watermelon floating down the stream?" 
Floyd started to laugh and his eyes doubled in size. Then he said, "Yeah man, I caught the fucking thing on my fly."

"No shit?"

"I swear man. I've never caught a watermelon on a fly rod before."
"What the fuck you talking about, I've never caught a watermelon period! That's going to be a hard one to top. Did it put up a good fight?"

We both got a good chuckle out of the watermelon on Lost Trail Creek. The funny thing is that forty years from now I will be having a beer with Floyd and I'll say, "Remember the time you caught that watermelon on Lost Trail Creek" and he'll know exactly what I'm talking about, conjuring up the images like the event happened yesterday. It's the ordinary that gets lost through the years, but the small unordinary things get tucked away in your mind for safekeeping.

Floyd and I continued to work our way upstream, taking turns fishing the tasty looking water. The fishing was productive, but the terrain was difficult to traverse and we were getting a workout. Scrap still wasn't in sight and must have been covering ground like a Kazakh nomad that was interbred with a Rocky Mountain goat. Floyd and I approached a nice deep pool on the left side of the stream. We looked at each other and Floyd being the gentlemen that he is gave me the nod to fish the pool first. I was thinking to myself, hell, he already caught a 20lb watermelon it must be my turn, right? I cast a stimulator pattern to the top of the pool. The stimulator hadn't floated more than six inches when the water exploded and I set the hook. I could tell that this fish was a little bigger than the ones we caught earlier and when it rolled to the top I could see a deep golden yellow belly. The trout made a couple attempts to run on me, but eventually accepted his fate and came to hand. It turned out that this trout was a Rio Grande cutthroat that was pushing twelve inches, a respectable fish in any small mountain stream. The third leg of the grand slam was complete. I looked at Floyd and we were both grinning. We knew that this was going to be a special day.

Floyd and I decided to catch up with Scrap and make sure the mountain goat was ok. After a brisk walk up the streamside bank we caught a glimpse of Scrap who was carefully working his way upstream, methodically covering the water as he went. Floyd and I caught up with Scrap and suggested a beer and beef jerky break. We exchanged progress reports and found out that Scrap had landed several nice fish. A "nice fish" is relative to the size of the water you are fishing. While a 12 inch trout on the Gunnison wouldn't get much notice a 12 inch trout on a small mountain stream that is no more than ten feet wide is a "nice fish".

We finished up our beer, shouldered our backpacks and headed out again. Scrap chose the right side of the stream and Floyd and I took the left side. Not too far from where we had our beer break, Scrap came upon a nice looking pool that was created by a jam of debris that included logs with smaller limbs and deadfall. Floyd and I stopped to watch and see if Scrap would get any action. Scrap placed a couple of nice casts into the pool and the fly slowly floated downstream with no takers. On his third cast Scrap bit off a little more than he could chew, cast too far, and his fly hung up in the dead fall. I looked at Floyd and said, "Game over man." Floyd nodded in agreement. Scrap gave his rod a couple of small tugs, but the fly was solidly snagged and wasn't going anywhere….or so we thought. Just when Floyd and I were getting ready to head upstream, Scrap raised his rod up as high as he could and slammed it down hard, hard enough to snap a $300 rod. If there is such thing as a fishing God, he was smiling on us that day. What happened next is totally implausible. Instead of Scrap's rod snapping, the limb with his fly snapped in half and his fly hit the water at about Mach-1 making a splash big enough to send any self respecting trout swimming for cover. Just after the fly slammed the water a trout came up and smacked the fly. Obviously this trout had a low self esteem. Scrap set the hook, although I'm not sure he needed to do anything the way this trout with no self respect exploded on his fly. A minute later and Scrap had a nice brown in his hands for a photo-op. The grand slam was complete and in grandiose fashion. Scrap balanced on the log-jam, made sure his glasses and hat were on crooked, held the brown trout up, and I snapped the picture. Greatness captured on film.

We continued to work our way up Lost Trail Creek, taking turns fishing the good holes; catching a mixed bag of brookies, browns, cutthroats, and rainbows. Occasionally we would stop for a beer break and absorb our surroundings. We didn't see a soul the whole day and not a sign that anyone had been on the creek at all other than a stray watermelon working its way to the Pacific Ocean. As usual at the end of the day, we were surprised at how much ground we had covered. We decided to hike out of the Lost Trail Creek drainage and work our way back to the vehicle by cutting through meadows, aspen stands, and pines. We made good time and managed to hit the road about a hundred yards above the vehicle. We have obviously done this a time or two before and were getting pretty good at it. We set up our chairs, plopped our tired butts down, and took a long hit on our ice cold Coronas, except for Floyd who tipped his Corona and spilled a few ounces, "For the Wulff who couldn't be with us" he said and then he took a big swallow for himself.

Our day on Lost Trail Creek was one for the ages. Every now and again you hit the jackpot and a day comes together like it did on Lost Trail Creek. New water, great fishing, good weather, outstanding company, and a few surprises mixed in. On a good year you may have one or two days like that, but they are pretty rare and shouldn't be taken for granted. Lost Trail Creek was indeed the Cuckoo River on a grander scale. Yes, it was good to be a kid again; even only for one day.

A Passion Shared

 

The fourth annual fishing trip is taking shape. What started as a loosely arranged trip to the San Juan River and the town of Durango with my dad and brother in the Summer of 95, has evolved into a well organized summer event. The venues have changed each summer, but the participants have remained the same. 98's trip was a scratch due to wedding commitments. I lobbied hard for a wedding date in October, but as I'm finding out, women usually get their way, especially after you're married. The end result is having to schedule around my anniversary for the next twenty years! In any event, the anticipation has been building and the agenda for this years trip is promising. Between e-mails and phone conversations with Dad and the occasional beer with my brother, some progress has been made. In the past we could have been accused of acting without thinking, but after a few hard learned lessons a little more thought goes into the logistics. The amount of time spent traveling versus time spent fishing is a main consideration. It is also a good idea to buy one or two extra cases of beer. Past experience has told us that we'll need it. After four days on the road for two days of fishing in Montana and running out of beer early on the last day of our float trip down the Black Canyon we usually try to keep these lessons in mind when planning out our Summer pow-wow. 

This year we have our sights set on the Piedra River in Southwestern Colorado. A freestone river of medium size with a couple of box canyons on it's 12 mile stretch. The river holds rainbows and browns ranging from the 8 to 16 inch range. With the traveling less and fishing more theory in mind, the Piedra was an easy choice. In addition to the main fork, you also have the choice of fishing the East Fork, William's Creek Lower and William's Creek in the Weminuche wilderness. All sections are within eight miles of each other. The country is an awesome combination of granite spires surrounded by aspens and pines with some rolling meadows, all lush green from above normal rainfall. Scrappy has already made a scouting trip to the area and gave his nod of approval. Things are looking good.

I should probably back up a bit and give a little background on the players involved. My Dad is in his mid fifties and presently resides in Layton, Utah. He has several aliases, all well deserved. He has been known to go by the "Silver Fox" (self-explanatory once you take a look at his lid), but most recently "Scrappy Doo" or just "Scrappy" for short. The name pretty much says it all. At 5'6" and all of 145lbs. drenched, Scrappy is pound for pound the scrappiest individual I know. The actual nickname was derived from his uncanny ability to duck hook a drive 180 yards off the tee into the rough, take a 3 wood out and slice it right of the green and then get up and down for a routine par. This is a regular occurrence, not a fluke. Some people make the mistake of feeling bad for him and usually end up donating funds to his favorite charity, Budweiser. This is how the name "Scrappy" was derived, but it's more than that. Scrappy is a tough competitor and has a strong persistence ( some call it stubbornness, at least I do). He also harbors the total belief that you can do anything you want to do as long as there is a ten pound book around that tells you how. I guess all you need to know is never take Scrappy lightly, he holds his own and usually some of yours.

After describing my Dad, it shouldn't come as a surprise that my brother, Mike, is also competitive. Out of the three of us, it would be very safe to say that he is the most competitive. A trait he came by honestly and then took to the extreme. A trait that appears to be mellowing a bit. Mike is two and half years my senior and in his early thirties. He's the one that makes things happen in the group, most of them good. Most of his friends call him "Sammy". We call him "Kid Kratic", a more appropriate nickname. I'm not exactly sure if "Kratic" is a word or has a definition, but in relation to Mike it is reference about his ability to make simple things go awry. Negotiate a multi-million dollar lease, no problem. Light a camp fire with Coleman fuel, problem. After an eventful trip to Lee's Ferry where Kid Kratic managed to light a picnic table and trash dumpster on fire, all before 10 in the morning, the name has stuck. I could elaborate on the adventures with the boat, but let's just say as a general rule of thumb it is a good idea to keep Kid Kratic away from fire, gasoline, and boats. Kid Kratic and any one of these items could result in potential problems. With that said, Mike is essential to the group. He enjoys the finer things in life and makes it a point to share as much as he can. In addition to his generosity, Mike has a charm or quick wit about him that people feed off. Around the camp fire, there is no substitute, Kid Kratic always makes for good entertainment.

I get to spend quite a bit of time with Mike throughout the year because we both live in Arizona. I even manage to see the parents in Utah three or four times a year, but getting Scrappy, Kid Kratic and myself all together at the same time is a tough proposition these days. One on one time is good, but as the song goes, "3 is a magic number". And it may not be so much just "3", but "3 males". Don't get me wrong, I love my wife and Mom, but women have a way of taking something simple and making it complex. We've all had conversations about these mysterious animals, but haven't been able to draw definite conclusions. Scrappy thinks women know what they want, but just don't know how to get it. I think women know how to get what they want, but ask men what to do so they have someone to blame if things don't work out. I call this the "Blame Theory". And Kid Kratic, well I don't think he gives a shit, which may be the best way to go on this one. Probably all we can say is it's a genetic thing and too complicated to spend much time with. As a male, I like to keep things simple, so I'll let the women figure it out. Sorry for getting sidetracked. I guess what I'm trying to say is our group works, and our toughest decision the whole trip may be what kind of beer we buy, and we usually decide on beer that is cold and wet. I think you get my point. We have a good understanding and respect for one another, we enjoy our time together, and things are simple for a week. What's better than a good day fishing with your Dad and brother followed by a little Chupula, a few cold ones and a dose of campfire conversation? 

The camaraderie is a good enough reason by itself to get together each year, but when you add a beautiful setting, some twenty inch rainbows and a little drama, the trip is that much better. I'm not even sure if fishing is our primary activity anymore. After the introduction of the Dutch oven, I would have to say evening meals are a close second. It is quite an amazing production. Most meals consist of three to four courses and take an average of four hours to prepare. A sample menu would be comprised of steamed artichokes with butter and bread crumbs, a six pound prime rib wrapped with bacon, fried potatoes with onions and peppers washed down with a 94 Caymus Cabernet. Scrappy has been known to follow that up with a little peach cobbler in the Dutch for dessert. The whole production usually involves Scrappy taking care of the coals and cooking temperatures, Kid Kratic handling the appetizers and sauces, while I usually perform some slicing and dicing while watching over a slow sauté of the spuds. The next evening's entree could be stuffed double cut pork loins, bone in, smothered with an onion beer sauce, preluded by steamed asparagus tips with a hollandaise sauce. Bottom line, we don't skimp when it comes to the evening meal.

Past trips have also had their share of drama and adventure. Our inaugural trip in 95 to the San Juan got rained out. After about a day and a half of good fishing, bad weather rolled in and eventually drenched everything to the point of having to head into to the town of Durango to dry out. It was about 2:00 in the afternoon on the second day. We had just finished lunch and were pounding the water about 400 yards below the damn. There was a slight breeze with some dark clouds on the horizon when we started hooking up with some football shaped rainbows. The activity was getting pretty hot and even Scrappy was managing to get into his first couple of hogs when the wind started to pick up and blew in an ominous wall of black clouds. At that time we decided to put our lightning rods away and make a dash for the truck. That thunderstorm turned into a steady drizzle for the next 48hrs. We broke camp the next day and headed to drier ground. Durango was an easy choice as it provided the amenities that mattered most. A fifty-cent pool table. Beer, cold and wet. Food, hot and all good. We salvaged the trip with a few nights at El Rancho (our former favorite bar, but that's another story) and a few rounds of golf at Tamaron. The drama of that trip was supplied by none other than "Scrappy I don't need any glasses Kettell". We were heading back to our home town of Delta in Scrappy's Toyota pickup. The truck is a 4cyl and was loaded to the top with all our camping equipment. Needless to say, there wasn't a whole lot of power for passing uphill. We were coming over the pass towards Ridgeway when Scrappy decided to pass a semi uphill. Scrappy pulled out to pass and after about 15 seconds and making no progress a semi came into sight traveling the other way. Mike and myself didn't say anything thinking Pops would pull back over. Not the case, after a few seconds Mike had enlighten Scrappy that we were about to be smashed. Hey, but he doesn't need any glasses. At least in 96 Scrappy had a new pair of prescription sunglasses he used for fishing but wouldn't wear when driving. Progress is made. 

As much as Kid Kratic and myself like to poke fun at Scrappy, he sometimes gets the last laugh. The Summer 96 trip took us to Montana and Yellowstone. Drama was supplied again by you guessed it, Scrappy. At the mouth of Ogden Canyon in Utah is a great restaurant called the Timbermine. Their signature steak is a 20 ounce New York about two inches thick and seasoned with cracked pepper. Scrappy, a notoriously fast eater, managed to lodge a bite of steak in his throat. We were getting a little concerned after Mike gave Scrap two good heaves without dislodging the steak. But as I said, Scrap is the scrappiest person I know and with the mention of dialing 911 in the air, Scrappy choked it down like a champ. The next day we started our drive up to Montana and he heard all the jokes about straining the celery out of his soup and taking the ice out of his water so he didn't choke. He was a pretty good sport for someone who had a couple of cracked ribs. 

Two evenings later we had arrived in Boseman, Montana, where Mike had booked us to stay at a bed and breakfast on a Llama ranch. Yep, a llama ranch. Again Kid Kratic makes things happen. It started as a minor mention of heading to Montana to do some fishing and the next day Kid Kratic had us booked at a llama ranch with reservations and a guide to float the Yellowstone River one day and wade the Gallatin the next. The owner of the llama ranch was a tall, burly, cordial fellow who definitely had his opinions on politics. He suggested we have dinner at a restaurant called The Mint in Belgrade, Montana. When we got to Belgrade, the main street couldn't have been but about 100 yards long and consisted of the traditional small town shops with The Mint lodged in the middle. When we walked through the doors, what followed was one of the best meals I've ever had. The Mint had a long oak bar with an upper tier across from the bar with tables for dinner and cigars. Since it was 9:00 in the evening on a weekday in a town with a population of 1000, The Mint wasn't too busy. When the waitress arrived she was a little quiet, but after some introductions and conversation she loosened right up. We had few libations, a great steak dinner, and a fine cigar to top it off. Oh, and Scrappy jumped back on that horse and ordered a New York steak two days after his incident at the Timbermine. I guess sometimes things turn out best when you're not expecting a whole lot out of a place and then your are delivered an outstanding meal, great service and comfortable atmosphere. The mood was just right that night and the conversation great. An evening to be remembered.

I got a little sidetracked there, I think I said something about Scrappy getting the last laugh. On our third day fishing, we drove into Yellowstone National Park to try some new waters. None of us knew much about the waters in the park, but after asking a few questions at the fly shop in Boseman and spending a few greenbacks in the shop we pulled enough information out of the guides to develop a loose plan. We arrived at the lower stretch of the Lamar river about mid-morning. If I recall correctly, we managed to hook into a few cutthroats of modest size in a couple of hours. We decided to drive over to Slough Creek and give it a go after lunch. We pulled into a well used camp ground and pulled out the cooler to slap a few sandwiches together. Scrappy had other plans. He decided to postpone lunch and get a few casts in. Right in front of the campsite was a large hole where two channels of the stream converged. The hole was right by the campground and all the picnic tables and probably got pounded on a regular basis. Kid Kratic and myself looked at each other and kind of laughed. We didn't think Scrap was going to have much luck. I'm sure we even threw in our customary barbs and let Scrappy know what we thought. I about had the mustard spread on my sandwich when I heard line screaming, Scrappy with a grin on his face, disbelief on our faces. Sometimes things just line up right in fly fishing. It was bright hot August day, a little breeze in the air and Scrappy had on size 8 grasshopper that was just what the rainbows were in the mood for at the time. Kratic and I ate our sandwiches in three bites each, suited up and went down to the river to try and mimic Scrappy's performance. Mental note: Fish first and eat second.

I could go on for pages as our first three trips have supplied plenty of good times and memories for a lifetime. Less than a day passes after each trip, and I'm already enthused and have the juices flowing contemplating the possibilities for next years adventure. I love to fly fish To me fly fishing is a challenging pursuit and more. It is therapy, clearing the mind, simplifying life, enjoying your surroundings. Cool water flowing past your legs, the constant rushing sound of water, beautiful colors, spots and stripes of the trout all reach out and grab me. Your total concentration is on the pursuit of trout and at the same time I'm not sure if catching trout is the whole point. The rigors of life disappear for a while. The only way I can think to improve fly fishing is to be able to share it with your family, and that is what I choose to do whenever the opportunity arises. We are good at creating those opportunities. Everyone needs a passion in life. I'm fortunate to have found mine and even more fortunate to have a great family to share it with.

"I still don't know why I fish or why other men fish, except that we like it and it makes us think and feel." Roderick L. Haig-Brown, "A River Never Sleeps," 1946.