Sure Sign of Spring

I parked my truck in a small dirt turnout. I've parked here often. I park here when I visit the Ogden River as a friend. I walk up the path on the parkway. The path that others walk, run, or bike for exercise. The path that some use to relieve stress; a place of meditation. I notice the buffer between the path and the water. I'm glad it's here. When the developers were building the parkway path, they were asked to keep a buffer zone: A strip of brush and trees that would help keep the area somewhat natural. The buffer zone of trees and brush serve several purposes. The brush and trees provide shade to the river corridor which helps cool the water, helping the trout population. The lower overhanging brush also provides shelter and hiding habitat for skittish trout. Birds, animals and insects use the trees and brush for similar purpose. The buffer zone provides a defense against fertilizers and pesticides that are used on the nearby golf course, parks, and gardens along the parkway. The buffer adds a wildness to human perception.

I'm nearing the part of the river where I can walk into the trees. I leave the path here and make my own. I wander down maybe fifty yards off the path and find a large tree near the bank. It's a tree I have leaned on for several years. I come to this spot and use the tree's trunk to rest my shoulder and hip on. In this postion, I am able to stay put for about thirty minutes, maybe longer. If I'm on my lunch hour, I have about thirty minutes of observation time. If I'm not working, I will sometimes stay longer. Today, I have about thirty minutes.

I'm watching for the sure sign of spring. I look at the water. My eyes focus on the rhythm. I see the main current. I see the micro-currents. I see the seams where slow and fast water rub together. I look beyond the surface tension and notice stream bottom rocks. They are dark, moss colored and interspersed with clean stones that sparkle with multi-colored ambient light. Camouflaged against the bottom rock, but visable to a trained eye, I see a trout. I have seen this sight year after year as a seeker of trout, still my heart races and I hold my breath. Slowly, I exhale. My heart skips a beat, its pace returns to normal. I tell myself with an internal voice that I belong here. I'm not an intruder. With that thought, I blend both physically and mentally into the scene. What I have come to witness can now unfold.

Tumbling, skidding, and then floating motionless, I see a small grayish mayfly carried on the laminant flow. With small flutters it moves against the current and lifts to the air. I strain to see it gain altitude and then lose it as it becomes part of the sky. Upstream, I notice more mayflies each in their own struggle to become airborn. In the tailout flat, at the end of the seam I am watching, my peripheral vision catches the splashy rise of a small trout; then another, and another. The small trout are hurried. They rush to their meal with youthful aggression. The rise is showy; the mixing of spray and audible splash. Each rise turns my head.

Peering into the seam where I spotted the first trout, I see that it has moved closer to the head of the run. It is in prime position to sit in the slower current but close enough to the seam to pick off any mayflies conveyered downstream. Soon, more mayflies are riding the current. Trout are working the surface regularly. I focus my attention on some of the larger ones. They feed easily. Stationed close to the surface now, they are easy to spot. Their motion is slow and deliberate. They sip. A gentle rise of the head, an opening of the mouth, and a quiet slurp. Sometimes no noise at all.

I have to leave. On my way back to the truck, I jump. I grab at a mayfly but miss. I watch one as it lands on a streamside rock and quickly drop down to my knees and grasp it by its wings. I hold it. I look at its body and see a tinge of olive mixed with the gray. Its wings gray-blue. Its eyes orange. Its legs kick and wiggle. I try to toss it into the air, but my fingers have damaged its wings and it falls. I feel bad but realize that I am part of nature too. I justify my actions by convincing my mind that I took only one mayfly while the trout and birds take many. Some mayflies are stillborn and some are crippled--it's part of life.

A cool breeze slides past my face as I enter the parkaway path and head for my truck. It is a transition time. I glance up. Gray clouds give way to patches of blue to the west. Parting clouds above allow sunlight to dance for just a moment upon this section of earth. I feel my feet upon the path, the sun upon my forehead, and hear the water's song. This is my ritual. Spring is here! 

CHOMPING AT THE BIT

Some horses will chomp or chew on the bit when they are impatient or bored. I have been waiting for a good spring day so I could get outside. Like a horse chomping on a bit, I have been impatient and bored with the winter. Finally, A good day comes along and I ask my wife if she wants to go hike in the foothills above Ogden. She said yes, and we drove to the Bues Creek Trailhead. We decided to make it a short hike, maybe spend two or three hours on the trail. Earlier in the day I had run 12 miles non-stop so I wasn't looking for a real workout. We just felt like getting outside, breathing fresh air, and spending time together. I expected it to be a little muddy, and for the north facing slopes and trail to have a little snow. I also figured the south facing slopes and trail would be free of snow at the lower elevation and dry. That is the condition we found.