Sanctuary

The dirt road starts from a turn-off on the main road in Logan Canyon. From the pavement it goes straight into the pines and  aspen. On the Utah side it is rocky and uneven with ruts. Too many four wheel drive vehicles using it on rainy days. On the Idaho side, it is graded and groomed. Beaver Creek parallels the road for several miles even as the road crosses into Idaho. The road and creek eventually meander through open meadows. Beaver work here damming the flow creating ponds and areas of thick willow growth. Native Bonneville cutthroat trout can be found here along with Eastern brookies and some planted rainbows. They are not big--most maybe six to ten inches. They are skittish. They are hungry. They will rise readily to a well-placed dry fly. In summer and fall vehicles cause dust plumes as long as a couple hundred yards. Some drivers will slow down and respect vehicles coming the opposite way but others never seem to care as they speed along creating dust and flipping rocks onto the windshields of passing vehicles.

The man has travelled this road for nearly forty years. It is the route he takes to get to Saint Charles Canyon. He drives it alone always in the evening and sometimes in the dark when he gets a late start. Driving this dirt road, camping in Saint Charles Canyon, fly fishing the creek, and sitting high on a side hill watching the sunlight come down the canyon wall early in the morning is a therapeutic coping skill Colter Ellis has developed.

Colter Ellis, turned off the main dirt road. He followed the very faint impression of truck tire tracks toward a lone large pine. Visible in a grove of aspen was the old mountain cabin. He pulled up into the clearing right in front of the cabin and turned off the ignition. He got out of the truck and listened. The sound was more a feeling than any noise. He could feel it on his skin. His heart rate increased for just a moment and then settled back down. Still, he could feel his heart beat and almost hear it in the silence. He walked up to the front door of the cabin. The padlock secure. He held his hands up to the sides of his face and peered into the front and only window. The one room cabin was neat and tidy. Chairs were neatly tucked around the table on all four sides. The wood burning stove against the end wall cold and black. Several small shelves held a few canned goods. The two hinged beds secured to the far wall. No one had been in the cabin for some time. Colter sat down on a log near the woodshed. He thought and pondered about his life. He'd earned a degree in geography but had never really done anything with it. His first desire was to work with the National Forest Service. He wanted to work in their cartography division making maps. During an interview he was told that twenty-seven people had to die before they could hire him. He turned his thoughts towards being a teacher. During his twenties, thirties, and into his forties, he never felt that comfortable in front of people especially in a teaching situation. Fear had almost always ruled his life. Change did not come easy.

He stood up, took a deep breath of cool mountain air and walked down the north facing hill. About 100 yards down the slope was an old rusted out car. Probably a 1940's model, make unknown. It was situated at the front of a mine opening. The engine used as power to pull an ore cart up the mine shaft. He gazed into the opening. The darkness reminded him of the darkness he felt with his own life. It reminded him of his fear again. He thought back to a day when he and his siblings was brought to the mine by their parents. They were not even in their early teens yet. Their ages somewhere between eight to twelve. A couple of his siblings started down the mine shaft. He followed. About fifty or sixty feet into the mine it took a turn to the right. It became dark. The darkness brought fear into those in the front. The mention of a mountain lion living in there sent the whole group scrambling to get out. The sunlight breaking through the trees brought Colter back to the present. He lifted his head and squinted. Out to the north was Saint Charles Canyon. He looked down into the canyon bottom. Too far to see the road or the creek, at least they were not visible through all the trees. Too far to hear the water.

He hiked back up the hill to his truck. Paused for a moment and thought of his great grandfather, grandpa, and great uncles. They had built the cabin and blasted the mine. It was a place where they worked, hunted, and dreamed. All of them gone, he thought. Ghosts that ride the breeze. Maybe that is the feeling he feels when he hears the silence. Ghosts.

The Sound of Water

Once I caught an eighteen inch brown trout on a small stream in northern Utah. It was opening day of the deer hunt. I went alone on purpose. I wore a red jacket so I would stand out. I didn't want to be mistaken as a deer standing in or near the stream by some excited or impaired hunter. When I caught the trout I held it up to the heavens and vocally exclaimed, "Can you believe this?" I don't know who I was talking to. Maybe I was talking to my own brain, or possibly it was a short prayer of sorts to God or Mother Nature. I stood their admiring the trout and listening to the sound of stream water.

On many lone excursions, I've noticed that there is an inner voice that explains to me what I see, what is going on with the stream environment, and why I find such simple pleasure catching trout on fly gear. For the most part, I have learned to block out the voice that tells me I'm wasting my time, that I should be involved with something more significant or more meaningful. In fact, I have found that for me, (and I'll assume others have found it), the total package that comes with fly fishing has enhanced my life, and brought a high degree of significance and meaning.

I'm not exactly sure how the story goes but my dad tells me that when I was about three he and my grandpa were fishing a river or stream. As they were fishing my dad says I went floating by head down past them. I don't know if it was my dad or my grandpa that pulled me out but one of them saved me. They could never figure out how I ended up in the water. I was too young to have any recollection of this event. I like to think I was so fascinated with the water and the sound of the river that I just jumped in trying to get the most of the experience.

Another story that is told is of my desire to enter the world. My parents and my mom's parents were up camping and riding horses up Logan Canyon near Beaver Creek (I'm pretty sure that is where they say they were). My mom was pregnant with me and while they were camping her water broke. They packed up and drove down to Ogden, Utah where I was born. They said I looked like a little shriveled and wrinkled old man when I was born. That is their story. I've added to it and decided that while in the womb, I could hear the gurgling of Beaver Creek and wanted to get out to take a peek at what to me was a very pleasant sound. To this day, the sound of running water, whether the rush of a large river or the gurgle of a small creek will turn my head. The sound is pleasant to my ears and the sight of water gets me thinking. I wrote a poem that is still rough but tells the story of my anxiousness to be near Beaver Creek.

 

Beaver Creek

 

Horsemen ride through canyon pines

on horses with hooves shod

in steel that strike rock.

 

Clear creek water fogs the meadow,

and blends with men's breath

then dissipates like summer cumulous clouds.

 

I hear the song of water

running free--running forever.

It calls to me: come mix your life with mine.

 

The next day my mother

gives birth.