Nothing I could Do About It (Hike to Jordan Lake, High Uintas Wilderness)

It was a beautiful sight. We stood on the shore of Jordan Lake in the Uintas watching white cumulus clouds billow up over Mount Agassiz. Soon, the clouds were illuminated with an eeriness only an unseen full moon can provide.  We waited until the moon appeared through some of the openings between the clouds. As pretty as this scene was, I knew that the gathering clouds could mean lightning and thunder was coming.

Phyllis and I had hiked about six miles to Jordan Lake to spend the night. We sat up our tent on a little peninsula that extended down to the edge of the lake. Earlier in the evening we ate dinner: Freeze dried  teriyaki chicken with rice and vegetables. We ate right from the packet so the only thing we dirtied was our utensils. Our pot was only used for boiling water. After cleaning up, watching the setting sun and moon rise, we retired to bed early, tired from the hiking.

I couldn't sleep. My mind raced. My body ached. I laid there wishing I had taken an Ibuprofen. I was too lazy to get out of my sleeping bag, out of the tent and get my water bottle and medicine. I thought for sure I would eventually sleep. If I could sleep, my headache and body aches would be gone by morning.

I closed my eyes and began to focus on my breathing: Inhale deeply through my nose and exhale through my mouth, right? Or is it inhale deeply through the mouth and exhale through the nose? I tried both ways hoping the rhythm would lull me to sleep. Sleep would not come.

Through my eyelids, I sensed a flash of light. I opened my eyes just as my ears were bombarded with a loud clap of thunder. The thunder began to roll and echo around the mountains and then down a canyon like a passing train rumbling away into the distance. I saw another flash, another boom, another rumble. Then came the pitter-patter sound of rainfall on the tent. The sound of the rain added a soft snare-drum to the timpani rumble and cymbal crash of a Uinta's nighttime orchestra.


I have heard others talk about thunder and lightning and how much they enjoy the sound and the light show. I too have stood outside my house under the carport and watched the lightning and listened to the thunder. It does have its beauty. But above 10, 000 feet in elevation inside a small backpacking tent there isn't a real feeling of security.

I closed my eyes again and decided to enjoy the storm. If I could mentally trick my brain, was it possible to lose the anxiety? The first flash of lightning, my eyes were wide open. Thoughts of being struck by lightning had me counting the seconds between the flash and the sound. Flash! One, two, three, four, five, Boom! Five seconds. That means the lightning was five miles away, right? Is that true? Flash! One, two, three, Bam! Three miles away. Oh brother, is this how the night was going to be?

Several years ago, I was near the Crystal Lake Trailhead. I had been float-tube fishing in Washington Lake. Big clouds  started to build around the mountains. I recognized that an afternoon thunderstorm was coming. I got off the lake and started to breakdown the tent just as a poring rain hit. By the time I was in my car, the lightning was flashing and the thunder clapping. On the way down the canyon toward the town of Kamas, I saw several emergency vehicles racing up the canyon. The anchors on the evening news that night reported that a couple had been struck and killed by lightning near the Crystal Lake Trailhead. A feeling of sadness came over me for this couple as well as thoughts of how close I had been to the scene just moments before.

I continued to lay there with the thought playing through my head: There is nothing I can do. There is nothing I can do. 

I figured I had laid awake listening for about 6 hours. It was not a peaceful time for me. I've always been afraid of lightning and thunder, mostly when outdoors.  As I laid there I felt a degree of fear and anxiety. I thought to myself: What can I do about the storm? How do I deal with the feelings of fear and anxiety? Should I wake my wife and ruin her night by letting her know she was camping with a less than macho companion? No way we could pack up and hike out. I decided there was nothing I could do about the storm.

I tried to focus on the sound of the rain. I tried to enjoy the sound of the reverberating thunder. Then I remember waiting for another flash of lightning, another clap of thunder, but nothing came. The storm had passed. I figured it was about 3:00 am. I might have slept for an hour or so. I remember tossing and turning. I remember sensing the quietness of the early morning hours.

When it was light enough to see, we got dressed and went outside the tent. The sun was not yet above the mountains. There was no clouds anywhere in the sky. The sky was beginning to turn blue. Jordan Lake was perfectly still. The only movement was the mist rising from the lake surface. The morning was so calm, so still, so peaceful compared to the noisy night. Once the mist dissipated, the lake surface became a mirror. The mountains and fir trees could be viewed by looking down instead of out and up. Months later my mind still holds these images as if still standing there. The new day held promise of beautiful weather.

We packed up our gear, took down the tent and prepared to hike out. I went down to the lake's edge. I peered through the water and saw a beautiful brook trout cruising the shoreline. He turned and passed by in the opposite direction. The trout then turned, rose and took a small bug from the surface. I smiled. I thought, life is good. I was excited to begin the hike out. 

As with most of my adventures, I always try to find a life lesson. What I take away from this trip has to do with storms (trials, accidents, failures, afflictions that we cause ourselves, or those caused by others, pain, suffering, death). In life we will face these storms. Often, we feel as I did with the lightning: There is nothing I can do. There are many situations in life where we feel fear and anxiety. Is there nothing we can do? Sometimes, we do have fear and anxiety over things we have no control over. When they pass we lose that fear and anxiety. But what do we do right in the middle of the storms of life? For me, a Christian, I have to put my hope and faith in God and His Son.. If there is something I think I can physically do to remedy a situation, I move forward in that direction. If it something I have no control over, then I pray and have faith that it will eventually pass and a new and brighter day with promise will come. I know it seems simple. I know there are some very serious and hard things to deal with in life. I wish there was a  magic bottle of potion or cure-all formula but there isn't. All we can do is find those things that will bring us peace and place our focus there.

Connections

My dad passed away last June. He's been on my mind a lot. A couple of weeks ago, I spent an evening fly fishing and reminiscing.

Dad loved to fly fish. He dragged us kids along as he camped and fly fished. One of my earliest memories is of dad standing in the stream casting a colored line through the air. The line would land on the water and then magically dad would have a beautiful cutthroat trout dancing in the silver sunlit water. Back then only the smallest of trout were released; the rest would be cleaned and kept for eating. Trout were always a welcomed meal and on these camping adventures, we would have them for breakfast and dinner.

I try to fly fish one of dad's favorite streams at least once a year. As is common in many places, the fishing never seems to be as good as it was when dad and us kids prowled its water. But part of the adventure is to stand in the water that dad stood in. To catch a native cutthroat just like dad had done. Somehow, there is a connection made, especially if the cutthroat is a naturally produced wild cutthroat. To know that the wild natives are still there and have been reproducing from a continuous line of trout that can go all the way back to when dad fished for them as a kid with his dad definitely provides connection.

In the quiet of the evening my mind remembers and my heart feels. Pale Morning Dun mayfly spinners dance above the water surface their rusty bodies and clear wings reflect the last rays of sun. I watch as trout sip the spent ones laying on the water. A cast, a raise of the rod tip and one of dad's passions is mine. I stay until the pines turn black and blend into the mountainside. I look up to see the stars starting to appear. I hear the gurgle of water, feel the cool canyon breeze. I close my eyes for just a few seconds and hear words form in my mind: Thanks dad. In a world of tumult, you showed me how to find comfort and peace. We will always fly fish together.

First appeared on KSL.com

https://www.ksl.com/?sid=46265980&nid=1288&title=tips-for-fishing-for-trout-in-low-water-seasons

It's Been a Warm Winter with Little Snow. Get Out Hiking!

I was lucky enough to get this article published on KSL's web site. Link provided below.


https://www.ksl.com/?sid=46251384&nid=1288&title=get-in-hiking-shape-on-antelope-islands-south-island-trail

ANTELOPE ISLAND STATE PARK — With the unseasonably warm temperatures and little snowfall this winter, many hikers are jumping from cabin fever to spring fever in a heartbeat.

A good place to stretch out the legs, hit the hiking trail and get the heart and lungs working again is Antelope Island's South Island Trail.

The South Island Trail starts near the Garr Ranch. The trail is really an old service road that follows the mostly flat terrain on the east and south side of the island. If you start at the ranch parking lot, the trail is approximately 5.50 miles out to Unicorn Point, which is the end of the trail on the south end of the island. This makes the hike out and back about 11 miles.

This is a pretty decent hike even though the trail is flat. Plan on taking about four hours to accomplish the out-and-back hike to include a rest here and there to take in the scenery and wildlife, and to have a snack or two.

The Utah Division of Natural Resources website has a map that shows three different trailheads for hikers. The one near Garr ranch is an equestrian trailhead which would make the hike closer to the 5.50 miles to Unicorn Point. Up the road a little less than a mile is the Sentry Loop Trailhead with signs and information about trails, mileage and what you might observe. Farther up the road, about 1.5 miles, is the last trailhead. From this last trailhead, the mileage to Unicorn Point would be closer to 4.1 miles. Be prepared to hike from Garr Ranch or contact the park rangers to find out which trailheads are currently open.

The South Island Trail is a great trail to use as a winter and early spring training trail to get you in shape for summer hiking. Even in a normal winter or a winter with greater snowfall, the trail would be hikeable in the snow. If you are trying to get in shape and do not want to hike to the point and back, you can turn back anywhere along the trail and get the miles your legs and feet are capable of handling.

The trail is also used by mountain bikers, equestrians and people walking their dogs. There is a 6-foot maximum leash regulation for those walking their dogs. Be sure to follow trail protocol and yield as instructed. Since the trail is wide, issues of who has the right-of-way are seldom an issue.

South Island Trail does not have very many resting places. A couple of large rocks along the trail and a large rock at the end of the trail are the only places suitable for sitting. The only available restroom is at Garr Ranch. There are no water spouts or restrooms along the trail. Be sure to take a water bottle even in the winter. Even if you don't feel like drinking, be sure to take occasional sips of water to ensure hydration.

Along the trail you might encounter buffalo, mule deer, coyotes, hawks and other birds. If you are lucky, you might see pronghorn antelope or California bighorn sheep. A small pair of binoculars is handy for scanning the hillsides for wildlife.

As always, remember to be prepared for inclement weather. Utah winters are tricky to predict. Changes in wind and cloud formation can be abrupt. Wear layers so you can regulate body heat as needed.

The end of the trail gives a great view across the south end of the island and Great Salt Lake. You can see across the lake to snow-covered Farnsworth Peak in the Oquirrh Mountains, named after Philo Farnsworth. The peak is the home to radio and television transmitters for Utah radio and television stations. Also visible is the 1,200 foot Kennecott Garfield Smelter tower.

Where the Grass is as High as Your Hips

The gravel road in was more fit for a truck but we managed to get the passenger car in. It was only three miles, and we could have hiked in, but by crossing from one side of the road to the other helped us miss a lot of the washboard areas.

It was dry but not too hot. The grasses were still green even though the summer saw little rain. I could smell the junipers and sage as I put my fly rod together and tied on a size 12 hopper. I walked along the buck-rail fence and found a place to climb over. The grass was as high as my hips. I could tell no one had been in this are most of the summer--at least not through the grass or around the creek bank. No matted down trail anywhere. That is always a good sign. It means the trout, while always skittish, would not be quite as skittish if I was quiet and sneaky enough.

I've always had a penchant for this type of water and area. I'm glad others would rather fish the larger popular waters. I've never been a "real" introvert, I guess, but I love to search out little unknown or less known areas and see what surprises they might hold. Some claim getting away like this is an escape of some sort. I'm not really sure that is it. It's more like going to places you feel you belong. I've always joked that trout are some of my best friends--that I have never heard them say a bad thing about me.

On this particular creek, the water is on pretty level ground. The gradient is enough to keep it flowing, but there are very few places it is swift and choppy. One almost every bend the water is deep enough to hold decent-sized trout. Trout up to 19-inches while not exactly common, do swim around in the deeper sections. There are lots of undercut banks on this stretch and it is fun to watch a dark-backed brown or green-sided cutthroat trout slowly appear from the shaded edges of the creek.

Typical fly fishing techniques are not normally used here. Often, your cast lands on more grass than water, or you are dapping your line over the grass and waiting to hear the take. It's a little more like stalking and hunting than fishing in some regards. In some places it's possible to look upstream, cast upstream, and watch the fish take your fly. Even at that, the casts are not long.

This particular day, I caught some nice browns and one or two nice cutthroats. I used to not carry a net, but the last two years I've carried one to certain streams because the fish have not only been bigger, but it is easier to lift them up the bank and over the high grasses to remove the fly and release them unharmed.

This trip was a couple of months after my father died. It wasn't a place we shared together. In fact, I have shared this place with only one or two people. But fly fishing is one thing dad and I had in common. He had to give it up for the most part when his knees and health started to fade, but I'm pretty sure he would have still gone if those two things hadn't bothered him. So just the act of fly fishing made me feel good as I thought about him. He never came right out and said it, but I could tell with certain things he said to others, and to me, that he liked that I spent a decent amount of time outdoors and in particular fly fishing. I thought I often caught a little twinkle in his eye when I shared a story about a fishing trip with him.

All trips are about the fish. We fishers would be lying if we denied it. Yes, all the other things associated with fly fishing are important, but trout seem to hold it all together. These trout were for dad. I like to think he is still pleased. I like to think he will join me one day, maybe on a water we shared together. Maybe the wind will weave through the grass, or the aspen leaves will rustle. Then I'd know he was around. I'd like that.