First Spring Brown Trout

After what seemed like a long winter--my first trout this spring!

 

 

Henry David Thoreau said, "Everyone should believe in something. I believe I'll go fishing." With the warmer spring weather I took the opportunity to catch a few trout on Friday. I don't get many days from work so when I do, I believe in spending at least a little of it rejuvenating my soul. Oh, I guess I could plop down in front of the television and watch something, but I'd rather spend that time outdoors chasing trout when I can.

 

The trout I chased on Friday are wild. They are not native, but they are wild. They naturally reproduce with no help from the Division of Wildlife Resources. These brown trout are wary, and sly. They eat the natural things found in the river. They are particularly susceptible to flies, but I know that when water conditions are right, they will eat worms and lures. My experience over the last four decades has taught me that once they rise and you miss them, it takes a while before the same fish will hit again. In this river, there is an estimated four to five thousand trout per mile. That's a lot of trout! While they are sly and wary, they are also hungry and if you know what you are doing, you can have some great success angling for these browns.

 

There have been good midge hatches and good midge anglers have been able to make good catches. The Blue-winged Olive mayflies are starting to show and the trout are starting to get more aggressive in their feeding. I saw very small (size 20ish) Blue-winged Olives flying about. They were very sporadic. I did not see a single fish rise for a fly, nor did I see any of the duns (adult mayflies) floating on the water surface. However, every trout I caught was taken with a dry mayfly imitation. This tells me that the fish are seeing adults, feeding on adults, and looking up.

 

There's something about the first trout of the "new" season. It's like meeting an old friend again. I'm sure the trout doesn't feel the same way, but for the fly angler, it's a time of renewal. It's like shaking hands with people you know and admire.

 

My fascination with wild stream-bred trout comes from a part of me that says "survivor." I admire the facts that lead to a trout getting to a certain size on its own, a trout that wasn't raised to a certain size in a hatchery, that had food handed to it by hatchery personnel. Stream-bred trout had to fend for themselves from the start. They've had to learn to adapt to their environment. They have to know what presents a danger and how to avoid it. I like that. To stalk, find, watch, and present a fly to a wild trout, and actually catch it, can be humbling in some regards and an ego boost in others.

 

So, I start a new season of seeking. I will go to the places that I know still have wild trout. I will watch. I will Listen to the sounds of the water, the sounds of a rising trout, the sounds of the cicada, the sounds of the birds, and the sound of wind shaking quakie leaves. I will feel the warm breeze on hot summer days and the coolness of  morning and evening canyon air. I will see the colors of wildflowers and painted sunsets. I will watch the clouds billow above the mountain peaks, but most of all, I will see the colors on the trout: The butter-yellow sides of a brown trout with crimson dots and light-blue halos, the white underbellies, and leading edge of fins; the orange slash of a cutthroats jaw, the red gill plates, and dark spots and speckles. I will smell sage and pine and wild mint. I will believe in something bigger than myself, and once in a while, sit on a rock near or in the stream and softly pray.

 



Tonight's Sky

Tonight’s Sky

Wisps of hot red and orange clouds
hang on the horizon
like fires in reverse.
Splattering rains
spray into the heat
of brilliant skies
which burn and spark,
but never stop the glow.
Only darkness
from the setting sun
douses the feisty flames,
and sends purple plumes
of cumulus smoke
towering into the twilight.

I grew up in Sunset, Utah. It's a small town in size: approximately two miles long and a half mile wide. On most evenings, we could stand in the front or backyard and watch the sun set. We always had the best sunsets and as kids we would talk about how beautiful they were and what a neat blessing it was to live in a town named after such beauty.

If we happened to be up by the main highway, we could see clear out past the Great Salt Lake--almost to Nevada. We could see Antelope Island, and Fremont Island, and Promontory Point. From that vantage, the lake would look like a strip of blue, gray, or bright silver depending on the weather, time of day, and angle of the sun. Sometimes, I would see the scene as a landscape painting. The artist able to place the Great Salt lake  horizontally across the canvas with one long stroke of his brush. I used to think that Fremont Island was an old Volcano because of it's shape. On nights of orange and red setting sun, it wasn't difficult to image fire and lava shooting from the top of Fremont Island.

We played night games as children.  We played the regular kid's games-- "No Bears are out Tonight", "Red Rover", "Red Light, Green Light", "Tag", and games we made up on our own. Imagination could keep us going until it was too dark to see. The games could go on for hours--the only interruption was the sound of moms calling their kids home for supper.  This caused disgruntled voices begging the rest of us to wait until they returned to continue play.

Below the tracks lay the wilderness. Large expanses of field corn so tall it could hide a monster. The corn's sweet smell and the feel of humid air around it could be sensed on hot summer days. Parents warned that we shouldn't venture too far into the fields or we could become lost and never found. I remember thinking, if it happened to me, I would at least have plenty of corn to eat.

As we got older we would explore deeper into this wilderness. We would ride our bikes down to the pollywogs ponds and fill bottles with pond water and pollywogs. These we would bring home and watch for hours. Some of the pollywogs would die, but some would sprout legs and transform into frogs. Eventually we were brave enough to ride our bikes down to Patterson's farm. Patterson's had some larger ponds and we would watch older boys catch carp with canned corn as bait. We would walk the canal and look at the animal tracks in the mud, and watch muskrats swim. We could smell the pungent odor of silage piled high in the pits. We marveled at all of Patterson's cows and how much manure they could produce. After hours of exploring, we had to return home. I remember I hated the ride home because it was uphill and I was already tired and hungry from all the exploring. We could quench our thirst on the way back by drinking from the yard that had the pipe with well water flowing out of it. It had an iron or metallic taste that I disliked but it was a lifesaver on the ride home from the wilderness.

Times have changed. All the corn fields are now subdivisions and stores. I don't see many kids playing night games outside in the evenings. I have to drive to Ogden Bay to find wilderness. I live in  a nearby town adjacent to where I grew up. I work over the hill, closer to the mountains. On my drive home from work, at the right times of year, I come out of town and crest a small hill by the airport. From there, I can see the whole western vista. I can see Antelope Island, Fremont Island, Promontory Point, Great Salt Lake. Though much of the foreground has changed with houses and businesses, the area out where the sun sets remains the same. When I have the time, I will drive slower or pull off the side of the road and watch the colors form in the sky. I think of those simple times. I wonder where the neighborhood kids ended up. I then drive home and ask my wife and kids: Did you see tonight's sky? Did you see the sunset?

STREAMSIDE TROUT

Streamside Trout

Orange flesh inside matches the outside belly.
Red dots, blue halos, mottled olive, worm-like skin,
disappear in folded foil turned gold by fire.
Sounds of sizzling and splattering,
singe the evening silence.
Like a wildflower blooming in spring,
the folds of tin are opened.
Aromas of wood smoke and fish
rise toward the tops of pines,
faint ghosts caught in the breeze.
Poached opal eyes stare
while dinner is served.

I penned the above poem when I was thinking back on a few streamside meals I have had over the years. I have practiced catch and release for over 20 years or longer, but there was a time when I kept many of my catches. I remember when I was single and doing a lot of solo trips, I would make breakfast, lunch, and dinner almost exclusively out of the trout I caught.

There is nothing better than fresh trout cooked in tinfoil over an open fire. This is especially true when you have spent the best part of a day concentrating on fly fishing without the thought of food or water.

If I know I'm going on a long day trip or over-nighter, I will plan to cook a few streamside trout. I put some folded tinfoil, matches, a fork, and a small container of seasoning in my day-pack. After fishing for a few hours, I will keep a couple of trout, clean them, wrap them in the foil, and then build a small stick fire. It's a quick and delicious streamside meal. The nourishment allows me to continue fishing into the evening.

In the poem, I write about "faint ghosts caught in the breeze." This is in reference to a belief that all creatures have a spirit. I was told by someone years ago that some fish eating native American tribes after catching and cleaning a fish would hang the heads of the fish in the trees along the river so the spirit of the fish could enter back into them, and the waters would always have fish in them. I don't know if this is true or if it was just a story, but I like the idea.

My first real sign that spring is here has always been when the Blue-winged Olive mayflies start to hatch on my local waters. This will happen sometime in March. It is a time of awakening, not only for the mayflies, but for the trout. It's not that far away--still, I can't wait!

Lessons from a Campfire

"We need to build a fire to get warm," a Scout said as he climbed out of his tent at 2:00 AM. We were on an overnight winter camp back in 1993. I told the other leader that it would happen, as we nestled into our sleeping bags that chilly night. "You watch," I said. At about two or three in the morning the Scouts will be cold and will climb out of their sleeping bags and tents and want to build a fire."  Just as I predicted, it was happening.

I also knew that the Scouts would not be able to build a fire and that I would end up out in the cold showing them how. I waited. This was a teaching opportunity and one that I was familiar with. I've watched a lot of Scouts try to build fires. I've watched them on overnight camps as well as week long camps, but the best time to watch and to teach is on winter camps. Cold and sometimes wet conditions have a way of sending a message home. "Does anyone know how to start a fire?" "I'm freezing!" "Where's the matches?" "Here, grab these logs and put them in the fire pit." "I wish we had some gas." I stayed in my tent just a little longer. Th Scouts had to at least try before I came to the rescue.

I dressed and climbed out of my tent. The Scouts turned and begged for help. "Hurry, hurry, they yelled. As I started to gather some wood, I mentioned something about being prepared. I told them that a Scout should be able to start a fire with only two matches. "Take all the logs that you have placed in the fire pit and set them off to the side," I said. "Go look under that tarp and bring me some of the wood," I asked. A couple of Scouts quickly lifted the tarp grabbed some wood and placed it by me. "This wood was split and prepared before we came to camp," I said. "If you notice, it is stacked under the tarp according to size." What we need to do to get a fire going is to start with the smallest pieces and build up as we go. In fact, the pieces need to be so small, I will have to shave off some very small splinters with my knife." I opened my pocket knife and shaved off several small, thin wafers of wood. I then even split these into even smaller pieces. I showed the Scouts how to build a small Tepee with the shavings . I asked them to arrange the other pieces of wood near the fire pit according to size and to be ready to hand them to me when I asked for them.

I took out one stick match and stroked it against one of the rocks lining the fire pit and then gently held it under the small wood Tepee. The small wood shavings started to light and I asked on of the Scouts to hand me some more shavings. I placed these gently on top of the ignited pieces slowly piece by piece as the fire started to catch. Once these pieces where burning well, I asked the Scouts to hand me a few of the larger pieces of wood. Soon we had a decent fire going and the cold Scouts huddled around rubbing there hands and drying there wet socks and shoes on the rocks that lined the fire pit.

As we warmed near the fire and placed larger logs on its flames, I mentioned how building a fire is similar to how we build our lives. We start out with limited knowledge and experience. We learn the basics line upon line, here a little, there a little until we have more knowledge and more ability. As we gain in knowledge and ability, we are able to do more with our lives. I then mentioned that once we have our own fires within us burning and going strong, we should use that knowledge, talent, and ability to help others. Just as this fire provides light and warmth to all of us who surround it, our lives, can provide light and warmth to those around us.

Great Lessons from 2012

The past year was a great learning experience for me. I'm glad that I'm still able and willing to learn. I think the most important thing I learned is this: our journey on this planet doesn't always turn out the way we plan or want it to. This one important lesson was driven home when my wife and I tried to hike to the top of Timpanogos Peak.

We thought about the hike, dreamed about the hike, and planned for the hike. It was a tall  (no pun intended) task for us. Physically, we were prepared, yet we found ourselves challenged in some sections of the trail. I will admit my wife is a slow hiker, and I've had to learn a measure of patience when hiking with her. This patience has allowed me to realize that there is more to hiking than getting to the end of the trail and back. There are beauties to behold and transcendental thoughts to be entertained.

We hiked with another couple and I became aware of their needs. We slowed them down. They were in the mode of an endurance athlete in a marathon. Time was important to them. Had we not been so slow, the decision to go all the way to the summit would have been easier, but to push the last mile to the summit would have taken close to another hour at the pace we were hiking. We discussed several scenarios that would allow my wife her goal of making it to the top, but we eventually talked her out of it.

My hang-up was fear of the last mile of trail. I have always been afraid of heights and in my "older" years I find it is more prominent. About 28 years ago I was diagnosed with Menieries disease. I have had vertigo issues, and hearing loss. When we made it to the saddle and I took the final steps over a narrow angled trail and viewed the valley below, I became afraid. The remainder of the trail looked to be on a steep angle. I convinced my mind that I could go no farther. Taking into consideration the time restraint and my own fear, we decided that we had made a good enough effort and we needed to get back down off the mountain. My wife was saddened. As I think back, I feel sorry that she was not able to reach the summit. I have no doubt that she would have had we been hiking alone.

I don't think we will ever go back and attempt to make the summit. We have to be satisfied with what we did accomplish on that hike. We made it to the saddle which is a worthy goal and the actual destination of many hikers. We saw terrain, wildlife, and sights and sounds that we would have never seen if we had not attempted to summit. We learned some valuable lessons about ourselves and about our interactions as a wife and husband. I've come to realize that we didn't settle for anything less, by not reaching the top. I'm sure their are others who would consider us failures for not making that final push, but satisfaction is a matter of perception.

This past year, I was able to get out and do some exploring with my fly fishing. I fished two small creeks that I knew about for several years but never made the effort to get to them. They were brushy, small, and held small colorful trout. For me, this type of fishing is what I enjoy. I find much satisfaction in the solitude and beauty of these small waters. While others are concerned with the size of trout they catch and the social aspects of angling with others, I've realized, after trying to reach the "summit" of the fly fishing and tying arena, that I don't need it. My wife has accompanied me on most of these little adventures and her companionship to, from, and on the water, have been a great blessing to me and I believe to her too. I look forward to many more adventures in 2013.

This past year has also taught me that the most important blessing I have in my life is family. I have come to realize that the greatest love is unconditional. While each of my children are different, I get to love them all unconditionally. It's still a learning process, as I sometimes feel disappointment when I feel that my children are not making it to the "summit" that I have in my view for them. The journey with them, however, is so enjoyable and brings joy into my life.

As a member of the LDS Church, our family has had the opportunity to send my two sons on missions for the Church in the past few years. Their missions were different and learning experiences for all of us. I love the fact that they made offerings to the Lord even though the experiences ended up being different than what we thought they might be. I can say that I have never had more emotional and spiritual feelings than I did with the return of my sons from their missions. Each of them had reached a "summit" in their lives and in so doing brought to our view as a family, the beauties of God.

I look forward to the lessons of 2013. Hopefully, I'll be able to get "out there" as much or more than I did this past year.

Thanks for following along with this blog. I hope you find some value in it. I might not be able to take you to every "summit", but I hope as I have learned, the journey always has value.

Good Reason to Drop Some of the Electronics

http://www.ksl.com/?sid=23343018&nid=1012&title=time-in-nature-increases-creativity-u-researcher-says&s_cid=queue-12

I've always felt this to be the case. Now research is showing it. Get OUT THERE!

The Dipper

I wonder if the Ouzel sings? If so, I don't know if I'd recognize his song. I have watched him hop from rock to rock along the stream. I've watched him dive into the water and come out as dry as he went in. I've watched him squat to the rhythm of the cascades. I've watched him catch and eat aquatic insects, but never have I witnessed his song. He must sing. He has to sing. He has to be happy; spending all his days along the river's edge. He looks happy.

I've shared the water with him. He's as good a companion as one could want. He minds his own business and I mind mine. My goal is to find out if he sings. Most birds do. A while back I was thinking about the Dipper's antics and wrote the following poem:

Ouzel

The constant squatting,
a dance to the gurgle
of minature waterfalls;
the Dipper disappears
by diving, then bounces
up out of the water
dry as charcoal.
He hops from rock to rock,
and checks moist mats of moss
for meals of midges,
stoneflies, caddis, and mayfly nymphs.
This bird, like an aquatic insect
emerges from the water,
sprouts wings, and flies away.