apples in the fall...

I can't believe this fall marks 15 years that I've molded young minds in all things biological. If we had spoke two decades prior, I would have laughed at the suggestion of a career in collegiate inspiration. My youthful self was mistaken. I love it. My passion has only expanded over the years... so has the appreciation of my students.

Supposedly, teachers welcome delectable, fleshy fruits that typically ripen in the fall. That notion was lost on my students throughout the years. Gifts have included: artisanal, leafy varieties of edible goodness, remnants of prehistoric days, roasted seeds from Ethiopia, products from the interaction of yeast with starch, and a discount on outdoor clothing from a company based due north of the border.  I don't ask for or expect these gifts of gratitude. They are, however, certainly appreciated.

I have noticed a similar trend during my three seasons along the river that runs green.  This latest gift, and the story behind it, actually generated tears from my eyes.

With the sun bearing down on us during a recent float, the fishing really started to heat up.  It didn't seem to matter where the hopper landed, an aggressive eat was soon to follow. It was my latest tie: a hopper I pieced together while godzilla attacked massive unidentified terrestrial organisms on my tiny iphone screen. Naturally, the next step was to name the pattern. This responsibility always falls on the client who catches the first fish on the newly tied pattern. As in most cases, the client takes great thought and, then, with a grin that stretches from ear to ear announces the name.

Godzilla Hopper or G squared (Godzilla Grasshopper)

Briefly following the highly anticipated delivery, I described how I would need to tie more of this pattern. As I described the steps to tie this pattern, I casually mentioned that my vise had a difficult time securely holding the bigger hooks. I would be close to completion and the hook would pop out of the vise, causing the thread to loosen sending me backwards in steps rather than forward... effectively adding time to the tie. It was something I had become accustomed to when tying on bigger hooks. The rest of the day was spent promoting our personal base tans, adding to our laugh lines, and fooling fish.

This morning's mail unexpectedly brought out the tissue box. Among the letters was a rectangular object wrapped in bubble packaging addressed to me.

Protected within the bubble wrap was a new vise. A vise that has a reputation for handling big hooks as well as small ones.

I'm at a lost for words.  This act of generosity exemplifies human nature: kindness and love.

If you're reading this blog post, all I can respond with at this time is thank you!

and now you know the rest of the story...

Since trail life, my time in the shower has remained a highly anticipated part of my daily routine. Second, only to a cold, hop-a-licious brew-ski. The water temperature needs to be hovering right below scalding. Add a pinch of tea tree oil and BOOM... blissfulness.  Muscles begin to relinquish their death grip and my mind starts to wonder. I reflect. One recent reflection resulted in a post on social media.

The responses were quite mixed. The following morning, I realized more information was necessary for readers to fully grasp the intention of my post.

Each morning we meet our clients in the parking lot at the shop. This particular morning was a corporate trip, which required multiple boats in order to accommodate the number of people. I describe a corporate trip as a unique type of multi-boat trip, where one individual (representative of the company) is paying for the entire trip. With that being said, the clients typically have no background in fly-fishing and might be experiencing the Green for the first time. Their expectations are often quite low. Generally, they are grateful for the time away from work and the opportunity to relax. I think it's incredibly generous that these companies send their clients out to fish for a day or two.

It can get comical at times in the parking lot when five boats are going out together. Boat assignments, gear acquisition, shuttling, and scheduling are all completed within ten to fifteen minutes. Not to mention the entertainment that follows at the put-in ramp on a busy day. This day was no exception. The clients spent a good five to ten minutes standing around at the put-in ramp waiting on us to drop our boats and park our trucks before returning. Unbeknownst to me, during this downtime, the representative of the company was reassuring my clients that even though they were with "the girl guide," she was going to put them on fish. I rejoined the circus show at the ramp and collected my clients unaware of this recent guarantee.

The wind had made itself known throughout the morning even before we arrived in the parking lot. Once on the river, the wind pressed against our faces without subsiding. I cannot say that my first experience throwing a dry fly dealt with a headwind, and neither can these clients. Plans changed as we were to begin attempting the laborious task of battling the wind. Our lead guide mentioned that it would be okay to nymph: a style of fly-fishing that seems to be frowned upon in this microcosm of a trapper's town.

We nymphed the entire day. The only boat to do so out of the five boats. They learned to mend like champions, feed line, shoot line, read water, present a drag-free drift, cast by stopping the rod-tip high with a pause on the back cast, and play fish. Most importantly, they had a great day. As we neared the ramp to take-out, they shared the put-in conversation they had had with the company rep. I tried to shrug it off mentally. I mean, it is what it is, right? At that point, the only thing I asked of them was to downplay their day when they returned to the lodge. Two fish a piece max. I knew that my colleagues had not nymphed so their clients experience was probably different than ours. They agreed.

The following morning repeated itself in the parking lot with the same clients and boats. All the clients had decided to remain with their guides from the prior day.  Stories from the previous day were shared as we drove to the put-in. Our boat had indeed netted more fish that the other four boats combined. Out of curiosity I asked how the other clients felt about their first day. The clients had all come to the conclusion that it had been a tough day of fishing.  Not once, did these clients question the abilities of their guides. They had assumed that fishing was tough and the guides had tried their best to put them on fish. I remained calm on the outside throughout the day while a fire ragged internally. Why were their clients okay getting skunked yet my clients needed reassurance before they boarded my boat? Why can't I be afforded that same luxury?

Only the showered doused the flames.

This is my reality. I am a female fly-fishing guide in the state of Utah... the ONLY one on the Green.

...and now you know the rest of the story.

future map makers...

Young minds travel to the future frequently. Mapping out the uncertainly that lies ahead: matrimony, children, their names, their personalities, career paths, gas guzzlers, or four-sided enclosures to name a few. The maps gradually change with time as these minds reach their future selves. I, for example, began to draw the outlines for a future canine companion at an early age. They (yes, I wanted two!) were going to be brothers carrying recessive alleles for coat color. I would refer to one as Russell and the other as Stover. This future duo and myself would cover every inch of the mountains that appear blue for as long as we could physically do so... 

In a sleepy town at the base of Grandfather Mountain the final touches were being made to the contours of my map. Scanning the classifieds I located a nearby breeder along the blue ridge parkway that recently had a litter. Within a few hours, I’m at their house. It was her first litter. The money gained from the sale of this initial litter would be put toward a horse for their daughter.  Unfortunately, I was too late.  All the male pups had been claimed. Two females remained as well as the runt of the litter. I sat surrounded by a sea of soft chocolate, loving on every single one for what seemed like hours reluctant to leave.  My euphoria was interrupted when they suggestted parting ways with the runt of the litter. They originally had planned on keeping her. They had made the mistake of spoiling her from birth and were convinced no one else would treat her accordingly.  That is... until I entered the sea of chocolate softness. 

Eight weeks later, the runt chatted with me from their house all the way to her new forever home. Before leaving their house, I asked them if she was a talker. Without hesitation they said no. Well, she disagreed.  Thus, my map was complete.  My life, forever changed. 

I referred to her as Hershey: a double feminine name (her and she) with a nod to her chocolate heritage. She would not be retrieving dead fowl. I spent the next four months educating her on important brands, such as, penn, wilson, and dunlop. She was sold! Eventually, she even learned how to spell b-a-l-l. 

Just as my younger self imagined, we spent our time meandering along the blue ridge mountains. She was to accompany me from Georgia to Maine as soon as I completed graduate school. Two years later, however, that dream was nullified. I was presented the disheartening news at an emergency vet office. The two words I didn’t want to hear: hip dysplasia. It was apparent looking at the x-ray. 

We took our travels from land to water. She couldn’t understand why we needed boats when we could just swim. Her eyes would widen when she realized she could not reenter the boat from water. We would have to reunited on dry land. Glucosamine and chondroitin were added to her daily life. She was living life.  Trying to fool fish along the shore always presented a challenge. Multiple times I ended up tying her to a tree to keep her from spooking the fish. She protested. Loudly.  Floating while fishing seemed to be the compromise. 

I was chatting with a guide I’d worked with on a multi-boat trip. He and I were both enjoying the fishing high from the events earlier in the day. The cocktails didn’t hurt either. That’s all I really remember. The call came...the two words I didn’t want to hear: broke leg. 

I was four hours away and scheduled to work the next 2 days on one of the most anticipated trips of the year: the Utah Women’s Flyfishers. Immediately, I was swarmed with compassion. Guides offering to cover my trips, guides feeding me, guides providing me liquid carbohydrates, and long-connected hugs. 

I stayed and I rowed... hard. The ladies, luckily, had not received the message regarding Hershey when they boarded my boat. We spent the entire day laughing rather than tear production.  I needed that.  The following day, different ladies with a similar outcome.  River therapy. 

I will continue to cry. Understandably so, for she was the love of my life that I had begun to map out at an early age.  Although she is gone, the river will remain here, absorbing my tears as they fall.  

Hershey 

June 11, 2005 - May 4, 2018 

breaking the body in...

"I used to feel so devastated

At times I thought we'd never make it

But now we on our way to greatness

And all that ever took was patience"

- Joey BadA$$                                           

It amazes me how time can alter my mental. Ten years ago, I sat alone as tears streamed down my face. My eyes blankly fixated on the chipped paint along state highway 60.  I could not walk. Within 24 hours, I had successfully removed the epidermis and part of the dermis layer along both of my heels. How was I suppose to cover the remaining 2,150 miles to Katahdin before October 15?  I didn't.  It was devastating. 

For as long as I can remember, my father would hoist me on his back and we'd meander along the ridge of mountains that appear blue outside of the Mecklenburg area. He introduced me to the trail that connected the aged hills of Georgia to the equally weathered hills of Maine at a very young age. By high school, I had decided that I wanted to walk the entire trail in one season: a thru hike. I purchased the maps and guides and started saving money.  It had become a life goal. 

In 2008, I failed at that life goal. I had suffered both physical and mental damage. My first "death of a vision" as my mom would later describe it. Retrospectively, it was determined that my over-sized socks were the root cause of the events leading to that roadside meltdown at Woody Gap. In addition, I lacked sufficient first aid supplies while I was on trail to mediate the damage. Lastly, and most importantly, I didn't listen to my body.  

Time continued forward while I licked both my physical and mental wounds. I grew stronger with each passing day.  I set out again the following year to complete one of my life goals.  As my feet negotiated the snow-covered trail, I meandered along with a pack that contained an extensive first-aid kit and socks that fit.  Above all, I listened to my body regardless of what my mind wanted to do. Two hundred and two days later, I successfully reached Katahdin.  Thru-hiking the trail provided me with valuable lessons that I still adhere to some 9 years later. 

For the past three seasons, I begin venturing up to the Green for conditioning in January. Traditionally, the guide season begins in April with the consumption of tasty mayflies that are blue-winged and olive. By arriving in January, I am not seeking preferential treatment within my company as some may argue. Instead, I am continuing to listen to my body: a lesson I learned while hiking the trail.  

The role of a Green river guide is both mental and physically challenging. These fish are well educated. Presentation is key in order to fool a fish on the Green.  If the perfect drift is not obtained, the chances of a fish head-shaking the end of the line is greatly reduced. My ability to row a drift is just as important as the individual managing the line from my boat.  We basically work as a team in an effort to fool a fish.  Let's add in some wind...oops..."w", a sprinkle of mass, and the ever present river current.  Now, rowing the drift can become quite taxing on the body. In order to prevent body failure, I gradually ease my body back to the ways of the Green river starting in January. 

The aches and pains still show themselves, but I quiet them with my best friend, naproxen, hot showers, and my foam roller. By using this approach, my body has been willing to cooperate by the time April arrives.  No riverside meltdowns. No devastation. 

cafeteria conversations...

We were sitting in the cafeteria reminiscing on our childhood memories.  I had known her since junior high and considered her a free spirit without a single negative vibe.  She had recently transferred to the same college I was attending. A friend of mine asked to join our table amid our conversation. I would not consider him as close as she, but I had recently spent a considerable amount of time with him in class. He was completing the same program as myself: a B.A. in Christian Ministries. After casual introductions, he looked directly at her and without hesitation asked, "Are you a Christian?!"

I knew the answer.

"No," she replied. She immediately gathered her belongings and left.

A year later, I completed my B.A. in Christian Ministries as well as a B.S. in Biology.  I had every intention of pursuing a career path in bi-vocational ministries. It never happened. That cafeteria conversation had left me disenchanted with organized religion. I was not okay with beating complete strangers over the head with the translated words from an ancient text.  I wanted to lead by example. I wanted to send the message of religion through love and acceptance... not of judgement.

Fourteen years later...  I find myself floating down the river Green.

Fly-fishing, for me, is an escape... an excuse to remain outdoors in the peacefulness of the wilderness. To connect with the flow of the water and the soft breeze on my face.  To be lulled by the melody of the nearby songbird while the sun warms my skin. To lose myself in that moment.  It's not a place for judgement.

And yet, cafeteria conversations continue...

Oh, that fish doesn't count because it was caught using...
That method of fly-fishing is okay to use on the Provo, but should not be allowed on the Green...
Using (insert part of a rig) isn't fly-fishing...

Recently, I arrived at lunch on a multi-boat float trip. It had been a great morning full of laughs, instruction, stories, and smiles all the while dancing with fish.  My stomach began to knot, however, as I was promptly informed by an occupant from the other boat that my morning experience was "not fly-fishing".  Did I just arrive at yet another cafeteria conversation? I had just spent several hours with complete strangers laughing, playing fish, and just enjoying the moment. They were happy. I was happy.  Is that not what it's all about?

After a quiet pause, I smiled, and replied, "if that's what you want to call it".

The remainder of the day was filled with laughs, smiles, and, you guessed it, fish being played on the end of their fly rods.  They had an incredible day of fly-fishing!

My goal as a guide is not to judge, but to offer encouragement and to support the enjoyment of the occupants of my boat regardless of their skill sets, gender, or age.  If you want to find enjoyment by stalking that one beak breaking the surface of the water, I will support you.  If you want to try a new method of fishing using a sink tip and an unfamiliar streamer, I will support you. If you want to sit back, light up a cigar, and take in the moment, I will support you.  If you are brand new to reading water and fooling fish, I will support you. If you want to try some flies you recently tied, I will support you. If you want to anchor up on the side of the river to enjoy some freshly baked bread with a cup of coffee, I will support you.

I will not judge. 

Fourteen years later...  I'm still disenchanted with organized religion. In all honesty, I don't want to develop these feelings toward guiding or the fly-fishing community as a whole.

The cafeteria conversations need to end.

my girlfriend could cast better...

The 2018 season is in full swing up on the Green. Not only have enthusiastic people returned to fool fish using metal, but guides have also begun the migration.  I'm reminded of family reunions... televised baseball, alcoholic beverages, and smiles reaching from one ear to the other. It's an opportunity for us to catch up on experiences that have occurred since we last dipped oars in pursuit of scaly creatures. 

In one recent gathering, a young guide was sharing a story to the rest of the group.  Maybe it was the warm weather or rowing in the consistent tailwind throughout the 15 mile float earlier in the day that caused me to focus on one particular sentence in his story. He told a fellow caster that his girlfriend could cast better.  Was this meant to be an insult? Furthermore, why does it matter what type of sex chromosomes are found within the cells of an organism managing line to fool a fish? The fish don't care what chromosomes are involved. Fish only care about the fly presentation. 

I share this story not for sympathy, but for awareness. The current administration has done a fantastic job igniting people to act to stop the spread of hate and injustice. The #metoo movement, for example, has brought widespread awareness that people, both women AND men, have suffered from sexual assault in and out of the workplace. This movement has since expanded to include marginalized people in marginalized communities. 

Back to the Green... there is still a stigma attached to women within the fly-fishing community.  Women don't have the intelligence required to identify an insect, read water, or, heaven forbid, row a boat. These thoughts are not isolated to just the public, but within the guide services as well. Why else would someone remark that his girlfriend could cast better?

Fly Fishing Expos are an excellent way to socialize, network, and support this small community. These expos will sometimes offer a casting competition for cash prizes.  Generally speaking, the men's division typically has higher cash prizes compared to the women's division in casting competitions.  Why is that?  The accuracy of fly placement and distance is the same regardless of who is holding the rod.  

I'd like to end this post on a positive note.  The upcoming Wasatch Intermountain Fly Tying and Fly Fishing Expo held in Sandy, UT is unique in that it provides the same cash prizes for both the men's and women's divisions in the casting competition.  Hopefully, more of these mental barriers will continue to be demolished.  The community of people that enjoy fooling fish need to support each other on and off the water regardless of the sex chromosomes residing in their individual cells. 

I'll continue to break these barriers one float at a time. 

Let's go girls!

Shania Twain probably didn't have meiotic division in mind when she won her second Grammy award for her album, "Man, I feel like a woman". Unfortunately, for me, I visualize the maturation of a single follicle and its primary oocyte per monthly "cycle" every time I listen to the title track.  This rupturing follicle and subsequent degeneration of the corpus luteum, which lasts up to 5 days is unique to those that lack a Y chromosome. Lucky us! 

Personally, this has been a monthly occurrence for roughly the last two decades. I honestly don't remember a time that this event was not a part of my life. I've just learned to deal with it. I share this not to gross you out or make you uncomfortable, but to improve your understanding of my personal experience guiding the river green. 

Fly-fish guiding while actively rowing a boat 8-10 hours per day for seven months is not easy... not even for the strongest of men. Guides are confined in a small area with two strangers with varying levels of skills and unique personalities. In this confinement, guides must row drifts for these individuals regardless of the weather, wind conditions, or water flows. Simultaneously, guides must pay attention to their surrounding, effectively communicate to these individuals, and maintain professionalism. It's the hardest thing I've even done. Harder than hiking the Appalachian Trail. By the latter part of the season, guides are as battered as the fish. Their skin weathered by the countless days exposed to wind, rain, heat, and sun. Their bodies scream out in rebellion and are only muffled by daily doses of naproxen or ibuprofen.  Chronic fatigue becomes the norm. Eat. Guide. Sleep. Repeat.

I was not excluded from this exhausting pattern.  Privately, there was an additional element added. Each month I would wake feeling "like a woman". It didn't matter. I could not call-in or get my shift covered. I had to guide. A pair of eager individuals were waiting for me in the parking lot. Those days of corpus luteum degeneration, especially the first two, I found myself cursing my female existence. No words, however, would make the pain subside. Just strong medications and time. I made it through each cycle.  Each time, strengthening my resolve that I actually could do this: guide the Green.

Maybe we are stronger than we think?