mountains of support...

Smiles. Hugs. High fives. I've never experienced any thing like it. Each guide from every outfitter addresses me by name: at the ramp, on the river, or somewhere in between. Conversations filled with support and encouragement. Each greeted with a smile...

They want me to succeed.

They want me to stay positive. 

These men. Rough around the edges, but soft on the inside. It wasn't easy for them. Time behind the sticks has sculpted their bodies and minds. This river taught them with every ebb and flow. Daily lessons provided by rapids, rocks, sunlight, temperature, and hatch. School is in constant session.  Most guides are already working on their third or fourth Ph.D. in all things Green. It's something special, then, for them to provide me with information equalivant to cliff notes. Something very special indeed...hard to put in words. 

This selfless act encourages me each day to maintain my sponginess by absorbing every piece of information, to keep an open mind, and, above all, stay positive. 

I cannot thank each one of them enough for their support. 

when my heart melts...

August 19. I was walking down the concrete path connecting the main building to the additional teaching buildings. My first meeting with 40 energetic, youthful minds. My introductory class always filled my mind with apprehensive questions on the first encounter: how many names will I butcher, will they like me, will they remain open-minded, will they accept a 3 hour lecture, and, perhaps the most daunting....will they give biology a chance.

August 19. These questions were never answered. I reached for my phone after the fifth consecutive call and answered. At the age of 59, he was dead. Massive heart attack in the cafeteria at work. Warning signs were ignored. And now he was gone. Forever. There was no undo button. 

Life. Life is so precious. The majority of my studying/teaching has involved the study of life. I know all too well how precious these chemical reactions are to the maintenance of cellular growth and function.  Just one minor change, say an amino acid substitution, and your blood cells transform into a sickle shape when stressed. Or a missed checkpoint during cellular reproduction, leading to the most sinister of all evil: cancer.  If you really stop and think about how, on a minute by minute timeframe, precarious your body maintenance is then you may begin to look at life through a different pair of shades. 

Yolo shades. I bought a pair of these after his passing. You only live once. That's why I'm here in Utah guiding on the Green. That's also why my heart melts for those that have survived the battle with time: the elderly. Worn soft by the constant barrage of pressures associated with "living". They carry that burden of survival on their backs. For some, it's heavy enough that they remain hunched over indefinitely. Their eyes, however, still convey their youthful appearance. 

I melt. My heart melts. Recently, for 10 hours in the cold rain my heart melted. My boat was filled with gear much older than myself. I had front row seats each time the indicator would move without a quick set. He understood. His synapses, slowed with time, are fusing out like spark plugs, reducing his reaction time. His rod tip continuously shook side to side without his permission. Hooked fish almost sent him to his backing regardless of size. Very few fish actually made it to the boat. A few hours after lunch he began to conversate alone, in the back of the boat. He was unaware that his voice carried as far as my ears over the rushing water. 

"Why am I doing this?" 

"I give up."

"I can't do this anymore."

My heart melted. I pulled over. I turned to him and told him everything is okay. You're here on the beautiful Green celebrating yet another year of existence. You are floating on a boat with two beautiful women (one being his longtime, very devoted wife). It's okay. Let's keep fishing! 

To this he responded with silence and a reserve as though he realized this could be his last trip on the Green. He took his rod and continued to cast away. I wanted to comfort him. Tell him that it was a miracle that he has had the opportunity to enjoy life for this amount of time. My father had not been so fortunate. I wanted him to smile and enjoy the current moment. He was alive, fishing on the Green. Instead, I continued to row. 

We reached a pod of fish violently eating just below the water surface in calm water. He threw a cast that drifted right into the pod. Miss! He did it again...miss! By the third cast he was dancing with a fish. Time stopped. In this brief moment, age was non-existent. Laughter coupled with high-fives and hugs filled the boat. The climatic moment occurred when he and his wife simultaneously hooked and landed a fish: a double.  

I didn't want to leave. Neither did he. I could see it in his eyes. We wanted to stay in that moment forever. As darkness set in, however, we headed to the takeout. My heart forever melted.

"never evers"...

Eleven years. A third of my life dedicated to ruining young minds in all things biologically related. I loved it. Students would arrive to class the first day with their minds already clouded with negative thoughts. Biology is too tough...I don't really need to know this. Five months later, these same minds were unable to look at food the same way again or ignore the sounds and sights of "wildlife". These students got more than what they anticipated. They were now informed citizens: effectively ruined for life. The key ingredient for these transitions was an open mind. 

This ingredient is key on the water as well. I've had the pleasure of floating several individuals who lack fly fishing skills, but poccess the eagerness to learn. Their expectations aren't focused on numbers of fish, but rather the skill set required to allow them to enjoy fooling fish on any water. For over a third of my life I've been in the business of teaching rather than just giving. Not much is learned if I had a rod to a client and a fish miraculously appears dancing on the other end. If I spend time, however, introducing the fly rod and the mechanics behind casting, then this individual can return to his/her home waters without intimidation. This client is effectively ruined. 

This past week I've been provided the opportunity to ruin naive, open-minded individuals that poccess a passion for knowledge. I loved it. We were a team. Over the course of 8 hours, I witnessed their confidence grow on the water. They were picking out the seams where the fish would feed. They were mending before I could even say one word. Their flies landed delicately on the water ahead of the boat. It was magical.  They were learning how to fly fish, rather than blindly catching fish. 

That same priceless satisfaction I've enjoyed for over a decade returned as I floated never-evers down the Green. It makes everything from sleepless nights to constant body aches worth it. It's reassuring to recognize that I'm exactly where I need to be: ruining lives. 

hero to zero...

I'm sure you've been there. Each cast greeted by a healthy, somewhat confused trout, which goes on for hours. No time to replenish your spent fluids or to relieve your waste collection. It doesn't matter that your exposed skin is crisping and cracking. That dinner you were suppose to arrive at thirty mins ago can wait. You're time spent on the water is never THIS good. They'll understand. Of course, they will. 

It's fishing, not catching, right? Those tough days really add to the appreciation during those limited, epic days. Or even an appreciation on a good day. 

A trend has begun to appear a month in regarding double day trips. The first day out on the water is full of anticipation and wonder. Will we get along? Who will be going for a swim? How many rocks will be painted by Tigre? Will the fish cooperate? 

Each time, on double days mind you, the fish have been too cooperative. Not so much on the second day. It's like someone is slipping a few benjamins to them! I find it confusing as well as frustrating at best. Could I be overconfident the second day thinking that I could find the fish running different lines, using different rigs, or different techniques? Are my drifts dragging on a microscale and I'm not noticing? Should I have run the identical program from the prior day? Are the fish Alabama fans with a disdain for the color orange?

I think too much. I can't help it. It comes naturally. Here I am sitting outside my tent on a bluebird day trying to understand the behavior of a living creature that functions with a brain the size of a nickel. I spend countless dollars and time trying to develop the money fly that will lead to an epic day.  I want to be the hero.

So far, my moment of glory has only lasted 24 hours at most. Not much time to bask as the second day has dropped me to the level of zero. I literally find myself going from hero to zero in the matter of 8 hours. Humbling is an understatement.  How do I discontinue this trend? 

merrily down the stream...

I finally did it! I covered roughly 16 river miles in one float. The Green River below Flaming Gorge is broken down in three sections: A (~7 miles), B (~9 miles), and C (~15 miles).  This float included both the A and B sections. I meandered Tigre (my boat) through all the rapids, including Red Creek.  Beyoncé was on repeat internally during the final 4 miles to the boat ramp. Not only was I feeling flawless, I also felt like I had slayed... all day. That mental high was needed. 

This was the first time Tigre has met the creek that runs red. Red creek is classified as a class 3 rapid and has sunk plenty of boats over the years. First impressions can make or break (literally) relationships so I kept her pretty quiet through the encounter. I'm sure it will be the first of many peaceful encounters. 

Mother Nature has shown some humor lately. After a series of pleasant days with 60 degree weather, she decided to appease the trouts' requests for easier top water targets. She brought in cool temperatures mixed with rain, hail, and a stubborn breeze. The perfect combination to prevent the blue winged olive mayflies (BWOs) from drying their wings quickly. They literally become sitting targets on the top water...blankets of them. Envision the airports during dangerous weather... planes docked at terminals with helpless passengers stranded. At least the passsengers don't have a hungry predator lurking below. Unfortunate time for the BWOs for sure, but an excellent time for an angler! 

In April, at 6k feet in elevation, never leave without your waders. Rain jackets and pants are a poor substitute. Lesson learned. I couldn't button my pants after finding relief on the nearby bank before grasshopper island. My fingers were refusing to cooperate. My boss noticed my blue lips by red creek, which isn't the first for the two of us. Last year a similar situation occurred in August. From this point forward if my boss notices any tint of blue, I'm forced to wear hooker-red lipstick. I disdain all things related to materials applied to the face. My waders will accompany me on Tigre for the remainder of the season regardless of Mother Nature's mood. 

As for relief from the onslot of underwater attack, Mother Nature is still favoring the scaly, finned creatures. Rain is currently serenading my silnylon roof as I type this entry. Perfect day for a warm beverage, great book, or a fly rod...oh (almost forgot) and a good pair of waders. Not such a favorable day if you're an emerging BWO. If only their wings could dry faster! 

i cried...

I had covered 40 miles in roughly 4 days. Each step forward my knees screamed in defiance. I wanted to walk to Maine. I was overweight. My longest hike up to this point was a three day hike. I still had over 2,100 miles to cover. Doubt clouded my thoughts. Could I do this? Do I have the physical and mental toughness to complete this goal? Will it be enjoyable? I stepped outside the hostel and sat at a picnic table overlooking the old, soft Georgia mountains. I cried. The tears rushed down my face. It's on an especially rare occasion that my tear ducts operate uncontrolled. Six months later, I rejoiced with my beautiful partner atop the northern terminus of the Appalachian Trail: Katahdin. Those tearful doubts were but a distant memory.

I share this experience for the parallel it provides to my infant stage of guiding. Four trips in to the season and doubt has rushed to the forefront of my thoughts. I'm surround my giants, by legends even, on the Green. Some guides have spent their entire lives here and consider the Green closer in relationship than their immediate family. Their bodies harden from the burden of maintaining that relationship. How can I compare? How can I provide clients with an unforgettable experience similar to these giants? My body aches, especially my hands with blisters forming on a regular basis. My thoughts begin to take the path leading to the dark side. I cry. Flows as heavy as the high water on the Green in May. This occurs thirty mins before a trip in a quaint trailor that belongs to a generous couple. I really should work on my timing! What do I do?

Similar to the path that I took seven years ago, I composed myself to the best of my ability, and moved forward toward my goal with each feathered stroke. I arrived 10 hrs later to ramp three with thoughts of hope and with the realization that's this is exactly where I need to be. Just like trail life, I will experience unbelievable days as well as tough days. I need to remain positive and continue to enjoy living each day. In the words of the great bull of the pit, "every day above ground is a good day."

her maiden voyage...

On paper it's spring! Contractually, then, birds should be serenading each other in hopes of getting laid. Chlorophyll production should start to see an increase as new plant growth begins to resume following months of dormancy. Warmth should, by default, blanket the land with ole man winter leaving for his pilgrimage to the Southern Hemisphere.

Not so! At least not in the sleepy town of Dutch John, UT. Take a glass globe, fill it with white grains and a hodgepodge of buildings, such as, cabins, gas stations, trailers, boats, houses, and a church. Now, add the liquid component. Flip the globe upside down, shake gently for 10 secs. Congratulations, you created the current conditions in Dutch John. The only item missing is the Vince Guaraldi soundtrack. 

Given the conditions, then, you understand why I initially didn't want to go. I found the wood stove to be strongly persuasive. Perfect weather for a hot beverage and a good book. But the bugs! The hatch would arrive on cue and I would be guaranteed a blank if I remained in the warmth. Discomfort is only temporary. 

 Photo credit: Darren Bowcutt

The temperature peaked at 32 degrees as I backed the boat on the ramp located below the dam. Fresh snow clung to the canyon walls and trees as more snow began to fall. The air was silent, not even the slightest breeze. 

Midges scurried about on the water's surface without the slightest concern for the danger lurking beneath. Some newly hatched midges waited for their wings to harden, while others began the task of looking for a mate. An appetizer, if you will, for the nearby birds and trout. The main course would arrive a bit later in the form of a larger bug: a mayfly, more specifically, a blue-wing olive. Even with the size of a pea for a brain, trout keyed in on the opportunities to feast and began to look up. We could actually see their noses break the surface of the water. Gentle surps could be seen as well as the more violent takes similar to a shark breaching the water sending a seal cartwheeling to it's immanent demise. 

On this particular day, the trout had their heads up earlier on the river than in previous days. Within a mile of the put-in, the first fish arrived in the boat courtesy of an aerial take. This pattern continued throughout the day increasing with intensity as we traveled downstream. At one point, both lines were dancing with fish: a double. 

Photo credit: Ryan Kelly

Despite the larger snow flakes that began to fall or the tinier ice that came in waves, the bugs continued to hatch and the fish continued to take advantage. We, therefore, continued to fish. It was the only logical solution. We ignored or, perhaps, tolerated the unpleasant absence of sunlight and the consequences associated to remain surrounded by pools of rising fish. A 16 year-old scotch provided some motivation as well. 

The maiden voyage was a success. Great company, beautiful views, and healthy, rising fish. Life on the Green. 

Photo credit: Brad Lovejoy

Care to join? 

this is a story about a girl, her boat, and her truck...

Photo credit: Steve Oualline 

Before we get too committed to this story, let's reverse time and travel back 12 months. I'm sitting in a cramped sardine can traveling westward with thoughts of arid landscapes burdened with the weight of the scorching sun, spending months traveling along a dirt path filled with angry plants and hungry mountain lions. I planned to take it one step at a time with the constant reminder that I'm stronger than I think. Three days into the trek my body refused to cooperate. My left ribs screamed under the weight of 6 liters of water and 20 lbs of food and gear. I had failed. Two years of planning reduced to three days on trail. 

We rented a car, selected a series of national parks we've always wanted to visit, and slowly convinced our defeated selves that it would get better. Mount Shasta was inundated with snow so we set our sights on Utah. Briefly stopped in Redding, CA to return a gift to Mike Mercer, who works at the Fly Shop. Mike provided a boron 3x 5 wgt fly rod, flies, tippet, and local river knowledge.  The following day, during the fly tying expo held at the sundial bridge, I had guest speakers interrogate me in regards to fly patterns and techniques while fishing the Sacramento. I needed this. I may have not been strong enough to continue my long distance hiking lifestyle, but this moment helped fuel an internal passion that began as a child. 

After a quick trip through Arches, we drove late into the night to camp by the mecca of dry fly-fishing: the Green below Flaming Gorge Reservoir.  Mesmerizing. Life-changing. Clear water meandering through red, sandstone cliffs. Browns. Beautiful, healthy browns casually sipping tiny mayflies off the surface. I didn't want to leave this place, this moment. 

I didn't. Trout Creek Flies generously offered me a position in the fly shop for the season. This simultaneously postpone my embarrassing homecoming from my failed hike and allowed me the opportunity to inudate myself in all things fly-fishing. During this time, I shared my goal of competing nationally in fly-fishing with a coworker in the shop. Our discussion led to the thought of using my teaching background and combining it with my passion to fish. I could ruin many a people  with fly-fishing just like I had for over a decade with students in areas involving all things biological. I could become a fly-fishing guide. The seed had been planted! 

There were several hurdles before this idea could completely develop into reality. I needed to learn how to row a drift boat...I mean, really row it. Maintain long, drag-free drifts rowing. Not just a recreational row, row, row your boat. There was nothing gentle about this approach to fishing. Also, I'd need to own a boat in order to row a boat. There's also that pesky problem of moving the boat around off water. Could I find another truck of awesomeness? I never found the border  of Canada while walking on foot. Would I be able to find the strength to row hard for miles each and every day? Would my body fail me a second time? 

To answer these questions, I need to tell you a story about a girl, her boat, and her truck. She guides on the Green running Western Rivers Flyfisher stickers. She is strong. She intends to ruin you. She wants you to read water rather than simply admiring the ebbs and flows. She wants you driven to look for the bugs and correctly identify them rather than being fearful of your six-legged friends.  She wants you excited to be outside rather than being content in a four-walled cubicle. She wants you intuned with each movement of air, scent released by neighboring plants, change in the temperature, and naturally produced sound. She wants you to respect nature and understand that we are merely a part of this great universe. She wants you to feel alive and strong. To be independent and confident. And she wants to put you on fish. 

This blog is her story.