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?

two seasons deep...

Exactly four weeks ago, I completed a feat that no other female has ever accomplished...

That grabbed your attention!

Roughly eight years ago, I encountered a brand-new, wooden sign at an elevation of 5,267 feet in Baxter State Park, Maine. It had taken me 202 days on trail to reach that milestone and included a failed attempt the previous year. What an accomplishment! You can read about that experience here.  I wasn't alone. There were a couple thousand of us Appalachian Trail thru-hikers or "2,000 milers" in 2009.   I'm not sharing this to belittle the class of 2009. Our journey was never easy.  I share this information, however, to try to offer a perspective of what I've done since the last time I entered a post to this blog.

I have put as many, if not more, miles behind the oars in the beautiful, slot canyon country in Daggett County, Utah since I last posted on May 16, 2016.  The Green River below Flaming Gorge Reservoir as my trail. Blood, sweat, and plenty of tears accompanied this journey that has led me to this moment. Four weeks ago, I attended the "end of season" pig roast provided by Western Rivers Flyfisher Guides surrounded by fellow guides, friends, clients, and family. Cozy and well-fed, I stared into the reassuring flames of the fire-pit. I had reached another milestone.

Stories shared from the memories of former guides indicate that there were two other women that attempted to guide here during the 90s. From my understanding, one lady completed a season while the other lady guided a "few" trips. It wasn't that they didn't want to do it. I believe the community wasn't ready. Clients were not receptive to being guided by a multicellular organism with cells containing two X chromosomes rather than an X and a Y.  These women were subjected to language and behavior that can easily be described as sexism in addition to the daily physical and mental demands. So, they quit. Who can blame them?

My timing was fortunate. The atmosphere has changed. I have dealt with some situations that I'm convinced stem from my gender, but that's for a later post. For now, we should rejoice!

This is the blog of a girl, her boat, and her truck that has completed two full guide seasons on the river Green. The only girl that has accomplished this feat thus far!

Now, that the second season has come to completion, follow along on this digital journey as I share what has transpired...

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.