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."