Utah Letter

An excerpt from a letter to my good friend Pollarine in regards to Utah's magical canyon country and high desert...

Utah was spectacular from start to finish. True, we only had about 4 days in state, but Bek and I did the best we could. We loved Arches. I am glad I got the Fiery Furnace tour. I highly recommend it. Ranger Mike was pretty cool. 



The long hike through Devils Garden (including the primitive loop) was totally cool.

Finally, Delicate Arch was the best way to end the day. Loved it. Its magnitude struck me when I rounded the last bend on the trail. I love how it was hidden back there, and I felt nothing but awe. It caught the fading sunlight and framed the Salt Mountains in the background in such a way that I will never forget. 

Delicate Arch

We only really had one day in Canyonlands, but I loved it as well. We did a lot of hikes and scrambled around on the ledges quite a bit.  Seeing the granaries was pretty cool, and on our way out Bek and I checked out some dinosaur bones and pictographs on some trails near Moab. We also stopped and hiked to an awesome waterfall near Orem. And, on the way to the parks on the first day, we did a little walking tour of BYU. 
 

Canyonlands Overlook

We hit up the SLC capitol building at dusk before we flew home, and that was really great too. We also saw the Mormon temple. Yet, such feats of men pale in comparison to nature's art work (in my opinion).

Salt Lake City Capitol Bldg

Camping in the desert was also very enjoyable. The sun and dry air were comfortable, and I feel like we got very lucky with the weather.

Then, when we got back, we had a snow day. This winter hasn't really let up....the boys and I flew kites today, and it continued to snow.

Glad you enjoyed the jerky, it reminded me of Yellowstone, so I picked some up for you guys. I wish I'd had a chance to see you 'round the old campfire, but there will be opportunities on the horizon I am sure.  It really was a good time, and I am sure it felt like two different trips for Joe. I bet the first week was rather "tame" compared to week two....I'd like to hear the tale of "firewater" of which you speak whenever you have some time to recount it.

In summary, I am very glad we went to Utah. It was worth it. I'd still like to see Bryce, Zion, and Grand someday. But, Arches and Canyonlands were truly beautiful and intimate. March seemed like a great time to go, and the snow capped mountains in the background of most desert scenes was captivating.  I still think of the thrilling expanse of the canyons and the yipping coyotes at night. I also believe these places put "time" in perspective. Geez, we are nothing but a minor blip on the radar.  I feel like I now know quite a secret after seeing the beauty of the high desert country.

Alas, when we were in the confines of the Fiery Furnace, Ranger Mike asked his travelers to name their fav NPs. I found myself thinking of Yellowstone. Not just the trout fishing, but the wildlife, the campfires, and the adventure. 

With Bek at Canyonlands overlook...

 

Stories in Pictures

While on the subject of fishing with my boys, there are moments you hope to always remember, and visuals certainly help to conjure up the emotions of the day....

 

The joy of Opening Day.

Quinny is a study in determination...

With his prize...

Passing it on

Here's to hoping my boys will come to enjoy the outdoors as I do. We certainly spend a great deal of time outside engrossed in all sorts of activities. And, so far, both seem to have taken to fishing, or at least, in my older son Kale's case, water. You just can't keep him away from it.  Obviously, vigilance is key, but over the past two seasons, I've realized that stream fishing suits him well. He likes to move and discover, and he'll take the trout that come with it too.  Last year he stream hopped with me on a few occasions and scored six trout in total, some on the flyrod too.  He also has an uncanny ability to keep a trout hooked regardless of how he lands it...reeling it all the way to the eyelet or suspended feet in the air as it is whipped to shore, and once, tangled around my calves as I attempted to scoop it with a creel. We eventually corralled that acrobatic rainbow to possession.

On a sunny Friday afternoon in early May I picked him up from pre-school and asked him if he wanted to go fishing. His positive reply started us off well, and his excitement jumped a notch when he saw the gear piled in the back of the car.  And, so we were off to Standing Stone, my personal favorite stream and the place were Kale had caught his first ever trout a year prior.

We hiked up stream on that sun kissed afternoon and discovered it pretty much abandoned. Slipping down some steep grassy banks, we waded across a pebbly channel and set up just above a deep pool. A few casts later, a nice, fat rainbow zipped his line, and Kale had his first fish of the day.  Soon he landed his second one of similar size, and he declared them both suitable fry for dinner. By six we were in dry clothes again and snacking in the shade.  

Kale all geared up.

Rainbow prize.

Perfection

Alas, I've never been a great shot. Yet, through consistent practice and repetition, I've been able to train my eye and improve.  The fruits of the labor often emerge when I least expect it. Such was the case on an early November evening last fall.  Swerving into the gravel game land lot, I hopped out of the car fully field dressed, leashed up Daisy, and grabbed my pump action. I spoke with one returning hunter about the possibility of getting into some birds, and fortunately, he shared some information about where he'd seen them.  In quick succession, beagle and man made a bee line for the upper fields in hopes of rousing a rooster.  Of note, it was already beyond daylight savings time, so two hours of light existed before dark. Two hours is nothing. Quite short for hunting.  Yet, it can sometimes force the issue and inspire the pursuer to be efficient as possible, to choose only a select few pieces of cover, and to hope for the best. Birds are moving in the evening, and a lovely crisp fall night sets a beautiful backdrop for the scene.

We got lucky. Within ten minutes Daisy had locked onto the scent of a bird, and it was already close. We crossed two hedgerows before the panicked rooster lifted its head from the high grass and revealed his presence. After a few hops he sneaked into the brush, but with Daisy so close, he cashed in and took flight. Being able to see him beforehand calmed my nerves, and as the gun boomed, the quarry spiraled downward barely clearing the treetops before rolling up. After a few comical minutes of trying to find him, he was discovered burrowed beneath a logjam.  With one bird accounted for, Daisy and I wasted little time in trouncing toward the backfields.  Daisy worked intently across a span of green, shin high winter wheat.  Soon, her tail began its birdy swag and we were off and running again. This time the bird ran deftly, and in the richness of the cover, I could not spot it. Only Daisy's maze-like path and excited yipping told me that the pheasant was about to bust.  Daisy turned and ran the bird almost to my feet before the hen exploded from the cover just behind my position. It was a quick shot, but the plume of feathers drifting over us was evidence of its accuracy.  The wiley hen proved to be a more noble target, and so, the second and final bird of the hunt proved to be even more rewarding. Forty-five minutes. We were done. It feels pretty good to eject the shells, stare down at just two expended ones, and feel the weight of two birds in the game bag.  Time to go girl. Good job.  Let's walk it out the long way and enjoy this golden November evening, for they are few and far between.

November is for Pheasants

November equals terrific pheasant hunting, and the equation held true this past season.  George and I were able to enjoy nearly two hours afield one evening in the early part of the eleventh month. No sooner had we met, chambered up, and began ascending an old tractor path above Spring Creek, did we spot a mighty rooster standing confidently before us. Daisy's bell clued him in to our purpose, and he turtled into the underbrush.  It didn't take long for our beagle to work into a frenzy, sending the bird airborne. With one shot of my reliable Mossberg, he came crashing down. The shot was sufficient at such close range, though excitement likely got the better of me as it was not perfect, but having one heavy bird in the bag tends to relax one's sole, which makes for calmer nerves and more accurate shooting  anyway.

Soon, we were tromping through the spacious upper fields quite alone, and quite happy at discovering this unshared paradise. Daisy worked birds in and out of cover, and eventually chased another male into a wooded alley, which is never great for uninstructed  shots on a bird taking wing, but we knew the lack of sufficient underbrush would eventually force him up, which it did.  The launch was full of cackling, and George and I both fired in a desperate attempt to score on our target, which we did, simultaneously, and like a helicopter struck in mid flight, he dropped quite abruptly, but in his landing, he rolled and ran. The toughness of these birds and their will to live is admirable. 

Daisy gave chase, and a quarter of a mile later, it became obvious that the bird was crippled such that flying was not an option for him. Instead, he would rely on his better instincts by committing to a death run. Our saving grace was our dog. Daisy stayed on the bird with determination. And, she continued to remind us, like she has a thousand times over, that a good dog is worth its weight in gold. Finally, after scrambling along the steep, rocky ridge lines of the creek canyon, Daisy turned the bird up a dry runoff channel within range of my brother, who took the high ground to prevent an escape into the fields, while I blocked the creek.  Yes, pheasants are also good swimmers.

George's smooth 20 gauge reported once or twice, I can't quite recall as I was just so happy to hear him shooting, and by this point, I was shouting "Did you get him? Did you get him?" I should have known better. After all, my brother is an expert shot and the dog had stopped bawling.  George laughed, "Yeah, I got him." And the three of us  collapsed for a water break while admiring another fine bird.   

As we crested the last hilltop headed due west into the brilliant light of the setting sun, I caught my brother's silhouette. The shot looked more like South Dakota than central Pennsylvania, but I don't think the location would have made a difference to me.  Instead, the deep sense of satisfaction and happiness I felt knowing we were part of this scene took the day. 

Autumn 2012

Autumn has brought back to us the crisp, cool atmosphere we missed much of last season.  Already the hunting has far surpassed the previous year. Daisy is healthy again, and she has regained all the spryness of her puppyhood, only this time tempered with seven seasons of experience.

In the late afternoon of the pheasant season opener, the faded memories of brotherhood were rekindled into a bright, hot flame by the the day's final and most fantastic flush.

Up to that point it had been a good day. We had taken a few birds and a cottontail in the morning, and collected another bunny and rooster after lunch. As the day grew older, we turned back to swing our tired legs toward home,  and yet, the best part of the story was yet to come, for Daisy chose the upper grape fields on our return journey for one final surprise.

I'll always remember the set up. Spencer and Charley to the right, lower side of the hedgerow, myself trailing the dog and watching the back door, while Dad and Uncle Tom worked the upper, left side. Daisy had begun delivering all the signs of a bird on the sneak. Her tail whipping continuously 9 to 3...3 to 9...9 to 3. Soon she followed up with a yip and a yap. Our pace quickened with her. "Get ready guys...she's close."  Yet, the quarry was wily, and Daisy soon worked into a frenzy. If I could stop time here for moment, I would. The game was about to flush, but we didn't know it yet. Our minds were focused on the shot we may have to take. Adrenaline was firing on all cylinders. It was time for the tension to break.

What I'll remember most of all was the quiet. It was spectacularly silent. Everyone was brimming with anticipation. The bird...for we all knew...it had to be a bird a this point...was damn close...damn close!

Later Uncle Tom would speak of the wonderful fellowship of the day, and I couldn't think of a more accurate way to describe what happened out there. Right in those final moments before an inevitable flush, we were all in it together, united in a common cause...to hunt the magnificent upload bird, to follow the classic hunting dog with absolute certainty that she would lead us to a worthwhile prize.

Zip back 45 years in time. Two teenage brothers amble down the road in rural New Jersey on an October afternoon with a trusty hunting dog at the heal. Cradled in their arms are double barrel shotguns, broken open. A few shells mashed in their pockets.  "Mom wouldn't let us go swimming, ever! She was afraid we'd drown....but she let us carry firearms into the woods!" Uncle Tom said.

Minutes into their hunt, the beagle pipes up. The game is about to break wide open, and the two youngsters widen their stance, shoulder their guns in preparation for the shot.

And suddenly, here we are 45 years later,  in the flowing hills of central Pennsylvania, and the two boys are now remembering what they'd done before across that wide span of time. Back when they were just kids on Newman's Lane.  Back when life was as simple as a trusty shotgun, a few cent-a-piece shells, and a good dog.

Then, the hen flushed...straight out, and then banking left, it was Dad and Uncle Tom who opened into the shooter's stance, shouldered the 12 gauges, and brought the bird crashing down from its flight.  They were boys again, much like they were all those years ago.

The close of a spectacular October Day afield.

Yellowstone 2012

Venturing into the Black Canyon of Yellowstone National Park

The passage of time is a phenomenon within itself. The past year was one marked with many trials and tribulations, and as the year is entering its finale, the tranquility of the outdoors has reminded me of its importance in my life. So many stories to tell about my fourth trip to Yellowstone, where my friends and I camped in grizzly land.  I think we'll always remember the mystical warm evening in Hellroaring Canyon where we swam, caught plentiful cutthroat, and dined along the sandy banks of the Yellowstone River by lantern light.  The following day we backpacked deeper into the backcountry and coined places like "Starvation Gulch" and watched a bald eagle glide down river at first light.  We rediscovered the depths of Tower Creek, the little mountain stream that always seems to surprise us, beckoning us a little further, a little further until we find ourselves in a wilderness of bear sign and moose scat.  Every bend, every pool...ten, twenty trout?  We were lost within the confines of a deliciously sunny western setting, all the while preparing our campfire smorgasbord of wild brook and rainbow char. It was the best of days. Perhaps, the very best angling there ever will be. And, I was at peace.

Joe's Victory Fishing Hole on Upper Tower Creek

A little while later we'd be hustling to beat the darkness back to camp reeking of fish in the middle of griz country...