Fishing with Dad

Tuesday, August 28

Dad's first fish of the day.  Super chunky little brookie.  He was stoked!

Dad introduced me to fishing before I can even remember.  The first memories I have of fishing are trolling for king salmon and lake trout on Lake Michigan when I was four years old.  I would stay up all night so I wouldn't miss it when Dad and Grandpa would leave at three in the morning.  I would happily spend all day in the boat (napping as necessary I'm sure) for the chance to reel in the smaller fish.  I loved it.  I was addicted before I even got into kindergarten!

When my family moved to Utah Dad took up fly fishing.  Like many people, he got into it for a few years and then his passion faded.  Luckily, I learned during that time, and by the time I was twelve I was tying all my own flies and teaching Dad a thing or two.  Dad still spends at least one or two weeks in Minnesota and Canada fishing for walleye and pike each summer, but he only fly fishes when I visit.  Dad had planned on fishing with me on Tuesday, and after Mom's report, he was excited to go!

Again, we got up dark and early and headed to stream.  In the parking lot Dad looked around and said, "Crap!  I forgot my cap!"  Well, since Dad has less hair up top than I do, and I had a fresh buzz, I let him borrow my cap and sprayed aerosol sunscreen all over my hair and scalp.  That stunk - it felt gross the whole day!  Oh well.  We hiked about a quarter mile further downstream from where Mom and I fished hoping for some bigger fish.  It worked.

The first run we walked in to had two fish working.  Dad gave me honors, which I accepted.  The lower fish flashed twice at my dry, but wouldn't commit.  As I worked up to the other riser I got a rise in the middle of the creek and made the hook set count.  "Little brown," I said.  It fought better than I was expecting, however, and it continued to grow until I netted it.  It turned out to be a really respectable brown.  What a great way to start the day!

First fish of the day.  Tubby.  Definitely a good omen!

So Dad was up.  Whenever I dry fly fish with Dad I always bring a few extra flies.  Normally it takes Dad a few rises and lost flies before his hook setting muscle memory switches from 40" pike to 12" trout.  We still had a fish rising in the top of the run.  After a few short practice casts, Dad made a nice cast into the head of the hole, and up came the fish.  Whack!  Amazingly the tippet held, and Dad had a fish on!  We quickly realized that this was a brookie, and Dad got excited.  He hasn't caught many brookies.  He played the fish well and we soon had it landed.  Dad was excited, "This fish alone made the whole trip worth it!"  "Just wait, Dad,"  I told him.  "This is only the first run!"

The next hole was a tricky, small, deep hole with a large boulder smack dab in the middle.  There was a fish rising on each side of the rock.  After getting denied on the right side, I focused on the tricky current on the left.  The drift was difficult to manipulate, and the hole was in the shade of the pines, so it was very hard to pick out my fly.  After a few empty casts I made one count. Although I couldn't see my fly, I thought I saw a nose come up in the middle of the current, so I swung, and immediately felt weight.  This was a nice one!  After a powerful, dogged, fight, I eased the fish into the net.  The fish was long, strong, and well fed, probably the biggest fish of the day.

Beautiful small stream brown.

Close up of the fish.  What a tub!  It doesn't get much better than big fish on dry flies, in a beautiful mountain stream, fishing with Dad.

Dad was up next and caught a couple small browns in pocket water on the way to the next hole.  The next hole was unique.  It was in a sharp bend in the river.  Uniquely, the fast water on the outside of the bend was shallow, and the inside of the corner was deep.  There was a very well defined seam, and I knew that if there was a fish feeding in the hole, that is where they would be.  My first cast was right on the money, and almost immediately I had an aggressive rise from a nice fish.  We both realized immediately that this was our first cutt of the day.  Dad quickly netted the fish and we admired it and took a few quick pictures.  Colorado River Cutthroats are beautiful!

First cuttie of the day, and a beauty at that!

As we came around the corner we were presented with a beautiful hole.  There were at least three fish rising in it.  I saw a bright red cheek from a big fish in the head of the hole.  I told Dad, "Why don't you hurry up and catch a fish from the bottom of the hole so I can catch that big cutt in the head of the hole?"  "How do you know it's a cutt?"  "Just catch something here at the bottom, and when I catch him, you'll know!"  Well, Dad did just as I asked, and caught a decent brown from the bottom of the pool.  As I took the rod from him I asked, "Are you ready to see that cutt?"  Sometimes it's awesome being right (and a cocky pain in the butt!)  I could see the fish on the river bottom in the middle of the run.  As I made my first cast I saw him slowly turn around an mosey over to my fly.  Somehow I waited for him to rise and turn around before I set the hook, but I knew I had him.  It wasn't until he was in the net that I realized what a beautiful fish it was!  Little did I know that six days later that cutt and I would be reaquainted.

Beautiful, healthy cutt from a perfect hole.  I called it too.  Take a good look at this fish, because I have more pictures of it six days later.  We're buddies!

The rest of the day went on splendidly.  We handed the rod back and forth on each fish, and we each had plenty of opportunities, missing a few and capitalizing on others.  To say that this was one of the finest days of fishing I have had in a long while would be an understatement.  Eventually the afternoon thunderheads built up and the rumble of thunder could be heard echoing through the canyon walls, letting us know that it was time to go.  The last hole that we fished was special, though.

The Cuttie hole - our last hole of the day.  It's deeper than it looks, and full of perfect cutts.

It was my turn to fish, and as we approached there were three fish rising.  I promptly got the first two fish to rise and whiffed on them, putting them down.  In this case, third time was the charm, and I hooked into a nice cutt.  Cutties don't have a reputation for fighting well, but these tanks did a great job and were a lot of fun.  Once again, Dad did a great job with the net, and we had another fish.  I just can't get enough of these beautiful cutts. 

My perfect specimen from the cuttie hole.

It was Dad's turn.  Like me, he missed his first two rises, but capitalized on his third rise and was able to bring an awesome cutt to hand.  It was the perfect ending to a great day on the creek with Dad.  I hope to do it again and again!

Dad's final fish of the day.  Does it get any better than that?  I don't think so!

Tuesday, August 28, Evening

 

I grew up less than two miles from the Lower Provo River.  It is a wonderful fishery that is loved to death.  All summer there are a gazillion tubers, and the rest of the time there are hordes of fly fishermen from Utah and Salt Lake counties.  Despite the constant, year round pressure, the Provo remains a quality fishery for wild brown trout.  The Lower Provo was my home water, and I love it, even with the use and abuse it receives.  After fishing with Dad I decided to sneak out and try to catch a couple fish in the last hour before it got dark.

I got to my favorite hole and proceeded to nymph.  It took over forty-five minutes before I caught my first fish.  It was a rainbow, which was neat because that gave me a slam of the big four "trout" species in one day (I know, I know, brookies are char).

Small Provo River Rainbow.  Fourth species of the day.  First trout from my home water this trip.

The first fish was quickly followed by four more, another rainbow and three browns.  All the fish were on the smaller end, but with the higher summer flows, the fish put up a valiant fight, even for my six weight.

Typical Provo River brown.  Healthy, strong, and despite the fishing pressure, always willing to bite.

As I hiked back out to the car a bright pink sky filled the alpine valley behind Mount Timpanogas.   Going home is always bitter sweet.  Of course I love seeing family, but going home is more than that.  I drive streets I've driven a thousand times.  I fish holes where my family used to joke that I had all the fish named.  I get to reconnect with a me that I often feel has faded over the years.  Walking out of the Provo River that night I reflected on where I've been, where I am, and where I'm going.  The road ahead for my small family lies ahead, and no one knows where it leads.  It is exciting and intimidating at the same time.  I know I can never go back to who I was when these waters were so routine and familiar, but I have to believe that there are other incredible waters and memories ahead, awaiting my arrival.

Sunset of Mount Timpanogas.  A fitting ending to an awesome day.