Right Hand Fork, Little Cottonwood Creek

When March rolls around every year, I start suffering from cabin fever. And this year was no different. Actually it was a little different. It was different because I had it worse probably than ever before. The deep freeze of January really brought the hermit out in me, and I spent a lot of time inside. I didn't get out fishing once in November clear through until two weeks ago. I did get out snowshoeing once, but it was a short trip and did absolutely nothing fill my "need-to-get-outside" canteen.

During the past two weeks I've spent a lot of time pouring over topo maps and satellite imagery on Google Earth, planning and plotting and scheming all the different trails to hike and places to pitch a tent. I've spent a lot of time doing maintenance on any gear that's needed it. I've spent a lot of money (throughout the winter) getting new pieces of gear.

I've got a plan in mind starting in May for sure—it may have been put into action last night—to spend every Friday night outside. I know there might be one or two that I'm going to have to stay indoors. But the vast majority will be spent under the stars (and no, sleeping in the back of the 4Runner doesn't count).

So, this week I made the determination to sleep in my tent. No matter what. Rain or shine, snow or sleet. I ended up taking my default option and went up Right Hand Fork. Mostly because with all the searching of maps I've done, I knew there are several trails that either start there, or branch off of the main trail in that canyon, and I had planned to explore at least one of them today.

One of my favorite things to do is photograph my campsite wherever I've camped or backpacked in to. Sometimes I include myself in them, sometimes I don't. Last night, I did.

This morning I got up, made breakfast, and headed up the trail that follows Little Cottonwood Creek. It's a gorgeous little trail that eventually turns into an old road (I don't know the history of it, but it looks as though it hasn't been used for several years).

This little stand of aspens caught my eye, and I had to stop and make a few photographs.

One thing about hiking and backpacking I like so much, is it gives me time to think. Without any distractions, I can just let my mind either drift from random thought to random thought, or I concentrate on only one thing. Today I think I stumbled on a new photographic project. The first one I've really been excited about since my BFA project (I know, I know, it's been eight years. Don't judge me). I still haven't noodled all of the nitty gritty details out yet, but I at least have a Departure point.

Bear Lake

My family reunion (the McCann-Winterbottom Reunion, which has been held every year since 1947) was this weekend at Bear Lake. There was a lot of swimming, lounging, sun burn, food, and singing. And precious time spent with family.

I got up early each morning and came away with some photographs that I'm pretty excited about.

 

Newton Dam and Cutler Marsh

It's been a while since I went out specifically to photograph, but this afternoon a rain storm rolled through the valley and left behind some pretty dramatic clouds and I couldn't not go out and photograph them.

I'd never been out to Newton Dam before, so that's where I ended up. I've heard that there are Musky out there that I'm going to have to go try and catch once I get the necessary tackle for landing such a toothy fish. Anyway, here are some of the photographs I came away with:

 

Tree Swing, Newton Dam, Utah, 2012

Cut Bank, Newton Dam, Utah, 2012

Graffiti Angler Sign, Newton Dam, Utah, 2012

After some time at Newton Dam, I swung by Cutler Marsh and made a few more photographs:

Cutler Marsh, Utah, 2012

Reeds, Cutler Marsh, Utah, 2012

Backpacking Peeves

I first thought I'd make this a top ten kind of list, but I couldn't really think of ten,Mose here are six things that get my goat in the backcountry:
6. Litter and trash left behind
5. Being loud and obnoxious
4. Wandering off or blazing a new trail where there is an established trail
3. Fireworks
2. Unattended fires
1. Empty campsites with still-smoldering coals

PMD Hatch

Friday after work I headed up Logan Canyon for a little fishing. The fish either weren't in that particular stretch of water I fished, or they just weren't interested in anything I was tossing to them, because I didn't see or spook any fish at all.

Afterwards, I went up Right Hand Fork (a small tributary stream to the Logan River) and found a place to pitch my tent. As the sun was setting, a PMD hatch came off, and the little mayflies were swarming all around the place I had set up camp.

Last Day of May

Well, it's over. May is done, and so is the Every Day in May challenge. I'm actually a little relieved. It was fun, but it was also a little annoying at times trying to come up with something intelligent or poetic to say. So, some days I took the easy way out and just posted videos. Other times, I was completely BS-ing, just trying to basically fill a quota just to fill a quota.
After having done the challenge, though, I've gained a bit more motivation to post more regularly. Before this month, the last time I posted was in October. Doing the challenge stirred up a bit of creativity that's been pretty dormant for a while. It'll take a while before I can start to realize the ideas I have in my head, because there's a bunch of new equipment and software I need to buy, but I'm real excited to start.

Inspiration/Aspiration

Grand vistas, good music, family—these are a few things that inspire me.
When I hear the words inspire, or inspiration, I think of things that uplift. Uplift me mentally, and spiritually. It's always been at the forefront of why I photograph. The Apostle Paul (in Phillipians 4:8) summed up my goals:

Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.

The Thirteenth Article of Faith also expresses my aims of my photography:
We believe in being honest, true, chaste, benevolent, virtuous, and in doing good to all men; indeed, we may say that we follow the admonition of Paul—We believe all things, we hope all things, we have endured many things, and hope to be able to endure all things. If there is anything virtuous, lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy, we seek after these things.

In an age where there's a lot of junk in the Art world, and not just the Art world, but the world in general, I got criticized a lot for being too traditional, or romanticizing the land too much. Back when I was in college, I let those criticisms get to me, and I felt insecure, and inadequate as a photographer. Since then, I've gotten over those feelings, and I no longer care that my photographs are too "romantic." All around us, we are bombarded with filth that desensitizes us. What was once considered immoral in years past is now celebrated and glorified. That is why I chose to photograph how I photograph.
I don't get out much to photograph any more. In fact, any photographs I do make coincide with my fishing outings, and the subject matter is pretty much all the same: rivers. Despite that I still endeavor to create photographs that inspire, and uplift, and to express my love and gratitude to God for the Earth He has given us.

Bucket List

Being an avid back packer, fly fisher, and climber, there are several things on my bucket list. Maybe by writing them down here, I may be held to getting a few of them crossed off.

Fly fish Patagonia
Fly fish New Zealand
Backpack the entire Continental Divide Trail (even if I have to do it in stages)
Climb El Capitan
Climb The Grand Teton (no, I've never bagged that peak)
Go after steelhead in British Columbia
Fly fish for bonefish, tarpon and redfish
I'd put down a trip up Everest, but I have to be somewhat realistic with this list

Lastly, I think the biggest thing on my list is to just be happy and enjoy life whether I'm half way through a pitch on the Nose of El Cap, double hauling to bonefish on the Florida flats, or sleeping under the stars somewhere between Canada and Mexico.

Lessons Learned

If fishing the Logan River has taught me anything, it's this: fly fishing can be inconsistent, frustrating, puzzling, but above all, satisfying and rewarding, even when I walk away without having caught a fish.
Almost every day on the Logan is different. One day there will be plenty of fish holding in exactly the spots you'd think they are. They'll take the first fly you float past them, over and over, and, if you don't lose it to a tree, fly changes are hardly needed. Then the next day, you return, with more or less the exact conditions as the day before, and the fish will be nonexistent. You'll change flies at least a dozen times, trying to hone in on what might be in or on the water. Or, those blasted trees just won't stop reaching out and sucking every fly you tie on.
Despite all the frustration of untying wind knots, or pulling a fly from a branch, or fighting swift current on slick rocks, I still drive away rested and calmed. Not always physically, but mentally, as well as spiritually. After all, I've just spent that time among God's handiwork, wading in a river He's made. Some places, I think, He made just for me. All places, I know, He made for us all.

Runoff

The runoff here on the local rivers hasn't been at all as bad as it was last year. I think it's about hit its peak, and won't be long until they recede back to normal (perhaps lower, considering this winter's low snow pack) levels. The fishing hasn't been hit as hard as it was last year either. Mostly because the rivers are actually safe to wade in. Well, safer than last year.
Once the water does recede, you can be sure I'll be on the water even more than I have been. I just hope I've stocked my fly boxes with enough flies.

Here Fishy Fishy


 


If only fishing were that easy.


Then again, the puzzle of fly fishing, and the mind games that you sometimes have to play are things that attract me to fly fishing. I don't think I'd enjoy it nearly as much if the fish simply jumped into my hands.

The Fly

After the rod, line, and leader, we finally arrive to the fly.
One of the earliest records of people using artificial flies to catch fish dates back to around the Meridian of Time, from one Marcus Valerius Martialis, who wrote:

...Who has not seen the scarus rise, decoyed and killed by fraudful flies...

Then, about two hundred years later, we have this from Claudius Aelianus:
...they have planned a snare for the fish, and get the better of them by their fisherman's craft. . . . They fasten red wool. . . round a hook, and fit on to the wool two feathers which grow under a cock's wattles, and which in color are like wax. Their rod is six feet long, and their line is the same length. Then they throw their snare, and the fish, attracted and maddened by the color, comes straight at it, thinking from the pretty sight to gain a dainty mouthful; when, however, it opens its jaws, it is caught by the hook, and enjoys a bitter repast, a captive.

Fast forward another fourteen hundred years or so, and on up into the nineteenth century to Britain, and we come to what most fly fishermen think of when we hear about historical fly fishing: bamboo rods, silk lines, and wicker creels.
The Japanese tied flies by holding the hook in one hand, and wrapping the thread around the materials with the other, without using a bobbin, like we tyers use today.
So, fish have been taken on the fly for at least two thousand years. For two thousand years, fish have been fooled into eating fake insects, and for two thousand years, fishermen have been skunked by fish who were smart enough to know not to eat the fur and feathers that looked like the mayflies all around it.
I guess that's one of the things that draws me to the sport. That one day the fish will be eager to take a fly, and the next, they won't even acknowledge its presence.