My Stories from Utah
"We could see the snow storm drifting east of us and I thought about the people out that way and what they were in for. The sky was still thick with clouds, though, and I was struck by their vastness and how they changed the feel of the place."
Fishing with a Hexagraph fly rod..."Lately and with the help of a Hexagraph fly rod...I have begun to understand how a high-performance rod can improve an angler’s orientation to the sport."
"Nole was a few yards up and across the stream from me. He yelled something I could not quite hear and then plunged his hands into the dark autumn water. In one fluid motion he scooped a three-pound brown out of the stream and into the grass behind him."
"The approach to the Strawberry is one of the prettiest I have seen: The thin path to the river leads into a stand of cottonwoods that are probably older than me and Metcalf combined."
"I try not to fish on weekends, but on this particular Saturday I had been grading papers all morning and I seriously needed a change of perspective."
"I kept my word and returned to the lower Fremont in mid-October. (I’ve written previously on the river here in my online column.) My old fishing buddy Greg agreed to make the 12-hour drive up from Phoenix and meet me that evening just outside Torrey at the Rim Rock Hotel and Restaurant."
"I had never set foot on the Fremont and I was giddy with uncertainty. But I did know that this fly represented as good a chance as any to arouse the ire of a big, spawning brown, determined to protect its investment, be it hen or eggs."
I should confess right now that historically I have not shared the prevailing view of the Lower as the preferred section of the Provo. Ninety-nine percent of the time I have been happy to fish the Upper and Middle sections of the river. This begs the question of how it is possible to have such differing views of the same stretch of river. Although some people might argue it is merely a matter of subjectivity, evidence suggests it all comes down to the angler’s core values.
"I needed a little time to wiggle out some line before the current sucked away my fly, so I got down on one knee and cast the dry into the slow water just inches away from the current."
Years ago I attended a party at a colleague's house to celebrate the beginning of fall semester. Although I do not normally mix pleasures, I had just relocated to Utah and thought it wise to get to know my colleagues, including our host. I wasn't fond of Rosley, but I respected him, both as a classic scholar and as someone who had survived the long and demanding life of an academic. How had he endured what the poet Theodore Roethke described as the dolor of pencils?