Too Cold for Barley

Usually I’d be writing this blog from town, but today I am writing from camp. Then usually I would be fishing this time of day. Both intended creeks, Beaver (South Dakota) and Cold Creek, I found to be no bigger than two hands put together. I don’t doubt there are fish in those creeks, but I can’t imagine there being much size to them, and neither had any deep holes in the areas where I explored. So this morning I am camped in a lush grassy meadow in a little valley just past the divide of the two creeks.
Although accustomed to fishing while camping, I took advantage of the fish-free opportunity to hike the abandoned roads leading from camp. The first I took lead south for a couple miles then stopped at a spectacular cliff overlooking the road I came in on, I bet the cliff is about 800 feet up from the road. The second road I took went north from camp through an aspen grove and pine/ spruce forest. I could see it had been logged many years ago, but they’d not cut the aspen, which were bigger and older than any I’d seen before. This time of year the lupine, larkspur, campion, wild rose and lilies are out and I gave my camera a workout with the many attempts at capturing the colors. The road, really more of a two track trail, curved around and eventually headed south. Being one who has a good sense of direction, I figured I could make a loop and get back to camp. After a few miles, I decided to cut cross-country as a shortcut. I don’t doubt my sense of distance and direction, but I should doubt my sense of elevation. Every time I went west towards camp, I came to the tops of cliffs ranging from sixty or seventy feet, to a hundred or so. I instinctively checked my pockets for survival gear and found I did have a swiss army knife, a lighter, a watch (showing I’d been hiking for two hours), and no food, not even gum or candy. Since I was dressed in shorts and a light shirt and not wanting to write a survivalman blog, I followed the trail back the way I came, and got back in as the sun was fading behing the hills.
This is not a place I’d want to spend a night out unprepared, for when I got up this morning there was a thick frost on everything and it was cold enough to make both me and my recently short-shorn dog shiver. Barley prefered to stay in the car, so I ran the heater for a while. Although June 25th, this is high elevation, I’m guessing around 7200 feet, but then again, I don’t have a good sense of elevation.
PS: I checked the elevation on the map, it is 6,400 feet

Storm Clouds

The West Fork of Clear Creek

If circumstances ever find you in the vicinity of Buffalo, WY, and you’ve got a hankerin’ for some trout fishin’, you may want to drive west a dozen miles or so to the Middle Fork of Clear Creek. About a quarter mile off Hwy 16 there is a campground next to the creek, where one can, with a little effort, catch some nice 10-12 inch trout. The fly of choice on this expedition was the famous Bead Head Prince Nymph. A strike indicator on a 5x tippet, made fly-fishing much like bait fishing, every time I presented the nymph, I caught a fish. But like other small streams, only one fish per pool, after that, the pool would have to rest until the fish forgot one of their buddies had just splashed around crazy out of control. Before long, the challenge was gone, so I looked for some other water. Now, here is a secret, Across the highway from the campground is a private lodge known as “ The Pines”; this property is on Forest Service land, and one can drive past the buildings to the corrals, park and walk a short distance to trail number 107. The trail parallels the creek through some willows and meadows for a ways before dropping through a boulder-lined canyon. A piece of advice, the best fishing is on the first half-mile. I hiked a couple miles through the canyon and into more meadows, but the water was moving much to fast to be easy fishing. Back at the upstream willows there are a couple nice pools that each produced a half-dozen or so 12-14 inch rainbows in a couple hours of fishing on a fine June morning.

Beaver Creek, another fine stream

This weekend once again found me camping in the Bear Lodge Mountains; this time I found a very nice spot on the east end of Cook Lake, the only lake in the Bear Lodge. The reason I was there was not so much for the lake, but for the stream, Beaver Creek, which I'd been told contained populations of wild trout. Arriving late on Saturday, I hiked around the lake, then on the Cliff Swallow Trail that follows the creek before cutting across a gully and rising to follow a ridge back to the lake. In the evening I fished the lake only to catch bluegills and see some massive carp wallowing in the shallows.
Next morning I made a quick breakfast and a thermos of Starbuck's Sumatran then, fly rod in hand and Barley leading the way, we hiked to the stream. For the next four hours, I caught more rainbow trout than I needed to, mostly 12-14 inches, a couple in the 16 inch range and oodles of 6 inchers, the further I got from the road, the bigger the fish were. I eventually settled in to fish the pools beneath the cliffs, and after catching a few brook trout, the fish stopped biting, just like a switch went off. I tried a number of flies, but nothing worked. It was past noon, I was hungry, so it was time to quit and head back to camp.
After lunch and a nap I read a couple chapters of Murakami, then headed back the long way through the little towns of Alva and Hullett and past the great stone outcropping known as Devil's Tower. I included a couple photos, one is of the tower from the Warren Peak in the Bear Lodge Mountains looking west.

Cook Lake at Twilight

The Tower from Warren Peak

Weekend in Wyoming's Black Hills

Here are a few photos from my weekend in the Black Hills. One is Sundance Mountain in the morning. The picture was taken from the Bear Lodge Mountains while on a three-hour hike, despite the stormy sky, it didn't rain. Another is of the remnants of a fish hatchery that was once on Sand Creek. The other is of a cranky old fly fisherman trying his luck in Sand Creek. He was not catching any, and I didn't have the heart to tell him I'd caught a couple brook trout in that same hole a few hours earlier.

The Hatchery at Ranch A

Cranky Old Fly Fisherman

Wright, WY Class of 2006

Most graduating classes display their spirit and jubilation with various works of art. This is what the Wright, Wyoming class of 2006 erected on the hill above town. This photo was taken on Saturday morning. The art was shortlived though, the town's Baptists ordered the bra line removed before Sunday service.

Where The Powder Meets The Yellowstone

Fishing Sand Creek

Halfway between Spearfish, SD and Sundance, WY is a town called Beulah. And there is a small stream running through the town. Although a very unimposing body, this stream is the only and undoubtedly the finest trout water in all of extreme Northwest Wyoming. This accessible stream is known as Sand Creek, and is where I spent last weekend.
Driving past the first few access sites to the campground, I set quickly set up camp, then commenced to investigate, explore and fish. The water is clear this time of year, maybe a bit too clear, for the fish dart away as I approached. First I fished upstream in every likely pool and riffle, but the only action was where the water cascades over rocks and logs. I suppose because the fish can’t see as well through the rushing water. After I figured it out, it was quite easy to pull one 10-12 inch brown trout from each of the holes I encountered, but only one fish from each hole. After a few hours the sky began to darken, so I returned to camp. The rain and hail, lightning and wind followed me and I arrive at camp soaked as a muskrat. As the squall continued, I changed into dry clothes and made soup and tea. Before long the storm passed and I was back to fishing, this time the two holes close to camp when I pulled a another trout from each of the holes, but once again only one despite what I tried and how I fished. Then, as evening approached, I walked and fished a bit downstream admiring the landscape more than fishing.
Back at camp, I fixed a meal, ate, and drank a few glasses of Chevas before turning in for the evening. The rain and hail with thunder and lightning returned and I was happy to be out of the weather.
The next morning I fished the same holes, but without any success. So I drove upstream to see what was there. Not far from the campground the stream flows through heavily posted private land, then enters a public area known as Ranch A where there is an historic fish hatchery. Not far past there the creek goes east and the road goes south. Checking the map, I noticed a road that crosses over into the Spearfish Canyon, where I know of a couple places where fish can be caught. So I decided to follow the road. After 30 miles I ran into snow deep enough to bottom out the car and was still at least 15 questionable miles from pavement. Being prudent, I turned back and took the turnoff to Moskee Road back to Interstate 90. After another 25 miles I was back to Sand Creek, a few miles downstream from the campground where I knew of a place thick with fish. Now, I have fished this particular hole before, and just as before, no matter what I did, no fish would pay attention to me. I counted at least 20 fish over 16 inches in one school in the clear-as-clean-glass water beneath a little cliff, but no fly or lure made any difference. After and hour and quite frustrated, I gave up and walked back up the hill to the car. As I walked a few grasshoppers began to fly, so I caught a half dozen and returned to the stream. I figured this could not fail. What trout would ever pass up a grasshopper? So I baited a hook and let it drift by the fish. I could not believe, they ignored a live struggling grasshopper. Could they see the hook, the line, the rod? I then just threw the hoppers in and let them drift on their own. Again, no response. If they don’t take a hopper, what chance does a dry fly have? As this is both a mystery and a challenge. I will return.

Fishing the Powder River

If you have ever seen the Powder River in northwest Wyoming and southern Montana, you would not imagine there would be fish in such turbid water. And for much of its course there are only a variety of small eyed minnows and other mud loving fish. But if you follow the stream upriver past where I 90 crosses it, past the town of Kaycee, past the confluence of the Red Fork and the wall of red rock, where incidentally the hide-out known as “The Hole in the Wall” can be found, through the ranchlands and into the rugged hills of the southern Bighorn Mountains, then hike a mile or so down the cliffs, you will find a stream perfect for trout. This is the Middle Fork of the Powder River. Due to the limited access, requiring a good pair of waders and a bit of bushwhacking, this is a bit of a tricky stream. Only about 20 feet wide, it has ample ripples, deep holes and fine habitat for trout.

I arrived in late afternoon and was able to catch a few 10 inch brook trout before dark clouds began to form from the west. I decided to hike out before rain made the path a muddy mess. When I did get to the top of the canyon rim, I saw that the dark cloud was merely one cloud and not an impending storm. Not wanting to hike back down the canyon, I hiked the road towards a mapped campground. My original intent had been to camp, but the road from the fishing access to the campground was much too rugged for my low-clearance Passat wagon. Despite the spectacular and dramatic location, the campground is located high on the rim and a good mile hike down to the stream and offers no protection from the weather. With the forecast storm on the way, I elected to head downstream to the town of Kaycee to camp the night.
In Kaycee, I got to talking to the locals about fishing, they agreed, it was a fine trout stream, but said most of the best and accessible waters run through private land. And the landowners, knowing what they have, charge fisher-people to access the waters. The going price seems to range from about $25, to over $200 per rod per day. Not being either obsessed or that desperate I choose to head north into the Bighorn National Forest for a day of free fishing after, of course, the 76 buck non-resident license fee.

Deadwood at Dawn

A town trying to be what it once was,
where houses built into hills
manage to stand despite the time and weather
and inevitable erosion.

Red brick from some valley quarry
adorn the fronts of every building,
an exchange from the gold they
harvested too many years ago.

Alone on an April Sunday morning,
Henry forgets the year.
Wearing his ragged vest and cowboy hat
he staggers from the alley where he slept.

Three long sweeping turns
up the road to Mount Moriah
where rest so many lost, forgotten
stories now forgotten histories.

One dream exchanged for another,
as many times again, again.
First dreams, last dreams,
a million in the middle.

Getting Away

April first may be a bit early for tent camping in the Black Hills of South Dakota. It all looked OK before I left Gillette, 50 degrees, partly cloudy, dry roads and only 20% chance of rain. I drove up Spearfish Creek fishing along the way, despite the beautiful and very fishy water, the fishing was slow so I decided to give the fish a break and head up to the campground. Once off the pavement the road turned to mud and then slush, then ice and snow. After weaving around fallen rocks and with a couple miles still to go, I being a prudent driver, elected to change the plan and find another campground.
The sky had clouded and a mist began when I pulled into the Whitetail campground. Being the first camper of the season, the owner helped me shovel a spot and move a table over. I headed over to Lead and fished some beaver ponds until about dark then returned to camp, had dinner, then went to bed. About midnight I woke to see a light snow falling, and when I got up at sunrise there was a half inch on the ground.
After making tea, I headed back to Spearfish Creek and fished a few ponds as it continued to snow. Without the fish biting, it was time to make the drive back, and save the fish for another day.

Ah, Just Spring...

When a young man’s fancy turns to love.
And an old man’s fancy turns to fishing, fly fishing to be exact. With the first days above 50 degrees and the emergence of the first few stoneflies, the spirit of the fisherman is awakened from the slush of winter into a world of green spring, rippling creeks and shady, deep-water holes where dwell the big fish.
Researching new waters has been the project of the week; buying and reading maps, calling tackle stores for tips on the proper flies and expected bug hatches, looking for the right equipment and planning the first trip. All these things raise the anticipation the way the first warm breeze anticipates the season’s change.
A friend asked why I get so involved in fly fishing, I think she used the word “obsession”, although I prefer the word “focus”. I really hadn’t thought much about the why before then. I mean, it was just something fun, and excuse to get outside, connect with nature in an increasingly stressful and artificial world. But I know it is more than that. Maybe it is an escape from the indifference we face in an disturbingly apathetic society into a world where only one thing makes sense, the Zen of just being on the water.
But more important -I know- fly fishing is an art and craft, like music, where no matter what level or how long one is involved in it; there is always something new, fresh and valuable to learn.

Richard Hugo, One of the Great Poets the 20th Century

Degrees of Gray in Philipsburg
by Richard Hugo

You might come here Sunday on a whim.
Say your life broke down. The last good kiss
you had was years ago. You walk these streets
laid out by the insane, past hotels
that didn't last, bars that did, the tortured try
of local drivers to accelerate their lives.
Only churches are kept up. The jail
turned 70 this year. The only prisoner
is always in, not knowing what he's done.

The principal supporting business now
is rage. Hatred of the various grays
the mountain sends, hatred of the mill,
The Silver Bill repeal, the best liked girls
who leave each year for Butte. One good
restaurant and bars can't wipe the boredom out.
The 1907 boom, eight going silver mines,
a dance floor built on springs--
all memory resolves itself in gaze,
in panoramic green you know the cattle eat
or two stacks high above the town,
two dead kilns, the huge mill in collapse
for fifty years that won't fall finally down.

Isn't this your life? That ancient kiss
still burning out your eyes? Isn't this defeat
so accurate, the church bell simply seems
a pure announcement: ring and no one comes?
Don't empty houses ring? Are magnesium
and scorn sufficient to support a town,
not just Philipsburg, but towns
of towering blondes, good jazz and booze
the world will never let you have
until the town you came from dies inside?

Say no to yourself. The old man, twenty
when the jail was built, still laughs
although his lips collapse. Someday soon,
he says, I'll go to sleep and not wake up.
You tell him no. You're talking to yourself.
The car that brought you here still runs.
The money you buy lunch with,
no matter where it's mined, is silver
and the girl who serves your food
is slender and her red hair lights the wall.

Charles Bokowski, the most honest of the poets

How Is Your Heart?

during my worst times
on the park benches
in the jails
or living with
whores
I always had this certain
contentment-
I wouldn't call it
happiness-
it was more of an inner
balance
that settled for
whatever was occuring
and it helped in the
factories
and when relationships
went wrong
with the
girls.

The Hangover Formula

For those who are discovering an increase in hangovers, I have done a bit of research in an attempt to, quite frankly, help us all drink more and suffer less.
This is the formula I have devised to illustrate the results of my research:

Hi= VxA%xCl / H20xFxT

Hi= Hangover Index
is directly proportional to:

V = Volume of alcohol consumed
A%= Percentage of Alcohol in Beverage
Cl = Congeners level

and inversely proportional to:

H2O= Level of hydration
F = Volume of food in stomach
T = Time over which the beverages are consumed.

Thus one can reduce the effects of a hangover by reducing the V, A%, and Cl and increasing the H20, F and T.

For those who are not familiar with congeners level, it is the level of impurities created during the fermenting process. The following is an abbreviated list with the drinks high in Cl listed first:

Port Wine
Red Wine
Bourbon
Rum
Brandy
Single Malt Scotch
Blended Scotch
Cider
Dark Beer
Regular Beer
Tequila
White Wine
Gin
Vodka
Lite Beer
Champagne
Cocktails

Take note, cheaper booze is usually higher in congeners, clear booze is generally lower.

So there you have it. By following the formula one can simply drink more and feel less bad about it. It is my hope you will use this information only for good, and not for evil purposes, nor should you share this with the wrong people.

Neruda, my favorite poet

Drunk as Drunk

Translated from the Spanish by Christopher Logue

Drunk as drunk on turpentine
From your open kisses,
Your wet body wedged
Between my wet body and the strake
Of our boat that is made of flowers,
Feasted, we guide it - our fingers
Like tallows adorned with yellow metal -
Over the sky's hot rim,
The day's last breath in our sails.

Pinned by the sun between solstice
And equinox, drowsy and tangled together
We drifted for months and woke
With the bitter taste of land on our lips,
Eyelids all sticky, and we longed for lime
And the sound of a rope
Lowering a bucket down its well. Then,
We came by night to the Fortunate Isles,
And lay like fish
Under the net of our kisses.

Pablo Neruda