We left Salt Lake City loaded with enough food and gear to last eight days. Months of coordinated efforts and planning had finally led to us hitting the road. I-80 stretched out before us as our Isuzu Trooper muscled its way over Soldier Summit. A life-changing adventure of fly fishing awaited us. Little did we know how hooked we’d become.

This trip would be my first attempt to try catching a fish on a fly. My friends and I didn’t yet realize how utterly and completely in love with fly fishing we would become, nor how much we would eventually end up investing in the endeavor.

Brian was the mastermind behind the trip. He wanted us to “try out” fly fishing. If it weren’t for Brian, My next 20 years would have been completely different. Fly fishing was the perfect outlet we needed. I still get goosebumps thinking back on my first trip.

Our first stop was in the beautiful Heber Valley at a gas station. We stopped here every time we embarked on fishing trips to Strawberry Reservoir to pick up snacks and bait. This time we filled the tank and four extra canisters with fuel, picked up some cigarettes and headed off towards Duchesne and the mountains beyond.

The Uintas

The Trooper made its way up to White Rock Canyon and on to our final destination. We found the perfect spot to set up camp surrounded by lodgepole and ponderosa pines. The river was only several yards

from where I pitched my tent and I was beyond excited to get to the water’s edge and toss a line.

After gathering firewood and setting up camp we tossed tinfoil dinners into the coals and waited for them to cook. Dinner was followed by roasting S’ mores, drinking beer, and telling stories.

The next morning, as the sun was rising the sounds of the creek, brought me out of my tent. I retrieved my brand new $40 Shakespeare flyrod from the rod rack in the truck. The rod has long since disappeared, but I still carry the reel in my tackle bag.

Stream Time

The stream waited for me as I headed down the path through the trees. I could hear my friends talking, the chirp of crickets, and the popping of the burning wood, though it was all quickly drowned out by the rushing water in the river ahead of me.

I tied on a small fly and tossed it into the current. It drifted past me and started to drag against the current downstream. A quick flip and my fly hit the water about half as far up the creek as I wanted. It dropped into a riffle and drifted into a small eddy on the far side of the rocky stream. It floated around the swirl 3 or 4 times before catching the current of the main channel of the creek.

I didn’t see anything moving but was convinced there had to be a fish sitting there, just slipping between the pool and the main channel. I had yet to learn how to read a river, nor did I have a decent pair of polarized glasses, so I was mostly casting on hope.

Another quick cast up the stream, and the fly started to drift around the side of the eddy again. My eyes followed it with the intensity of a lion preparing to pounce. There was a brilliant flash of silver, and the fly abruptly vanished. I lifted my rod, setting the hook with the same force I would use when fishing for bass.

Hooked a Sucker

The tiny size 18 Adams shot out of the water and at my face like a bullet. The hook settled comfortably in the side of my neck, embedded in my skin. I was able to pull it right out without too much fuss. Looking back now, there may have been a bit more screaming and carrying on than I would care to admit to.

I looked up from the creek and saw my friends doubled over in laughter, watching as I had been screaming while pulling at the hook in my neck. They thought it was hilarious.

As I was being derided and humiliated, all I could focus on was the flash of silver I witnessed in the milliseconds before the fly disappeared. It was glorious. The rest of my fishing life would be spent trying to replicate that initial experience.

Let the Fly Fishing Adventure Begin

Pancakes and eggs around a hastily built campfire while discussing the game plan for the day took us up until 7:30 am. Seth dumped the last of the coffee on the fire, and we were on our way further up the canyon in the Trooper.

I was almost literally dancing around in my seat, wanting to start the day’s adventure up the canyon. I was unsure of what was before me, but if it were a tenth as awe-inspiring as the silver flash of the early morning, it would be amazing.

The drive from camp ended at an old landslide that blocked any further progression up the canyon. We parked in the makeshift parking lot and got out. I retrieved my backpack, double-checking the contents: a small arsenal of different lures, a dozen or so flies, a bottle of garlic power bait, and an assortment of terminal tackle. Strapped to the side were my spinning rod and a walking stick. We were up against the easternmost side of the canyon, with the river cutting its way across the western-most side, roughly half a mile away.

Brook Trout and Beaver Ponds

We decided to head our separate ways for a while, then meet at a specific bend in the river for lunch. Shortly after we separated I came across a series of beautiful beaver ponds nestled into a glen surrounded by lodgepole pines and aspen trees. Sneaking up to one, I saw maybe half a dozen little brook trout swim away from the bank in front of me.

A quick dip into my tackle bag, and I had the flies I wanted. I used a terrestrial as an indicator and tied a copper john on the bottom. I’ve used this setup hundreds of times since. A fellow at the fly shop I purchased my rod advised we use this setup as an easy way to learn. I’d say it was definitely successful.

I pulled several feet of line out of the reel and let it spool around my feet. After trying to lay the line as gently as possible on the water, and not having it snap like a bullwhip, I finally let the cast go and was impressed that I didn’t get the flies tangled together. Nothing happened. I waited. Again, nothing happened. These fish rarely grew beyond a pound in size. The fly sat motionless, sitting in the center of the water. I started slowly stripping my line in, hoping to encourage a strike, but after several attempts had no results. I decided to reel in and try another pond.

Fly Fishing Pays Off

The next pond showed a little more activity than the last. The center of the pond had a noticeable current flowing to the dam. I flipped the line out, trying my best to hit the edge of the flow. I finally lucked into a cast that landed where I wanted it with the fly gliding effortlessly through the ripples, enticing the trout below to have a closer look. The next cast was finally fruitful. A small brook trout took my fly and dove. I lifted straight up and started to pull in the line. The hook held flawlessly. The “fight” was on!

It rose to the surface for a moment before trying to hide under a log on the far side of the pond. I stepped into the water to get a proper angle on the receding trout and immediately sunk up to my armpits in the murky depths. What I had foolishly determined as the weedy bottom was just the top of the weeds.

If you’ve ever experienced a sudden fall into an icy cold mountain pond, you know how utterly shocking it can be. My arms flailed, and I swallowed considerably more stagnant beaver pond water than could be healthy.

The brook trout was still on the hook, and I intended to land it. I held the rod high and started reeling. A few seconds later, with almost no resistance at all, I landed my first fish on the fly. It was all of 5-6 inches and nowhere near big enough to guess an actual weight, but it was my proudest moment of fishing — a beautifully colored brookie in the Uinta Mountains. The little brookie swam away as soon as I released it.

Logs Shouldn’t do That

The best cover in the pond appeared to be the log on the far side. It was all of 20 feet from me, so it was a smooth cast to put the fly right up next to it, right? Did I mention I was new to fly fishing? I cast over and over again for several minutes before I was able to get a lucky one in that landed perfectly. I worked a slow retrieve hoping for another flash of color. Nothing.

Another cast and the terrestrial landed on top of the log. I slowly dragged the fly off the wood and into the strike zone when suddenly what I thought was the log began to rise from the pond. The “log” turned out to be a fully grown cow moose. It had been laying in the water to cool down in the heat of a summer day. Luckily there was enough sense in me that knew better than to hang out 20 feet from a moose, despite the fact it was hanging around in a pond. I didn’t even reel in my line before I was running down the trail towards the river…

To Be Continued…