"So Saith, the Byrds"

The signs of fall are apparent. No subtle changes now. The harvest is in full swing leaving an almost inversion-like layer of dust to hang in the air most of the day and into the evening. Sunsets were epic. The oft used reference of the sun as a “big red ball” fading into the horizon fulfilled the measure of that description. Sunrises are nearly as intense. Air temps were dropping, as well. No more ninety degree plus at the heat of the day.

The sun’s angle had shifted somewhat, less direct overhead, tilting southward a bit. Evening came sooner and when the sun completed its fall from the sky the air temp cooled noticeably. Just before sunrise the low dropped to just below forty. The trusty North Face bag has served well all summer. Would need to consider pulling out the Marmot soon. It’s rated to minus twenty.

The Wall Tent continues to rule. One of my better ideas. All that has been said before, still holds. The camp now feels like home. Six days in, this trip, and the routine feels seamless. It’s been quiet. Up at sunrise, fry up a couple or three eggs on the Coleman over oatmeal, sip Pero (a poor substitute for Postum, which is a poor substitute for a cup of well brewed coffee...an old college indulgence long since given up) while viewing the sun rise behind the “Grand”. It take a while for me to fully “boot up”. The sound of trucks and tractors and all manner of farm implement and equipment hum in the background as these hard working men and women push on gathering the fruits of their labors. Then, as the routine dictates, I select the right rod and walk the dike road and head to the river.

The fun begins each and every day with the first cast. Some things just seem immutable and in this place each and every morning, since this all began, small bugs begin to hatch and take flight to the sky as the cycle of life unfolds, as various aquatic insects emerge from hidden depths to complete the process of metamorphosis. Hoppers continue to rule in the afternoon and streamers are beginning to become more attractive to both bows and cuts.

Earlier in the week, on a trip to Ashton, I stopped at the shop to gab with Royce. He’s always good for info on where the action is and has always been spot on when suggesting a particular pattern. Remember the “Red Body”. This time, his expert pick included a bushy light colored sparkly laced four inch streamer containing an olive strip on top of the white body. True to form, it later produced excellent results.

The water is cooler to the touch and fish respond aggressively as the instinct in them urges a more voracious appetite which compels them to stoke up for the long drag of winter in these parts. Flows remain steady, but up a bit due to the lack of draw from the farmers. When the harvest ends, they’ll water bare lifeless fields in an effort to saturate the soil as a means of preparing the undulating topography for the next season’s planting and subsequent bounty. Another cycle of life will shortly come to its intended conclusion as the countryside will eventually lie beneath a thick frigid cover of snow.

The continuum of continuum's cascade throughout life up there, it is the pattern and to most of us they are imperceptible. It takes the living within and along side of it all too even notice that there is such a thing, but know this, there is truly a time and a season for all things under heaven, so saith the Byrds.

A call comes, “You still up there”. “Indeed”, I reply. “Thinking about heading your way”, he said. “What’s your ETA”, I ask. :”Will leave in about an hour. I’ll call when I’m close”. “Excellent” and I pressed END CALL.

A few minutes later it rings again, “Forgot to ask, mind if I bring Andy, he’s a Shelty pup”, he inquires further. “You bet”, I say.

This will be great, I’m thinking. Mike is a real Pal., known him for a good while. Our respective kids grew up together and we, along with others fished with Gary Evans on the Madison further up north and on the Colorado River at Lee’s Ferry to the south, years ago. He’s a great skier and one who is always up for a little adventure and always game to go the distance in any endeavor. Mike’s a bit quite, enjoying solitude. No real need to be surrounded by the crowd nor be the center of attention, thoughtful and polite, hence the second call re bringing Andy. All attributes I’ve admired since I’ve known him.

His kids matched up nicely with ours and we all had great times traveling together to Sun Valley a few times in the mid nineties and then a few adventures to Colter Bay on the other side of the Tetons. Good symmetry all around.

I played out the morning on the river and in light of Mike’s call, drove in Broulin’s in St. Anthony for provisions in the afternoon. A well stocked cooler always makes my heart beat a bit faster. It was about time to diversify my simple fare.

The butcher was just taking off his apron as I rounded the end of the aisle that leads to the Meat Dept. I quickly scanned the cooler for a couple of steaks, but didn't find the right cut. He stuck his head out from behind the entrance to the butchery behind the counter and asked if he could help. I asked if he had a couple of New York strips back there, to which he said that he did not, but offered to grab a section from the locker and cut a couple of steaks to my liking. "Only if it was no trouble", I replied. He waved me back as he took off his jacket then slipped into his long white butcher coat as he took a firm grip on the long verticle staniless steel handle of the locker and with his full weight pulled down and back as the big metal insulated door swung open revealing sides of beef hanging on hooks all in a row.

He stepped into the cooler and disappeared into the frozen darkness then reappeared with a large hunk of meat and dropped it on to the counter surface. He reached up and brought down a canvas like thing that was tied in the middle by two strings. With his fingers he pulled at the loose end of a tied bow of string as it rolled out on to the table revealing half a dozen knives neatly slid into individual pockets sewn into the cloth. He reached for the long blade with an acutely rounded edge that met the thickness of the blade top exposing a sharp point where they met. After a few thrusts against the honing stick, he placed the sharp edge of the blade against the crimson hunk of meat and asked, “How thick would you like your steak”? I said, “inch and half should do it”. “How many”? He queried. “Two”, I muttered. With one long stroke, the fine edge of the well honed tool of his trade separated this gorgeous thick cut of prime meat from the massive hunk sitting on the cutting bench. He repeated the process then placed the two steaks on white paper and weighted them, wrapped then placed the sticker containing the weight and the price of about ten bucks over the taped edge and, with a pleased expression, handed the wrapping to me and asked, “Will there be anything else”? I offered, “You are a gentleman and a scholar and your efforts are very much appreciated”.  He offered a simple thank you and we parted.

 

Just about sundown, a gnarly black ford truck pulled through the gate and crawled toward the camp site along the dike road and stopped at the camp site.  Fresh Idaho Red Potatoes warmed in one frying pan, while two well seared New York Steaks were about done in another. I waved Mike down from the dike and told him to wash up, dinner was ready. I met Andy and the three of us settled in for hearty plates of NY Strip, fresh fried Idaho Red Potatoes and a couple of bottles of icy O’Doul’s.

Man, this is living…..