30. Givers

Mile: 2,990

A while back I was in a counseling session and I learned about “givers” and “takers”. We all have them in our lives. People that give us life and people that take from us life. Rarely is a giver always a giver and rarely is a taker always a taker, they ebb and flow, but typically heavier on one side or the other. When you have two people that thrive while around each other, they typically are both givers for each other. Thus, you end up with great friends thriving. Givers are easy for us to be around. We seem to come alive when we are with people who play a heavier giver role in our lives. Our excitement level is higher. We exude more positive emotions. We are more likely to laugh, to be creative, and are overall more mentally healthy. When we are with someone who plays a heavier taker role in our lives we tend to be more drained. Our level of disappointment is noticed more frequently. We are more likely to be frustrated. We take on a more active teaching role to try and redirect the actions and words we don’t hold as valuable. We look for ways to retreat from the situation removing ourselves from some level of discomfort. Now, these are generalizations and are true to my life experiences. They are not taken from a psychology book or any of the millions of self help books titled, “How To Live Your Best Life”. But I have found this to be extremely accurate. It is important for us to have both givers and takers in our lives, they each play very important roles in developing us as healthy, selfless, and loving people.

That said, my week in Big Sky was a tall cold glass of water that I didn’t realize I was even thirsting for. My “I’ll stay for a day or two.” Quickly turned into, “I’ll be here for the whole week.” Sure it was nice to have a nightly hot shower with significant water pressure, temperature controlled, no limit of five gallons, and I didn’t have to worry about someone driving up the national forest gravel road and finding me standing there naked. That was nice. Also, the hot tub didn’t suck, the handful of couches with cushioned backs, ice cubes, four different private and clean toilets to choose from, and a host of other aspects were luxuries about staying there. But what made that time in Big Sky so special and gave me an overflowing cup of joy was spending seven days surrounded by givers. The first night there I found myself surrounded by four friends who I’ve known for over six years now. The kind of friends who can look at your face and they see what’s behind your eyes. The kind of friends who have earned the right to ask the hard questions and have earned the right to receive the hard answers. Just sitting in their presence gave me life. Ohhh to be known. 

I meet new people everyday while I’m on the road. Funny people. Positive people. Sad people. People of all different religions and sects of religions. All kinds of kinds. It’s exciting meeting new people and feeling the newness of learning about them. Every interaction is a miniature adventure, which gives me life. I love it. But sitting in that circle of friends who know me on a deeper level, it was difficult for me to express the joy, the life that I was receiving. That was a highlight moment for me in this trip. It didn’t involve a mountain peak, or a twenty plus inch trout, or a face to face encounter with a moose. But it was a moment that found it’s way to the list of highlights. 

29. A Smokey Farewell

 Mile: 2,437

The hum of Pearls engine tells me she’s at her optimal cruising speed. I roll the window down and my hand surfs the wind as I see Jackson, WY in my rear view mirror. Passing Flat Creek on right my mind drifts back to the silent stillness of standing at its edge intensely watching my dry fly drift down stream. Coming around the bend the Tetons demand your eyesight. The sun having sunk below their ever upward stretching peaks eliminates them from behind. The golden glow of the sun is magnified with the looming smoke from the California wildfires, creating a “Mount Doom” appearance. For the next twenty minutes they rode along with me stretching north as I head towards Yellowstone. As if God had commanded them to gather and line up one behind the other they didn’t break ranks, they didn’t vary from side to side, they stood tall at attention awaiting their orders. 

Going around the east side of Jackson Lake I entered the trees and left the sky scraping line of soldiers behind. The light waned until dusk overcame the day and Pearl hugged the dark turns through the trees. Cruising my way through a few full campsites I continued on to find some national forest land to call home for the evening. Turning off towards Sheffield Creek I came upon another full campground and as I was turning around to find a pull off in the woods somewhere a flashlight signaled me to stop. Up walked a tall broad shouldered young guy with hair down to the back of his neck. “Hey man, are you looking for a place to park for the night?” He asked. “Yeah I sure am, I was just about to head back out towards the entrance to find a pull off.” I replied. “No need man, I’ll pull over and you can swing in next to me. There’s plenty of space over here.” He followed up. Backing up I let him swing his ford work van out and back in this time off to the side of the pull out leaving enough space for Pearl to easily nestle in for the evening. I walked around Pearl to meet my gracious host for the evening, Chase Barnett was headed back south in his converted van getting ready for college to start back up. This adventure has been riddled with good people like Chase. The next morning we tipped our hats and he headed south and I headed north. Thank God for good people. 

28. Door of Adventure

    

    When you start off on an adventure living out of a van you don’t expect to find yourself at a wine tasting event with a handful of locals in Jackson, WY. But that’s the beauty of adventuring. Nothing turns out quite like you expect. Maybe receiving joy from situations that ebb and flow away from the original plan is isolated to certain personalities, I can’t say for sure. But what I can say, is that I love the unexpected, the unplanned for, the shifts, the changes, the last second decisions whether to turn right or left. That’s what adventuring is all about in my book. 

I mean what are you suppose to do when you leave your only warm jacket 7 miles out in the Yellowstone wilderness and it drops to 20 degrees with snow covering your van less than a week later? Or what do you do when your van locks you out without food, water or warmth while you’re back in the sticks of Medicine Bow National Forest? What about when all the camping sites between Grand Teton National Park and Yellowstone National Park are all full, where do you sleep? What do you do when a two day stop in Bozeman, MT turns into two weeks? What do you do when you’re miles out in the desert land of Wyoming and your mountain bike decides to explode your second spare tube leaving you stranded? Or what do you do when you are miles away from your campsite back up in Shoshoni National Forest and the chain on your bike decides to break in two? What do you do?

But adventuring is not all about the unexpected problem or hurdles, sometimes it’s the unexpected blessing. What do you do when a guy working at the Dubois fly shop walks in, hands you a beer, and tells you to go check out the rodeo? What do you do when a random stranger tells you of a secret fishing stretch along the North Platte? What do you do when you meet a random Italian guy in the middle of a national forest who invites you to join him and his pup on a hike to a mountain top lake. What do you do when you’re invited to float and fish the Madison River on a friend of a friend of a friend’s drift raft and basically have a guided fly fishing trip offered to you? What do you do when people offer to let you use their showers and run a load of laundry while you’re in town? What do you do when a girl asks you if you want to climb to the roof of a downtown office building? What do you when a guy with “Salsa Man” printed across his shirt at a farmers market in Casper, WY asks you if you want to try his salsa that’s called “The Reaper”? What do you do when you’re invited to help bottle a batch of wine with the local winery? What do you do when you’re invited to a local hangout after last call at a bar in a town so small it doesn’t have a name?

When the door of adventure cracks open, don’t be afraid to push it wider and walk through into the unknown. 

27. Airborne Acrobat

Mile: 2,120

“Come on...yes...come on now...take it...take it...take it!” The biggest trout of my life was moving towards my fly slowly, steadily, purposefully... 

Madison jumped in riding shotgun and I piled in the back seat of “The Beast”, a three quarter ton 1991 Chevrolet Suburban as white as the snow and the size of a small house. We were headed northwest. Idaho bound. Bill as our captain. Bill has a friend that owns some land along the Snake River and has built a series of ponds along a running creek that hold trout that are absolute monsters. And we were headed that way. It’s amazing to be around someone who has seen a small town grow for the last forty years. “My good friend runs that burger joint there and they have the best burgers in town. This ranch here on your right was started by my buddy and he has really done a good job with it. This run down shop here on the right is where they use to build some incredible drift boats but unfortunately they had to close their doors this year. This peak up here on the left is where we would park and downhill ski back to town before it got to be overcrowded. I duck hunted in those woods when it was still public land.” Line after line Madison and I sat there learning the history of Jackson, WY and the neighboring towns. The wealth of knowledge in this man’s head is immense and he’s a good story teller at that. The ability to tell a good story is the ability to teach, to inspire, to motivate, to entertain, to lead, to share. Story telling is a powerful tool and if you have the ability, don’t waste it. 

We pulled up and Bill put The Beast in park. It was still early morning and the rays of sun were bouncing low off the water. The day that would ensue would be one of the best trout fishing days of my life. 

I started off with a black wooly bugger per Bills suggestion. It wasn’t long until I felt my line get heavy. With a swift lift of my rod and stripping the slack taught “thnnNNGGG!” I was hung, hung on an 18” rainbow trout lip who was not ready to roll over and give in. He put up a good fight and gave it his all. Several minutes later I brought him in, netted him, took the hook out, told him “thanks” and sent him on his way to demolish more mayflies landing on the surface. This continued with my second fish, third, fourth. Amid me working on bringing in number five I heard a shout off to my left, it was Madison. “Ohh yeah! It’s a good one! It’s a good one!” Pretty soon Bill was standing by his side net in hand. The first fish over 20” for the day went to Madison. A big rainbow! “Agh! I love that!” I said as if I was speaking to a crowd of people. There’s only one thing that might be better than catching fish, and that’s watching your friends bring in a big ole toad of a trout. 

We bounced from pond to pond as they were all connected by a stream feeding them oxygen and moving water. Around noon they started to get pretty picky and I must have cut and tied on ten different flies trying to figure out what they wanted. In my impatience I didn’t change from 5x tippet back to 3x when I tied on a giant segmented streamer. One that would scare any fish that wasn’t a big boy. On my fifth cast I saw a flash of darkness and a tree trunk was racing towards my streamer. “WHAMMM!” He hit it with a fury like a linebacker when he smashes a receiver going full speed in the open field and helmets go flying. I set the hook firm and solid, “This is the biggest trout you’ve ever had hit your fly!” My mind unconsciously screams inside my head. I had done it! I chose the right fly! I casted well! Great hook set! But as my rod tip double over it flung back out like a bow when the archer looses the arrow. My mind was searching, grasping and in a fraction of a second it set in. Madison might as well have set a fifty pound kettlebell on my chest. I fell backwards to my butt and sat there looking at nothing. Thinking only of one thing. 5x tippet. It is equivalent to 4.75 lb test line. It wasn’t enough. A trout like that, a hit like that, with a hook set needed to secure the fly in the corner of his mouth, it couldn’t take it. It just snapped. The biggest trout of my life. There he goes. Gone. 

It must have been written across my face plain as day, and I know I said some words along with that because Madison asked me if I wanted to go home. “No no, I’m ok. I just need a minute.” Something like that you replay over and over in your head of what you would have done differently in hindsight. 

No other fish wanted a streamer, I couldn’t get another hit. So I changed to this fly and then to that one. Still nothing. But now the sun was high and the grasshoppers were coming alive in the fields, moving away from you as you walked through the grass like a puddle of water when a tire hits it. “It’s hopper time” I say to myself. This whole time Bill is slowly but consistently bringing fish in. It’s amazing to watch a truly talented fisherman. It’s artwork. So I tie on a foam bodied hopper and begin to sail him out to the middle. Twenty minutes of nothing, so I began to experiment. Big twitches. Little twitches. Up down up down I tried getting a reaction strike. Nothing. Until I tried the smallest movement I could muster my fly forwards with. I don’t know that my fingers were moving even an inch at a time as they stripped my hopper along the surface. “Come on...yes...come on now...take it...take it...take it!” The biggest trout of my life was moving towards my fly slowly, steadily, purposefully. In one fluid movement his head rose and my hopper disappeared. 

Call me Captain Ahab because I just hooked into Moby Dick. It was a roller coaster ride and he had the steering wheel. Down into the deep water he went, taking drag nearly to my backing. Then banking right he cut through the water like a rocket. Breaking the surface he flew, head thrashing, airborne he went. He had taken off with such speed that my fly line couldn’t keep up. My line was entering the water at my twelve o’clock as if it continued down into the core of the earth, but he was airborne nearly at my two o’clock and I was feeling every headshake he gave. A moment frozen in time. My eyes had taken a picture that will remain in my memory forever. This giant that I had expected to play tug a war with in the deep water was showcasing his high flying acrobatic skills. His sheer size looked unnatural that far out of the water. His nose must have reached four feet above the waters surface. The midday sun gleaming off his side showcasing his color for all the world to see. For that one second of air time might as well have lasted a full sixty seconds, and my heart ceased beating for the entirety of it. Back in the water and off like a rocket again he went putting an even bigger arching bend in my fly line. Even though I was applying the maximum amount of drag to the line with my left hand that I dared put on my 3x tippet, my line couldn’t cut through the water at the speed that he did leaving a rainbow arch as it trailed behind. Again he shot out of the water as if being thrown by some underwater giant head shaking violently trying to free himself. Again my heart stopped for a moment until he reinterred the water with a wake sending splash. For fifteen minutes we would exchange who was in control. He would dominate for a forty foot run and then reluctantly give the line back as he regained his strength. Back and forth this went, the whole while my mind hyper focused thinking about each knot that I had tied joining my fly line to my leader, my leader to my tippet, and my tippet to my fly. I was half believing, half hoping that each knot would stand this test it was thrown into. There’s always a balance of belief and hope when you have such a big fish on the line. It’s between those two that I seesawed back and forth depending on whether he was on one of his crash course runs stripping line off the reel or if he was reluctantly giving line back to me. 

Madison ran over with the net and prepped himself. I’ve seen many fish hit in the head with the net and knocked off the line in my day. This fear was fully present in this moment of action. Once the eyes of this massive trout caught a glimpse of Madison, myself, and the net he was off again like a lightning bolt, taking the line with him. However, this run was noticeable shorter before he ran out of gas and my seesaw dipped a little heavier towards the “belief” side. With each following run they became shorter and shorter, with that came a stronger belief that I had done it. He was ready to give in and let me have my moment of glory. Madison netted him head first and heaved the net over towards me. Lifting this massive trout seemed surreal. His sheer size was dominating and commanded respect. After Madison grabbed a few pictures I set him back in his domain rocking him back and forth helping him get oxygen back in his body. Slowly and surely he cruised back to the depths to once again be the most dominate force under the water. 

25” Rainbow Trout

26. Dissecting The Flow at Flat Creek

Mile: 2,042

    One foot lands in front of the other on the well beaten path. Both sides of the path the grass grows shin high. The occasional wild flower disrupts the shades of light green, tan, and brown the thirsty grass holds. My eyes rise from the trail looking out over a mile of flat grasslands before the topography changes rising into a foothill. Looking to my right and left this sea of grass stretches out over two miles each direction. I find myself on the edge of somewhere north of 2,000 acres of stretching grass lands. I turn around to make sure I didn’t walk through a doorway into a land of Narnia, it seems so surreal. Sure enough, there’s the parking lot and highway behind me with the sign listing the fishing rules and regulations. “There’s a river out here?” I think to myself half wondering if this whole thing has been an elaborate prank that Bill and others put together to get me to wander miles through this prairie in search water. “It’s got to be out here somewhere...” I mumble to myself as my feet tread on. A couple hundred yards in and I see a few specs of color rising above the grasslands. “People,” I think, “those are people,” and sure enough, I see where the grass turns from tan to a deep green telling me there is water close by. 

Soon I can tell that there is life flourishing along a winding path through the middle of the valley. The grass is getting higher and thicker on either side of the trail. And the trail has shoots spurring off the to right and left showing where feet have matted down the grass, but not enough to kill it and turn it into a dirt path like that which I started on. I bank left choosing a path solely based on gut feeling. I’m getting the tingle of excitement that comes during the exploration of a new place that my eyes have never met before. Even more paths diverge off this trail, but they all lead towards what I can now see is a story book stream winding through the middle of this vast meadow. 

Coming to the waters edge, I see that the shape of this river resembles a slinky being stretched out. It twists this way and that making turns so drastic it almost folds back upon itself. I turn North and begin walking the bank of Flat Creek following it upstream. I’m taking it all in. The setting sun, the sound of the creek as it narrows around the bend creating a section of rushing water, the smell of the land - its fresh cool sweetness that enters my nostrils. These are the obvious sensory awakenings. I soon become hyper aware of the finite details of the water. My ears hone in on sounds of disturbances upon the surface of the water, this helps my eyes to find the hidden details beyond the obvious. I begin to dissect the creek flow like one would dissect a frog in high school biology, separating organ from muscle and muscle from bone. But I am separating out where the riffle becomes the run and the run becomes the eddy. ”There you are...,” I say to myself without words locating the neutral water of the eddy. Knowing what lies below. After that comes the pool and then the tailout, the shallow area at the end of the pool. It’s all there. My eyes are playing the scalpel and separating piece from piece because within this living organism known as Flat Creek, lies the prize. They are masters of water hydraulics, minimizing effort while navigating the current. They are the gold medalists of hydrodynamic drag, also known as, underwater surfing. They find the negative flow where they can rest alongside the moving water effortlessly and then chose their meals as the current brings them past. By dissecting the river it allows me to better understand where the best swells are and where the biggest fish will most likely be surfing. The one who can best dissect and understand these different segments of the creek have the best chance at bringing out the prize.

I come upon a guy roughly my age, short brown hair showing out he bottom of his ball cap, “Have you fished here much?” I open the door of the conversation. “This is only the third time this season but I fished it a good bit last season.” He replied back. Obviously not concerned about our current pandemic he begins walking my way to continue the conversation. It puts me at ease and I walk forward to meet him. We talk for ten or fifteen minutes as I inquire more about Flat Creek. He continues, “Some say it’s the hardest water in the state to fish and that you need to treat the fish much like whitetail that you’re stalking to shoot with a bow. Which I agree that it’s some tough water. They just see so many flies, they get educated. They can even feel your footsteps as you approach the water’s edge with these large in cut banks.” He continues and divulges some specific knowledge of what flies he has caught them on in the past. “It’s hard fishing but, knock on wood, I’ve never been skunked here. Which if you can come and catch one fish, you’re doing alright.” He finishes with a confirming head nod. We talk a little more after a few laughs begin to go our separate ways. As I walked away he hollers over his shoulder, “don’t over think it, when in doubt tie a fly on and put it in the water.” I nodded and tipped my imaginary hat down as a thank you and walked on. 

Flat Creek is tough. It’s clear and majority of the time when you see them, they’ve already seen you. But boy, are there some lunkers in there. Wyoming Game and Fish record that they have roughly 129 cutthroat trout over 13” for every mile of water. I guess I did something right because I too never got skunked at Fish Creek. But boy, you have to really work for those fish. They didn’t come easy. I learned to hunt for the risers not just fish the water that holds them. It’s a patient game. A watching game. Walk twenty feet and stop. Be still. Listen and watch for the near silent surfacing of a trout as he picks and chooses his meal. Once you find a fish rising up to eat hatchlings or crippled flies, or some kind of protein floating along the surface, then you have to figure out what’s on their menu and what’s not without spooking them. 

Flat creek will truly test your skills with casting, fly selection, fly presentation, stalking, patience, reading the flow of the creek, and even outthinking other fishermen to present the trout with something they have not been educated on yet. It’s like no other place I have fished in my life. My hat is off to you Flat Creek, you play chess with the fishermen and if they are not skilled or patient enough they will leave finding themselves in checkmate. 

25. Yeah, I’m Going to Jackson...Look Out Jackson Town...

It’s not the Jackson that Johnny Cash wrote about but it fit my version as I rolled into Jackson, WY with some old classics playing through my speakers. 

As I sit here thinking back on Jackson, a smile spreads across my face. I’ve often heard and even found myself saying, “People make the place.” And I agree with that. But as I think through it more I believe that the place is the canvas where the people are the paint. A cheap canvas with holes in it can still hold a breathtaking portrait and the most expensive canvas can hold a painting not worth a penny. Luckily for me, Jackson has some amazing paint and it’s a pretty stunning canvas to which the paint has landed upon. The canvas and paint of Jackson came together creating a piece of art that I will enjoy for years to come.

The main reason my time in Jackson was so memorable was being able to experience it alongside long time friends Madison and Annemarie Gardner, their new baby boy David, a one-of-a-kind outspoken loving Angie, and the best guide you could ask for in Bill Klyn - who’s called Jackson home for nearly the last forty years. With a crew like that, you could be in the middle of the west Texas plains and have a rip roaring - hearty laugh filled - entertaining - meaningful time. No offense to those who choose to call the west Texas plains home. It’s just not my choice of canvas.  

Trying to choose which stories to share from my time in Jackson is like trying to choose which Thanksgiving desert to fill your plate with after you’ve already failed your original goal of not overstuffing yourself on the main course. And going back for seconds, naturally. My Venezuelan brother always shows this by putting his hand up to his jaw, marking the line to which he has filled himself with food. Do you choose Grandmomma’s delicate angel food cake with the perfect amount of frosting so that it melts in your mouth? She’s only been perfecting it over the last 60 years, ohh and it’s topped with blueberries, sliced strawberries, and a scoop of vanilla Blue Bell ice cream. Do you choose Nana’s pecan pie that is warm in the center causing the ice cream scoop placed on top to run rivers down through the toasted buttery pecans resting in the brown sugar and butter whipped filling? The crunch of the crust and nuts with the warm smooth creamy filling, contrasted by the cold sweetness of ice cream...how could you say no? But then you come to the poppyseed cake with pudding under-layered frosting so that the pudding soaks down into the cake making it land somewhere between cake and pudding consistency. As you look down the line you then see and smell simultaneously the rum cake that always gives you a little extra warmth in your gut thanks to the rum filled glaze that’s added after it comes out of the oven. Then there are homemade sugar cookies, brownies, and after all this you have the store bought stuff that isn’t bad...it’s just not heavenly like the former. So, which do you choose? You’re likely to explode if you eat them all, so there must be an elimination. And there lies the difficulty I face in choosing which stories to tell along my time in Jackson. 

24. Mornin’ Tetons

The story of my trip so far has been - plan to be at a location for one day and leave five days later. Jackson Hole was no different. 

When you drive in from the east up hwy 26 and then turn south on 191 the Tetons welcome you when you are still 30 miles out. They loom in the distance as if guarding some great treasure hidden behind them. They command admiration as the sun rises from behind casting its first light on the peak of Grand Teton as it reaches 1.3 miles into the air from the plains at its base. It pulls your eyes to its peak as a magnet draws a nail. Its little brothers and sisters standing at its side only adds to the magnificence of the scene. Several of whom also loom over a mile into the sky scratching the clouds as they pass by. Their sheer size and violent ridge lines bring your car to a stop so that you can give them the attention they deserve. 

Jumping back in the car I FaceTimed with Matt (my brother) showing him the Teton Range in the distance. The only thing better than experiencing such beauty and magnificence is to share it with someone. The snake river flowed fast as it made a mote in front of the Teton Range. I couldn’t help but think about the toads that lay in those deep pools. And when I say “toads” you must understand that I don’t mean literal big mouth, bumpy skin, long legged, jumping toad. I mean a monster trout. A toad! A rainbow that would bend a 5 wt fly rod to it’s breaking point. A “slime rocket” as my Granddaddy called them. A slime rocket that resembled a football in its mid section and over twenty inches long. Maybe over thirty inches! A toad. 

Driving into Jackson I still wondered if I was driving into Jackson Hole, or Jackson. The map said Jackson. But if you searched “Jackson Hole” It brought you to the same place. Unclear I made my way into the city. It was still early but the city was already bustling about with the early morning tourists getting coffee, grabbing a bagel, meandering into the fly shop. I pulled over and stopped next to the coffee shop where I was meeting Madison Gardner a close friend from my time in Dallas. He and his family were vacationing in Jackson the next week and it just happened our trip overlapped. Walking up to the coffee shop I made it all the way to the door before realizing I had forgot my face mask. “Frick!” I audibly shared with the front door as I turned around to go get my mask. I had grown accustomed to walking into any grocery store, bar, restaurant, and gas station in southern Wyoming with no mask. Wyoming, where masks are not essential. Or at least in the smaller less touristy towns. I had appreciated the normalcy of it and now was back to the masked world. “Ughh! I hate this.” I think as I grab my mask and head back to the coffee shop. I bet masks have added miles to my step count over the last month just from forgetting my mask in the car.

Bypassing the hand shake and going in for the hug it was great to see someone who knows me. Someone who I could reference past times with and laugh at certain things without having to explain the reference. A breath of fresh air. Go without seeing someone you know for a few weeks and a familiar face is major blessing. Also, the fact that I haven’t caught up with Madison in a while. After coffee I drove downtown stopping in a little shop where I asked the ladies in the salon inside, “Hey where can I go to get away from the massive crowd of tourists and have a drink on a patio?” Laughing they answered, “Good luck.” Then they pointed me towards a couple suggested places. I found myself sitting and writing soaking up the breeze in the shade. 

Looking up a place to spend the night I found a suggested area east of town twenty minutes on the other side of the Elk Refuge. I started that way down the gravel road leading out of town. I pull up passing a school bus and a few other camper vans. No more had I stepped out of my van and made it three steps when I heard it. “Woo pig!” I stopped in my tracks and turned around. A long haired blonde guy with a little bit of a crazy grin was looking at me from a hundred yards across the way. I started walking his way just knowing this is about to be a hilarious conversation. When you run into someone from Arkansas the chances are that you know some of the same people. And when he said he went to harding you just throw your head back and laugh. Some of his favorite people are some of my favorite people. The first few names he mentions are guys I’ve known since I was seven years old. Zach Gill, Tyler Tipton, Peyton Weeks, Payton Hurst, and the list continued. We were instant friends. He and his wife Lauren had bought a converted school bus a few months prior and had been living in Denver until the week before that and they started their travels out west. It’s amazing who you’ll run into outside of the Elk Refuge east of Jackson Hole, WY. 

23. Home for the Night

 Mile: 1,978

Pulling out of Brooks Lake I had to stop and snap a few pictures as the sun was setting. God sure knows how to paint. 

It was late, maybe 10:30pm and I once again had not found my home for the evening yet. I blame Wind River Lake. It’s water was just too clear, too calm, and there were too many fish surfacing. So naturally I had to stop and catch a few. Being dark before I even pulled over and put Pearl in park it was pitch black by the time I put the rod back up. So there I am once again beboppin down the highway at 10:30 towards Jackson, WY unsure of where I would put Pearl for the evening. Looking at the map I found some National Forest land and figured that would do just fine. The moment you dip off pavement and your tires find gravel you know an adventure is on it’s way. Keeping the tires out of the ruts and low spots in the road I bounced down this old forest road. Soon the lights from the cars on the highway were no more than a firefly in the distance. The stillness of the evening was encapsulating, almost intoxicating. There comes a stillness in a star lit night that makes one just stand and look up. This evening was just that. Pulling off the gravel road and into a field I made sure my tires were mostly level before I turned the car off. A level parking job is crucial to a good nights sleep. I had found a patch of grass that would work for me for the evening and turned off the engine. It didn’t take long for me to fall sleep that night.When I woke, I found that I had parked in a beautiful field surrounded by clumps of woods. Drinking my morning coffee I stayed pretty close to the van since I was getting a quick start on the day heading into Jackson. Hindsight, I’m glad I did! I turned back off the gravel road and it wasn’t half a mile from where I camped that I looked out and saw a grizzly bear taking his morning stroll.

 

22. Another Chain Bites the Dust...

Mile: 1,977

Water, check. Snacks, check. Helmet, check. Bike, check. Extra bike chain in case I break my chain four miles in, don’t have it, don’t need it. That’s what I thought when I took off down the Continental Divide Trail on the west side of Brooks Lake. 

I was feeling good cruising down the dirt trail. My shoes clipped in giving me some additional power but also making things a little bit more sketchy when flying through creeks trying not to hit the big rocks and fall over without being able to get my foot out of the clip-ins fast enough. Worth the risk. Although I did almost eat it a handful of times when my balance got wonky and I didn’t unclip a foot quick enough to catch myself. 

Mostly cruising the path alone and occasionally passing a hiker or a group on horseback, I made my way to Upper Brooks Lake. Purposefully not bringing my fishing gear this was to be solely a mountain biking trip not his day. However, pulling up and seeing trout constantly surfacing made me second guess my decision to leave all fishing gear behind. I rolled up next to a lady sitting in the shade watching a man stand on the shore casting out. “Pretty good view ehh?” I spoke up. She turned, “not bad, not bad at all.” Her name was Sharron and we talked for fifteen or twenty minutes and watched John, her boyfriend, catch three or four trout. As a bald eagle flew over Sharron shouted down to John, “Put one of those trout out for the eagle. Let’s see what happens.” John obliged and I think was excited to do so but took the one big trout he had on the stringer off and laid it on the rocks thirty yards away. I continued speaking with Sharron about Yellowstone and Glacier getting suggestions from her of good hikes and places to get away from the masses. Yet another person excited to give me suggestions of what I should do and where I should go. 

I made it out to the Continental Divide and turned around. I hadn’t made it far when I hit a steep incline and quickly shifted to counter the steepness. Pedaling hard I wanted to conquer the hill and not give in to walking. “POW!” My pedals flew around in a quick circle having lost all resistance. “Nooooo.......” I muttered knowing something had gone wrong. Looking down I see my chain laying on the ground in one long line no longer a completed loop. I had broke my chain and I was still four miles from making it back to Pearl. “UGGHHHHH!” I let out some frustration with a yell. Taking off my clip-one I exchange them for Chacos and begin the trudge back to Pearl. My bike was now truly a downhill bike. I’d jump on and try to pick up as much speed as I could any downhill I had and then as it flattened I would jump off and walk her. I felt like a little kid I had seen back in Casper, WY with his grandma as he mounted his pedal-less bike and began Flinstoning his way along the trail. I gave it a try. The juice wasn’t worth the squeeze so I kept with my walking. 

A couple hours later I reached Pearl and heard a familiar voice, “Hey Bud! You comin’ up for dinner? We’re about to throw some $&#@$#*$ chicken on the #$%#*$@ grill! You’re a good ole boy! You can join.” I laugh to myself, grab some sweet potatoes and fresh trout and head up the hill to join them. Not a bad camping meal that evening. Fresh trout with seared sweet potatoes and BBQ chicken. Not bad at all. Roger and Riggs are some good company as well. To hear them tell stories will cause you to sit down and shut up excited for the next ridiculous story. I added a few myself to the mix. They especially got a kick out me walking my bike four miles back down the trail. We got along just fine.  

21. Brooks Lake

Mile: 1,977

 “Splish, splash, splish, splash, splish splash,” the steps were coming closer. “It’s coming down the stream...” I thought. “Splish, splash, splish, splash,” they continued approaching. “The noise was too stealthy to be made by human feet. Animal. Animal feet. What kind though!?” My mind racing trying to channel some kind of Indian animal knowledge to discern what kind of feet would make such a sound In water. “Light splashes, so small. Right? How quiet can a bear walk in the water? Is it loud small feet of a deer or quiet big feet of a bear? But more than one...yes...there’s more than one of them.” My mind continued. I’m no longer needing to strain to hear the feet dispersing the moving water as they lifted and came back down through the ten inches of drifting water. I let out a “hey bear!” In hopes the splashes would turn and go back up river. They continued. I let out a whistle. Another whistle, and this one louder. “Hey bear, hey buddy, heyyyyy bear!” the steps continued. My mind racing faster now racing from thought to thought. “When he rounds that bend I will be no more than twenty yards from him, will he rush me? Surely if it was a person, they would have replied back when I yelled. Definitely animal. But WHAT animal? Moose? That would be bad too! Frick! Should I run before I see it? Do I have time to run? ‘Don’t run from bears!’” my mind heard the lady say again who I bought my bear spray from. “Dang it! Dang it! Dang it!” The voice in my mind was getting louder with every step this animal was taking towards me. “But they couldn’t hear my holler or whistle because of their splashing I bet...shoot!” My thoughts continued to increase in speed with every step this wild something was taking towards me on a one way highway straight downstream to me. “Shoot! Wait, yes! Shoot!” I grabbed my bear spray and pointed it at the corner of the bend a few feet above the trout I had been casting at sixty seconds before. “What if it’s a mule deer? Agh that would be awesome! I want a picture. Ok ok ok...is it a deer? A bear?! A moose?!” My mind was not slowing down. This thing was no more than ten steps from the bend where I would meet it eye to eye, face to face. It was now five steps away from rounding the corner. I quickly moved to the side of the creek shoving my shoulder up into the willow bushes as they stretched up another few feet above my head. “No one would be able to get to me to help even if they did hear my yell,” I thought. “Ok, here we go!” My mind was competing in the Indy 500 as it kept circling back to “Bear, bear, bear, bear” and increasing it’s accelerating speed. It was three steps out. Two steps out. “He’s right there!” My brain working in overdrive. I pull up my Canon T2i up and bring it to my eye one handed I focus it on the bend right in front of me and with the other hand I’m holding the bear spray also pointed at the corner ready to shoot. My heart beat is competing with the speed of my mind as it tries to exit my body by beating down the door of my chest. Thinking of my Glock 9mm on my hip, I’m ready to drop my camera and shoot whatever I need to in order to make it back safely. “Movement!!” My eyes lock in on the brown coat and, “wait....wait....FIRE!” 

So many of my adventures take up all the sunlight and I end up driving quite a bit at night. This night leaving Dubois was no different, but, it was later than normal. Looking at the clock laughing that it read 1:30am and thinking back to the scene out of a John Wayne movie that I just stepped out of and into Pearl. “Time to find a place to rest my head” I thought longing to be unconscious already my tired mind rounded bend after bend on hwy 26 headed towards national forest land. Looking ahead on the maps I found a good sized lake in the national forest called Brooks Lake. And it that fast I had found the next home for Pearl and I. I didn’t know what it would look like or if I would be alone or surrounded. But at this hour, I’d pull into a “No Parking” sign lined Best Western parking lot. 

A few gravel road turns and bumpy forest roads later I was close. I see the Brooks Lake Campground sign realizing that I would not be alone. I pass all the designated spots filled with happily sleeping campers and keep moving. My tired eyes looking for a relief of an open camping spot but the excitement of what I would wake up to in the morning kept me focused and alert. I continue and the spots become more and more spread out. I make another turn to go up the hill and realize that I’m not longer in a sanctioned camp ground, which is how I prefer it. The less crowded at a campsite the better. “Ohh let’s go!!” My headlights had found an empty pull off to the right that was level enough for me to call home for the evening. Pearl came to a rest and silence ensued. A quiet that would rival the best sound cancelling headphones in an empty church hall. The cold air sending shivers down my spine as it ate through my jacket and jeans. I waste no time jumping in the back, closing the sliding door and sliding under the covers. Happy in my small little space, I love sleeping in the van. It’s my own little cocoon of safety at night that opens up to God’s amazing beautiful creation each morning. It makes me desire sleep almost as much as my old roommate Zach knowing of what will come with the morning light. Unlike Zach I don’t launch myself into my bed, I do more of a crawl or roll over into bed. Otherwise, I’d smash my face on the lower roof or end up breaking something. But that smallness has become something I value. Something that is enough. There’s no excess there. It’s just right. My thoughts drift into nothingness as the darkness overtakes me and my cold exposed nose begins to draw the deep consistent breathes of a heavy sleep.

My alarm goes off and I know it’s time. Time to go find out what Brooks Lake is holding along the shoreline in the deep blue green of it’s waters. I get some water boiling for coffee while I hold my contacts case between both hands breathing hot air into them. Cold contacts will send your eyeballs for a shock and end in a waterfall of tears if you put them in your eyes before warming them up. Grabbing a yogurt and banana I begin to tame my loud stomach from it’s complaining of emptiness. “I’ll take that to go please,” slips out and I chuckle to myself filing up my Yeti with the black richness of my morning pour over coffee. Strapping on my fly fishing gear and grabbing a few granola bars for the trail, I’m off. Most of the other campers were still asleep when I walked down the hill, through the campsite, and to the waters edge. My toes were already feeling wetness from the morning dew that had soaked through the toes of my shoes and into my socks. Glass. The water stood before me reflecting the North Breccia Cliffs. I turn towards the rising sun still below the Pinnacle Buttes to the east and they stand tall in their shadow keeping the sunlight from reaching me. I stand there admiring the smoothness of the liquid glass in front of me. Truly amazing. To think this is just some random campsite where the Bridger-Teton Nation Forest and the Shoshoni National Forest come together. Nothing special right? No national park, just some woods. Wrong. A beauty that is intoxicating. I’m shocked at how beautiful the site is and think again about how glad I am that I ended up here in the pitch black darkness of the night before. Who knew I was surrounded by these sleeping giants hiding in the dark. The sunlight is showing the true magnificent and commanding respect of the looming peaks of these two mountains on either side of me. 

Continuing on I made my way around the east side of the lake, which looks deeper and like it would hold more fish. The glass topped lake was broken by a trout fifty yards out from the bank and the ripples spread further and further from where he had ended the life of an emerging fly trying to get away from the dangers that lurk below the water. “Hey bear!” I yell as I enter some thicker woods along the east side. “Hey bear! Hey buddy!” I holler out again and make sure I’m making some kind of noise every ten to twenty steps as I follow a trail along the bank side and through the brush. Finding an opening between two bushes I decide to get my parachute adams top water fly wet. After a few casts I see some movement in the water underneath a bush no more than ten steps away. Looking closer I see it’s a trout just a couple inches off the bank in search of breakfast with half an inch of his back protruding out of the water. Eight steps. Seven. I slowly coax my fly closer to the bank. He breaks from his course seeing my fly a couple feet away and decides it is next on his breakfast buffet menu. Slam!! He hits it with a fury! “ffffFFFTTTT” I got him! The hook set was good and found his jaw line. He was a great fight and to see a trout take a top water fly is as exciting as catching him. So this was scratching the itch I had building ever since I opened my eyes and looked out seeing Brooks Lake in it’s glory this morning. He was a beauty. 

I fished the east bank until the sun got high enough so that the entire lake was in full sun for the rest of the day. Working my way around the bank I had a decision to make. I either went back the way I came and walk the mile back to the van fishing water I had already fished, or, bushwhacking. As you can guess with me by now, adventure calls my name. So the decision was easy. Bushwhacking it is. I begin forging my way through six to twelve foot tall bebb willow bushes thick as an overstuffed coat closet, I began making my way. Following a small game trail of some sort I find myself stepping out on the bank of a fifteen foot wide creek that feeds Brooks Lake. “Well, it’s either wet feet or wet shoes...” I think. “Feet it is” and I lose my socks and shoes stepping barefoot into the ice cold stream. The water comes half way up my calf as I step in and instantly makes me take a quick breath due to the frigidness of it. The rock bed on the bottom of the stream catches the weight of my foot and I step lightly to keep the pain of the rocks on my bare feet to a minimum. Socks and shoes in my pack and I’m off. I turn the first corner and see three trout laying in a deep hole in the creek just a few feet ahead of me and they apparently saw me as well because they didn’t wait around for a proper introduction. They flew up the creek in search of safety. “Ok then, stealth mode it is” I think to myself and begin walking slowly up stream away from the he lake. “Hey bear!” My voice rings out every ten to twenty steps as I can’t see over, under, or around the brush surrounding. I’d rather be safe than sorry. 

I had caught eight to ten of these little ten inch rainbows and walked a couple hundred yards up this creek when I first heard the splashes of feet in the stream. And closer and closer and closer they got. “Whatever this is walking in the water, it’s following the river! And the river leads to me!” My mind fluttering from thought to thought. It was close now! My heart beat was competing with the speed of my mind as it tried to exit my body by beating down the door of my chest. Thinking of my Glock 9mm on my hip, I’m ready to shoot whatever I need to in order to make it back safely. Camera in one hand, bear spray in the other, and my 9mm waiting to be grabbed with one round already in the chamber. I was as ready as I would be to meet whatever this was when it’s face met mine no more than fifteen steps from where the bend in the creek stopped my line of sight. “Movement!!” My eyes lock in on the brown coat and, “wait....wait....FIRE!” The finger on my camera compresses and “click click click.” With a good back wind I could have spit on them. A doe mule deer and her fawn were frozen, shocked by the sight of me being so close to them. I didn’t move a muscle. I matched their stillness as my body stood half shoved into the bushes bordering the creek. My sigh of relief must have been what they were waiting for because as if it was the drop of the start flag in a drag race, they spun on their heels and took off. Crashing up the creek bed away from me breaking the silent serenity of the moment they went. I pulled my camera down from my face revealing a smile stretching ear to ear. “Thank you Lord,” I say out loud knowing that would have been a different experience had it been a bear or even a moose. “Louder” I think to myself. “I need to be louder.” My heart rate regulates back to normal and I press on up the creek, but now, my “Hey bear!” had a little extra juice to it and rang a little louder. I loved getting that close to those mule deer but I wasn’t ready to have that close of an encounter with something that runs forty miles and hour, has a bite down force of a thousand pounds, twenty claws that stretch out three to five inches in length, with the possibility of being roughly ten feet tall and fifteen hundred pounds of brown. I’ll pass. “HEY BEAR!!!” I continue up the stream as it cut through the willow thicket. 

Still barefoot I began traipsing straight through the thicket breaking branches and pushing leaves out of my face, out from between my legs, and everywhere in between. My “Hey bear!” Had turned into a live rendition of Hotel California originally by the Eagles but this version was an a cappella solo by yours truly. I guess it worked because I didn’t run up on any other animals while romping through the thicket. Ten minutes and a few scratches later I popped out the other side of this three hundred yard wide thicket of willows. My feet were hollering for my shoes so I happily obliged them letting them find warm and dry socks with a soft sole to land on. Picking up my pace I made the complete counter clockwise circling of Brooks Lake. My best guess being that I had covered somewhere between four and six miles while walking around the lake. It was nearly 3:00 pm by now and my stomach was not silenced by the two granola bars I had brought along so I was happy to see Pearl cresting that final hill making it back to my camp site. “Ha, just another day in God’s Wild West!” I think as I take my pack off and sit down. 

“Hey Partner! Did you go fishin’ this mornin’?” This deep Texas draw rings out up the hill. Looking up I see a broad shouldered stature looking down the hill at me. “Sure did.” I barely get out before he starts in again. “Man, did you walk all the way around that dad gum lake?” Joining his Texan accent are one to three choice words each sentence he makes. But it comes off more natural than forced and I can tell that’s just his style of speech, a little rough around the edges. “Hell fire, you’re one serious $%#&@#, you must $%#&%@# love fishing then! Hey come on up once you get yourself settled in down there.” He finish the slew of exclamations with an invitation. “Well, why not?” I think to myself. I make a monster sandwich and head up the hill. I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. Life would have been less of an adventure if I had not met Roger and Riggs, two ex special forces guys who were waiting for me beer in hand to top the hill.