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3. The Flaming Gorge

March 2nd 2005 2:20 PM. I checked into Dutch John; purchased my Utah nonresident 7 day fishing license, and Flaming Gorge National Recreation Area pass. This was the first week of a seven week trip; the remainder would culminate in Colorado. Over the years I’ve read many references to the Green’s fantastic fishing, which precipitated this occasion. It was with much anticipation that I greeted the Green. To explore and unravel the mysteries of a new fly fishing experience is my ultimate endeavor.

Day three:
During the previous two days I had been mesmerized by an all day hatch of the ubiquitous Midge. The fish were lined up along the slow water, tight to the bank, eagerly taking any dry presented in the 22 to 24 size range. But today the hatch had been cancelled; evidently I hadn’t paid sufficient homage for my previous success. No, today the cap on the aquatic world had been sealed, what had once been rife with excitement was now depressingly void. So, I reluctantly decided to nymph my way up into the Red Gorge, trying some of the more turbulent water. As I slowly advanced my offense, working up river, it became increasingly evident that my tactics were lacking. It was fast approaching the noon hour, and all effort to this point was of no avail. I began frantically searching the deepest recesses of my mind, trying to coerce from memory that perfect combination of imitation and presentation, that would pique the pea brained Pisces to pick-up. It was then, while I was going through one of my many fly boxes, I think for the second time, that I noticed an old salmon egg imitation, buried at the bottom of a mass of tangled flies. I hadn’t seen it in years. Many years ago, as a neophyte, I had used this despicable thing. It was on a private stretch of the Frying Pan from which I had wretched a twenty-seven inch Rainbow, my biggest fish to date. When I say “wretched” what I mean to say is; can you imagine catching the fish of a lifetime on a salmon egg imitation? It kind of takes the wind out of your sail doesn’t it? Well anyway, I thought I’d eliminated all trace of this incriminating evidence long ago. My worst fear was that one of my fishing buddies would spot this in my box; I may as well have been carrying a jar of the real stuff. Surely I would have been shunned, if not down right banished, by my fellow elitists. I grabbed my forceps and deftly plucked it from its place, reveling in the sweet-sour memory it produced. It was at that very instant that it suddenly hit me. Now at this point some of the more astute fly fishers might be thinking, that I was thinking, of trying this salmon egg. I can assure you that I would never stoop that low. Can you imagine how I would feel if I caught an even bigger fish on the damn thing? No, what hit me were the eggs I had for breakfast. I’m not sure that the word “hit” quite conveys the essence of the meaning I’m trying to get across, because it lacks that element of urgency. I immediately began a frantic search through my eighty-pocket vest for the pulpwood double-ply, which at a time like this I deem essential, but came up empty handed. How could I have forgotten the one staple, necessary for those unexpected emergencies, which often plague day long excursions? Instantly my mind became crystal clear, focused on only one thing, the most intense concentration of sphincter control I could muster. To compound my precarious situation, I found myself closely joined by many a fellow sportsman, I was in no position to just drop trou. Immediately I scanned the area for a concealed spot to void myself of the vile demon that was rapidly slithering its way to an exit, but no such spot of concealment was close at hand. At the very moment when I thought all hope had been lost, just as I was about to relax all resistive effort allowing myself to transcend from one hell to the next, a single ray of salvation caught my eye. There! Perched atop the hill, about a hundred yards away, stood a structure, monolithic in stature, standing tall as a beacon of hope, luring me as if the song of the Siren. The Park Department, had, in its infinite wisdom, erected an OUTHOUSE. The race was on, and every step closer was met with an ever increasing internal struggle; stronger doubt and increased hope. Was the Siren’s song going to lead to my demise, the failed attempt to successfully deposit the demon into the pit for which it is most deserving, and eternally soil the interior of my new Orvis waders? More than once I considered abandoning the effort, but the sphincter held tight. At about thirty yards the fly rod was hastily cast to the brush, ridding myself of its encumbrance without any concern, as if; rod be damned, away with you. In the next ten the vest was flung over my shoulder to the ground, as if a discarded piece of refuse. The last twenty yards was fraught with dropping the waders and pants to my ankles, without impeding forward progress, a challenge to even the most athletic. A technique I perfected that day, I call it the (wayward wader waddle). Simple, really, if you understand physics; when distance traveled per step over time, is impeded by a shorter distance traveled per step, then an increase in steps over time is necessary, if time is to remain the fixed constant, and in this case time was of the essence. A gut splitting sight I’m sure. I hit the door just as my wayward wader waddle withered, and in one final hop skip and jump, launched myself atop the throne. The impact ruptured the sphincter seal and the gates of hell were opened.

I left the FLAMING GORGE.

Allan-

Having had similar experiences, occasionally less satisfactory concluded, your eloquent description of the dreaded event brings a smile to my face.

I agree with Roger - quite an amusing read to start off the day.

It reminds of the time I was visiting a GF at her family's home, the first time I met her parents and siblings. I went out for a run on Saturday morning and returned wearing only one sock, which, when events were explained, greatly entertained the father and horrified the little sister.

My dearly departed old man and I were doing a float trip for smallmouth down the James River in Va, when he had a similar requirement for relief. As it happened we stopped adjacent to a cow pasture, an apt spot for this activity. I stayed in the boat while the senior fellow scrambled up the bank. While doing his business, a number of the cows decided to investigate more closely what was going on.

Once back in the boat, he assured me that being under such close scrutiny by such large animals whilst in such a vulnerable position was disconcerting to say the least.

By the way, for those of a Freudian persuasion, I wouldnt read too much into this thread.