So I’m meeting an old friend for our annual three-day fly fishing adventure. This year we’re again flying to Utah, and driving three plus hours to the northeast corner of the state to fish on the Green River. Up front let me say, I’m a horrible fly fisherman. If my skills were evaluated, I’d be a solid C-. Naturally the fact that I fish once a year doesn’t help.
After a three and half hour drive from the Salt Lake City airport we arrive at a restaurant that has a fly fishing store attached to it. As you wait for your table, you can browse for any items you might have left at home. This is a life saver for me. While we’re perusing the cases of flies my friend starts speaking with a guide who just today fished an area called, Jone’s Hole. We’ll be hiking and fishing in that remote area tomorrow. The guide explains to my friend where fish are biting and what they’re hitting. He begins to explain this multi-tier rig where fly lines cascade from one another. (So you’re fishing with multiple flies at the same time.) I wince as this is sounding complicated. My friend understands completely, but as soon as the guide started describing this tiered contraption, my mind glazed over. We get to our cabin and thanks to the Internet and knot tying tutorials, I’ve created my own diabolical multi-line configuration, which I’m eager to test out in the trees and bushes tomorrow. We’ve been to Jone’s Hole before. This section of the Green River tributary is narrow and fast with shrubs and trees on both banks. It is imperative that you have expert casting skills and a tight, simple rig – I have neither.
As we arrive in the Jone’s Hole parking lot we notice a bazillion large pitch-black creatures scurrying on the ground. They’re called, “Mormon Crickets”. The big ones, and there are a lot of them, look like they’re the result of a horrific nuclear accident. I’m glad I’m wearing thick boots with high, rubberized socks. As the day progresses, I complete my usual amount of shrub trimming and have come to realize I need to replace my fly with something that looks more like one of these mutant crickets. The closest thing I have is a dark looking grasshopper. I’m dreading dismantling my contraption and having to leverage my weak knot tying skills. But it’s time to man up and reach for the gusto. After a commensurate amount of cursing, I complete the operation. I’m very pleased with myself and make my first cast. My fly goes directly into the tall trees and with that, it’s time to call it a day.
The next day we’re fishing in the canyons that have been dug out by the Green River over millions of years. The topography is nothing short of amazing. The canyon walls soar hundreds of feet high. There are tiers of a variety of stone with colors ranging from gray to red to brown. Large pine trees grow precariously out of the walls. And the water, as you can imagine, it’s crystal clear. Being from the East coast I never get used to the images, and the iPhone saves a ton on film costs. In the canyons we’re fishing with a guide in his titanium rowboat. It’s specifically designed to handle the fast moving waters of the rocky bottom Green River. The guide sits in the middle of the boat and rows - a lot. There’s no motor. My friend is standing in the rear and I am in the front. The guide is great, no attitude and has no problem repeating instructions to me…ad nauseam. We’re fishing with a large fly that has a monster size hook. I’ve lost a number of fish throughout the day. It’s become my go to move. I’m also battling to cast my fly far enough out and in the right spot on the water. This deficiency is requiring me to quickly pull my initial cast out of the water and then lickety split recast further out. This becomes my second go to move of the day. The only problem is that once the fly has landed on the water during the first cast, it’s almost as if it’s stuck in glue. Getting it to release becomes a constant herculean effort. But once it does let go, the fly and its armor piercing hook, becomes a dangerous projectile traveling at Mach 5. And the best part, I have absolutely no control over where it’s headed as it comes flying back towards the boat. The guide and my friend are constantly cringing, covering and ducking. At one point I nailed my friend in the chest and got a well deserved incredulous look. I’m sure the guide was wondering when his turn was coming.
So we’re in the last hour of the day and our guide takes us to a new area of the river. I make my cast and determine right away, I’ll need to recast. The fly with the big hook comes screaming back at me and before I can duck I feel something smack me about a quarter inch from my eye. In a purely reflex move my hand immediately presses up against the side of my face and I can feel the hook embedded right next to my eyeball. I glance at my two teammates, they’re stunned. It’s as if they’ve seen a ghost - a ghost with a hook through his eye.
The guide is now in a state of heightened concern. (Later he said he was thinking it was time to call for a helicopter…if only we had connectivity.) He raises his voice and says, “Don’t Move!” He pulls the boat over and then while looking me straight in the face says, “Okay, move your hand away.” At that point he loses it and says, “Oh My God!” As you can imagine, just a bit of angst percolates upwards. I’m thinking to myself, I don’t feel any pain, and I think I’m seeing out of two eyes, but maybe I’m in shock and the hook is actually sticking out of my eyeball. As it turns out, the guide was able to remove the hook with one quick maneuver. Any thoughts of a movie or modeling career are over, but I did not lose an eye. Then he applied a huge dab of disinfectant from one of his fingers that was caked in fish guts. Very reassuring. And that night at the restaurant/fly fish store I bought a great pair of anti-glare sunglasses with a protective wrap-around feature.
Final Note: Five minutes after almost losing my eye, the fishing gods smiled down upon me. I caught a five-pound, 23 inch golden Brown Trout.
