(or Rivanna, Part 2)
I am a man now, thirty something, and far from innocent, but my desires at least have grown more comfortable, their barbs crimped by conflict and compromise. I bristle still at boundaries, but their effrontery is less personal and I’ve long since learned to circumvent the ones that I can’t tolerate. Such evasion has pushed me farther and farther from the dense development of the eastern seaboard, farther and farther from the headwaters of my people and of the Rivanna. I found a keen culpability than, returning a prodigal son come to bear witness to his father’s death.
Alone and with family I stood vigil beside suffering and decline, shouldering what I could and surrendering the balance. Cornered by loss, one casts about for escape and, being no exception, I regressed to old habits. Thumbing through my water stained gazetteer looking for a time machine, I found instead an unremarkable blue squiggle, fixed to the page, measured and labeled like a vein in a dissection tray, impossibly small and lifeless. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Time heals all wounds. The clichés are myriad and hollow. It was clear from Dad’s bedside what’s lost to distance and the decay that grows with time. Grief will not be evaded, nor will conscience. The mountain was moving.
An unexpected vista is awesome and terrifying. I can no longer see things as I wish them. A father now myself, I must meet the world as it is. At six weeks Everett’s desires are uncomplicated and easily met, but they will grow with him. What will I provide? My guide has gone, and he leaves no map. I have followed his trail and it has led me ever forward, confident and secure, but here it ends and amid thicket and vine I am left wondering. Can I blaze a trail so sure? I don’t know. Dad would push forward though. So I gather his tools to me – the primacy of family, the value of hard work, the golden rule – and step into the current. Everett will need a clear path and I aim to provide it. He’ll need boundaries too. And of course he’ll need a river.
* * *
On the way to the airport I parked the rental beside the bridge and watched her from afar. In mid June the Rivanna lay languid in lacy green. I wondered if her magic had weathered commerce’s latest insults, if she still held salve, and if she still shared life. I wondered too if having been with rivers less tired and more beautiful than she, and having danced with fish more graceful than hers she would still have me. I can’t say why, but I believe that she does and that she would. In the end, that will have to be enough.
Upland birds have gained my favor the past few years. Maybe it’s the country, maybe it’s because I don’t have to get up at 3am, maybe it’s the exercise that both my dogs and I appreciate. Whatever the reason waterfowl have been on the back burner. However, time spent in the uplands has not caused my dogs to lose their webbed feet and it is hard to deny how good a lab looks in water.
Photos by Steven Brutger
We were boys, 16 maybe 17, and newly possessed of ancient desires. Our ill-defined hungers for something slippery, pulsing, and mysterious were poorly met by the confines of our asphalt and strip-mall world, confines erected by sensible elders to keep us in the navigable middle channel and away from the rapids. But being boys, and 16 or 17, we cared not for the sensible. We wanted what we wanted, and so we rebelled. In our rebellion we went to her.
She was older and infinitely more worldly. Lifetimes before accepting our infatuation, she’d born Charlottesville, raised it, and lain entwined with the cul-de-sac, and office park agents of our frustration. She’d opened her bed to our would-be corrallers. The city planner used her like chattel, and the captains of industry did dirty, dirty things with her. But to the lust-blind eye of teenaged need, she was unsullied sanctuary and clandestine confidant; she was our refuge, our river, our Rivanna.
Rods in hand, we visited her in stolen hours. We snuck past backdoors, hid behind hedges and, when necessary, strode with feigned propriety across open stretches of private property to meet her, whereupon we inevitably suffered a hic-up of uncertainty, palms sweating with suspected inadequacy, the tendency towards flight an artifact of recent childhood. But we were 16 or 17, no longer kids to our thinking, and so we pushed forward and down, surrendering to her embrace. She tugged at ratty sneakers and whispered behind bare thighs, spurring us to wade where we could, insisting that we give ourselves to the current where we must.
The whip cracks of impatient backcasts punctuated our come-ons. Wind knots ran rough shod through our sparse allowances. Riverside oaks and sycamores collected poppers and streamers like Christmas tree ornaments. Yet amid our naïve exuberance and tactless flailing she accepted us without condescension, and even – once in a great while – rewarded our efforts with smallmouth bass. And oh what a reward! For the wildness starved adolescent, the aspiring explorer fenced among the tame, what better gift than participation in the pounce of the predator? How better to ascend from a manufactured and sterile suburban universe than to cast a lifeless bit of string upon a pagan altar and watch it brought to life? In these transformative hours doing was swapped for being, thinking for sensing, conscience for consciousness. Hers was a fine bit of alchemy.
And so bewitched, perhaps we saw her not as she was but as we needed her to be. Discarded tires and half-buried shopping carts weren’t the scars of a checkered past; they were good structure. We wasted no time railing at residential deforestation and Chem-Lawn runoff. Rather we swam the dead stretches and tallied the challenge in our adventure ledgers. Through tannin colored glasses we boys shared a co-dependant fantasy with our Rivanna. She was not innocent, and we wanted not to be. I can imagine no finer match.
Admittedly, I’m not much for cooking and taking the time to make a mixed drink isn’t my style either. However, following in the footsteps of my father and grandfather before me I have developed a liking for single malt scotch. Here’s one to put in the quiver if you haven’t already.
Bruichladdich: The Laddie Ten
Until its resurrection in 2001 the Bruichladdich distillery had been closed since 1994. Located on the the isle of Islay, they have a rich history of making single malts dating back to 1881. Since reopening they have had a number of small batch bottlings that have been successful in reacquainting drinkers with the brand.
The Laddie Ten is the first 10 year old distilled since reopening. It is aged in a combination of bourbon and sherry casks. Malted from only Scottish barley, it is unchill filtered, non coloured and distilled a 46% abv.
Now, I’m not great at describing the taste, but on a spring evening, when the sun comes out just after a thunderstorm, this is a tough scotch to beat. It is easy to drink, smoother than the age would suggest, unpeated, and and has just enough complexities to hold your attention.
I learn something every time I go fishing. Yet with every lesson I realize that the boundaries of my ignorance are farther away than ever. Usually this “progress” comes in bight sized chunks that, like parenting, are great for maintaining humility. It’s a puzzle here (jab), a challenge there (jab, cross) and maybe even the occasional quandary (jab, jab, hook) that keep you bobbing and weaving on your toes; a fun little give and take. But lose sight of angling’s fundamental mystery and you’ll eventually find yourself blinking into a ten-count, asking what just happened. I recently shared a day on the river with my friend Latane that may have sucker-punched me into an alternate reality.
I should have seen it coming when we chose a river that flows across a mountain range. Not from, down, around, beside or near a mountain range… across. Let that sink in for a second. If the concept leaves you curious, and you have a moment, try and find another example of a river crossing mountains. You won’t be able to. In fact, you’ll likely have a hard time finding this one in your atlas. Early cartographers, understanding that water runs down hill, and thus not believing such a phenomenon possible, gave the river two names, one for each side of the would-be divide.
The water’s inexplicable behavior wasn’t confined to the horizontal though. I stood thigh-deep in this river for hours and emerged colder and wetter above the waterline than below. The miracles of modern wader technology go a long way toward explaining this particular head-scratcher, but they don’t make it normal.
Photo By Matthew Copeland
So there I am, upside-down sodden, in a river that goes where it can’t, when lo and behold, what should appear? Long, broad shouldered trout, with tails like whisk brooms leaping from cold, fast water into the driving rain. The type of fish that I’d come to believe (by way of ego protection) only emerged at midnight during the second full moon of months ending in “ber” – and then just to eat mule deer fawns – were jumping like jackalope all over the river. What could possibly bring these trolls to the surface and beyond in a near frozen May downpour? I still don’t know. I tried everything in my box. It was like looking for a river that crosses mountains.
Had it only been river, water and fish that broke with convention, I’d have walked away without ever registering that I’d crossed some bizarro fishing boundary. My own inconsistencies finally tipped me off though. I’d always been faithful to the age old maxim “you never catch anything on your last cast”.
It turns out that ignorance really can be bliss.
All day I had been swinging my fly through some of the best steelhead water on the planet, but I hadn’t connected with a fish. The Dean had been kind to me over the past few days and I was utterly spoiled on what was my first steelhead trip. Still, I was addicted to the pull and trying hard to finish the day with at least a pluck.
The sun was about to dip behind the mountains, I had 20 minutes before it would be time to call it a day. Just above the juiciest part of the run I felt a subtle peck, unmistakable for anything but a fish, then nothing. Trying to remain calm, I moved ten feet upstream and swung through the spot again. Nothing.
Five days prior I would have kept moving downstream, assuming my chance was gone. But I had spent every waking moment for the past few days trying to soak up as much knowledge as possible from the experienced steelheaders I was with. Trying to go from unconsciously incompetent to raw novice.
At this moment Justin pulled up in the boat, letting me know we needed to get back to camp pretty soon. Ten more minutes was an easy compromise.
With a slow breath, that was counter to my nature, I backed upstream a second time. Clipping off the large pink intruder, I tied on something smaller, still pink. Stepping back into the run I tried to muster my confidence and transfer it into every cast. Then came the familiar peck, followed by another. I had become a bit quick on the draw, causing me to loose a few fish, so I was trying desperately to let this one hang himself. My right arm was straight down by my side, not budging, with the rod tip pointed directly at the fish.
Peck, peck, peck. The small loop I help in my hand slowly began to come taught, I remained motionless. Line began to leave the reel engaging the drag, finally I lifted the rod, we were connected! “You played the player” Justin hollered from the bank. Rocketing downstream the fresh steelhead cartwheeled through the air. Minutes later I was on my knees, cradling a fish that only hours ago had just left the salt beginning his journey upriver.
Every fish up to this point had pretty much been an accident or attributable solely to the place and those around me. This time I put into action my own plan, utilizing what I had learned and it paid off. This was not the largest fish I touched, but it was easily the most memorable.
Meat, as we’ve discussed, is a fundamental USOB asset. Keep bringing it home, and you’re more likely to score the hall pass for a trip to go get more. Take it up a notch though, by fixing a knock their socks off supper, and you’ll get unsolicited inquiries into when you’re going hunting again. In this, you can check this out, our first post in the STS Bar & Grill series of tips, tricks, reviews and recipes we’ll start off with a simple staple that’s a summer crowd pleaser: Elk Burgers.
What you’ll need…
3 lbs Ground Meat – In this instance I used 2 lbs elk burger and 1 lb pronghorn burger, but it’ll work with any kind of venison, or combination thereof. I grind 10% beef fat, by weight, into all of my elk, deer and pronghorn.
3 Fresh Eggs, lightly beaten – Supermarket eggs are for suckers. If you can’t find fresh eggs where you live, you’re not looking hard enough. Someone near you has chickens.
1 medium onion
Lea & Perrins Worcestershire Sauce – I’m brand agnostic about nearly everything, but not worcestershire sauce.
Barbeque sauce – Pictured is what happened to be in the fridge. If you’re interested in a BBQ sauce recommendation I bet these guys could point you in the right direction.
Peanut Oil – Other varieties of vegatable oil will work in a pinch, but count on them to burn off faster, shirking their lubrication responsibilities.
Step 1: Light the charcoal. If you’re using a gas grill you can delay this step… and your hopefully forthcoming manhood.
Step 2: Make a slurpee of the onion in the food processor. If you don’t have a food processor, try a blender. If you don’t have either, and you’re not Chuck Norris, try a different recipe. Sorry, you’ll never get the desired consistency with a knife.
Step 3: Add meat, onion mush and eggs to a large mixing bowl. Season with 10-15 dashes of Lea & Perrins (put your wrist into it) and a healthy pour from the BBQ sauce bottle (1/3 cup?). Roll up your sleeves and, with both hands, squish, stir, fold and knead to combine.
Step 4: Scoop meat like you’re making a knock-out snowball with two cupped hands. That’s about a 1/3 pound burger. Spank the ball into a patty, first along one axis and then the next, until it holds together just right. Don’t rush it. Molding the meat into a disc won’t work. The spanking is important. I don’t know why. My sister-in-law Brandy does, but I’m afraid to ask.
Step 5: Soak a paper towel in peanut oil and, using long tongs, grease the grill.
Step 6: Grill to medium rare. Move burgers as little as possible while cooking, avoiding as long as possible any shifting after intial placement and flipping.
Step 7: Serve and get out the maps.
STS Elk Burgers
3 lbs Ground Meat
3 Fresh Eggs, lightly beaten
1 medium onion
Worcestershire Sauce 15 heavy dashes
Barbeque sauce ~ 1/3 cup
Peanut Oil
1. Puree onion
2. Knead meat, eggs, onion, Worcestershire, and BBQ sauce in a large bowl to combine.
3. Spank into patties.
4. Swab freshly scraped grate with peanut oil. Grill burgers over medium high heat, minimizing movement.
Mark reaches under his pillow and pulls back the hammer of his pistol. My eyes are heavy as I’m about to drift off to sleep. I barely hear the pickup rolling into camp. More shocked by the pistol than the pickup, I urge Mark to put away the gun. Throwing on a shirt I get up and prepare to be our ambassador. Guys and gals pour out of the pickup. They are from the closest town, 33 miles away.
At age nineteen, three of us decided to paddle the Missouri from Great Falls, Montana to the North Dakota border, a journey of some 700 miles. We wanted to follow in the footsteps of Lewis and Clark. We planned a month for the trip, we lasted a week. In short, it was boring. The river is wide, flat, and slow. The first 50 miles are iconic and after that it turns into the barren flatlands of eastern MT. We wanted an epic and it wasn’t there. Our planning was also imperfect. We had no music, no beer, no girls. Without the elements pushing us our 19 year old attention spans didn’t stand a chance.
We pulled out at Judith Landing and hiked two miles to the nearest ranch house to make a call. My dad agreed to make the ten hour drive to get us, although he couldn’t make it for another three days. So we waited.
Mark, no longer focused on the pistol, is now focused on the women. My focus is on making friends with the guys so they don’t beat us up, thinking that we are trying to steal their women. With the prospect of getting beer and the chance to spend more time with the girls Mark decides to go back to town with the group. As he leaves we’re not really sure if he’s coming back.
Mark did make it back and our trip came to an unceremonious end as my dad rolled in a couple days later. It took me almost fifteen years before I made it back again.
When the opportunity came once again to paddle The White Cliffs stretch of the Upper Missouri I approached it with a different mindset. I no longer needed an epic, our group had plenty of beer, the lack of women was a blessing. Instead of Mark’s pistol, I armed myself with a few fly rods and a box of the biggest streamers I had. The slow pace of the river was perfect this time around.
He’s peering skeptically from behind a boulder at a shin-deep seam that looks to be another of his son-in-law’s eccentricities. The koi pond back home in Florida looks more promising. Fishing? Sure, he loves fishing, been doing it all his life. 360 degrees of Gulf Stream blue horizon, a mile of water under the boat, dorado big enough to feed the family for a week… what’s not to like? But what’s this meager ribbon of water have to do with fishing?
“Ahhh, it’s gorgeous here” he’d said while we sat on the tailgate rigging up. As though on cue, two sandhill cranes rasped and cawed their way overhead and then disappeared into the morning mist of an adjacent pasture.
“Great just to get out of the house really” he’d gone on, fatherly, trying to diffuse expectations, insulate me from future disappointment. It was a sweet preamble, well meant and gratefully received. Now that we’re in the water though, such sentiment is moot. He’s my father-in-law and we’re fishing on my home turf. The fishing matters.
“Flip your bug upstream and let it float on down. Nothing to it.”
“And you think there’s a fish in there?”
“Yep.”
“Right by the bank.”
“Uh huh.”
“Fish don’t need water in the Rockies?”
“Trust me.”
His rod arcs from 3 to 9 and 9 to 3 but does the trick. As the water erupts, he startles upright, all six feet five inches of him frozen for a moment, disbelieving. Then he sets the hook.
With that, the skinny river is transformed, teeming suddenly with potential. As the morning flows past, the catch counts climb. Rainbows, browns and whitefish are drunk on hoppers and so is Curt. With each take he laughs, looks to the mountains, shakes his head then chuckles some more.
“That may have to be our grand finale” I say, releasing another strawberry-striped silver football “I gotta get some work done this afternoon. And the ladies are probably waiting for us. I don’t want to get us in trouble.” He considers me quietly a moment before responding.
“Well Matt” he says “there will always be work that needs doing, and if we’re lucky, forgiveness that needs begging. What’s around the next bend?”
Wyoming River Basins
Wyoming contains 7 river basins and serves as the headwaters for 4 major river basins in the Western United States. These major river basins are the Missouri-Mississippi, Green-Colorado, Snake-Columbia, and Great Salt Lake. I feel fortunate to live in a state with such great water resources and consequently great fishing.
I log a lot of windshield time and if I plan carefully often I can get in a bit of fishing here and there. Without thinking about it, until after the fact, I realized that I put 854 miles on last week and was fortunate enough to fish in 4 of the 7 basins in Wyoming. Here’s to water and the Cowboy state.
Green River Basin Photo by Steven Brutger
Wind River/Big Horn Basin Photo by Steven Brutger
Snake/Salt River Basin Photo by Steven Brutger
Platte River Basin Photo by Steven Brutger