fishies

I am sitting in my brother's home in Utah. We just fished for three wonderful days. We were out at Deseret Ranch and I had zero cell phone reception or internet service. It was nice to be cut off from the world for a few days. I got up, fished, ate lunch by the stream, fished some more, chatted with my family, ate dinner, sat on the front porch and read and mainly listened to my thoughts while watching the sky change colors over the mountains. It was wonderful to slow down for a few days. I thought of hundreds of things to write about as I wadded through the streams and watched the world drift slowly by. Normally, I am running so crazy that I have difficulty thinking of many things to write. I can't seem to slow down enough to relax and concentrate and breathe. But, as I wandered around the ranch with no other objective but to catch fish, I could finally hear my thoughts again. I could feel the creativity return. I could feel each feeling distinctly. I could feel the fears and understand them. I could focus on the solution instead of the problem. I kept feeling such relief that there was not a single crisis around to solve and deal with calmly and objectively. Everyone around me was happy, healthy, well-feed, and in relatively positive mental health. My only issues were figuring out which flies to put on the line, how to keep my shadow from showing up on the water, and trying to keep my fly in the water instead of in the trees or in...my hair. Yes, I got my own fly on my own line stuck in my hair. Background info first...I didn't take any shampoo or conditioner to the ranch. I didn't even know if we'd be showering. There was a shower there, but of course, no shampoo or conditioner. So, I used dish soap. I was clean and smelled like freshly washed dishes, however, I couldn't even brush my hair because it was so tangled. So, I didn't bother and just pulled the matted mess into a ponytail. The fly somehow whipped back there as I was casting and stuck itself right in that glorious mess of dish soaped goodness. It was so bad, I had to get my Dad to fight the fly out.

Ah, yes, I also smacked myself in the side of the face with a fish. For real. Not even kidding. I smacked myself in the side of the face with a fish on my fly on my line. See, what had happened was...the fish bit the fly, I set the hook, and pulled so hard that it sent the fish flying behind me. I tried to compensate by flinging the rod back towards the creek and as I turned to look, the fish came flying by and wahla! fish to the face. It was hilarious. The fish was angry and I was laughing so hard it hurt my tummy.

There were other wonderfully executed fish catching, but those stories aren't as exciting.

The other fun part of the trip were the kamikazi squirrels and chipmunks on the ranch. The ranch is composed of 200,000 acres of open land and some red dirt roads. We would drive from pond to pond and stream to stream. The rodents insisted on crossing the road right in front of our car. Now why, with 24 hours in a day and 200,000 acres on the property, did hundreds of rodents insist on crossing right in front of our car? I don't get it. I guess they get bored sometimes.

I just finished reading 'Tweak' by Nic Sheaff. It was a very good, very sad book. I just read 'Beautiful Boy' by his father a few weeks ago. It was interesting to read both sides of the story of addiction. Both heartbreaking. Both hopeful. He mentioned the south in his epilogue, how it's strange to live in the south after growing up on the west coast. Why? Because people in the south are afraid of telling the truth, the whole truth. Especially about the hard stuff like addiction and pain in the family.