September 8, 2012
Having grown up in Florida where largemouth bass is king, I determined, upon moving to Utah in 1982, to learn to fly-fish. How does one do that? Easy...take a class. I did, and the instructor turned out to be a young fellow named Bobby J who moonlighted during daylight hours as a quality control supervisor for a company building machine guns for the U.S. Army. He was one of the best fly-fishermen in the inter-mountain west and tied flies that were works of art. (I took his fly-tying class also and, after investing a fortune in fly-tying materials and a "747" tackle box to hold all of it, tied some which actually worked...though none to the artistic level of Bobby J.)
Later I discovered he played guitar and sang...something anyone who knows me recognizes as desired personal trait numero uno. Next thing I determined was he was bright as a new penny, and a deep thinker who understood the role of quality in business practices better than anyone I'd ever met to that time (or to today for that matter); an understanding way above his then current employment level and role. To shorten the story, it took me almost three years and, finally, a week's fishing trip on a houseboat on Lake Powell to talk him into coming to work with us.
The net result of all this was, with Bob as a major contributor, we created what became the finest production group with which I have ever been associated. And, as a by-product, turned Bob into a bass-jerker extraordinaire...thanks to that fishing trip. (Oh, and future Vice-President Quality and Sales...interesting pairing, what?)
So to it. We're going fishing.
(Note: You can click on any picture to enlarge)
We took small personal pontoon boats to one of the local reservoirs. We used swim fins just as you would with a float tube, but our butts didn't get (too) wet. Neat approach you can't use here because of the snakes and gators. In one of the right pockets on my boat I stored my camera so I could take pictures of this event. The weather, and the reservoir, and the scenery were great! Wish you could see it. But the fishing was great too, so I left the damn camera in the pocket and caught fish. Sorry.
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| Fat boy with fish |
Around 6:00pm Bobby and I jumped into the aforementioned Polaris four-wheeler and headed out from his house. It appears that a few miles away is the Arizona border. The area over the mountains in Arizona was heavily settled by the Mormons after their migration to Utah in 1847. In 1877 the first Mormon Temple in Utah was dedicated in St. George. (The Salt Lake Temple was not completed until 1893.) It was, naturally, a very desired destination for any Mormons in the area who wished to sanctify their marriage(s).
The Mormons are nothing if not ambitious, hard-working, dedicated, and capable. Among their numbers were many engineers and builders, just the people needed to build a road over a mountain allowing their members access to the St. George Temple.
I believe the cut noted with the arrow is that used by those early Mormon settlers to "bridge" the mountains to get to the St. George Temple. It was called 'The Honeymoon Trail.' And Bob took me up it in that Polaris.
Bob in the Polaris. Giving Bob the wheel of any moving vehicle is a calculated risk, at best. At worst, it's a white-knuckled adventure from hell. We were much closer to the latter than the former.
Looking out across the Utah desert toward Arizona.
Looking back toward Bob's place (around the point of that mountain somewhere).
Okay, headed up now. That little trace of "semi-flat rocky path" is the Honeymoon Trail today. Imagine mule-team wagons filled with women and children traversing it. I can't.
I was scared to death in a modern 100hp four-wheeler.
Looking backward down the trail. The trail seen here is probably the widest and flattest experienced. Felt safe for a minute or so.
Headed up again. The cut seen above was dynamited by the road (did I say "road?") builders.
A short stop to look at a place they didn't bore through.
I believe this is where we were standing when my brother called me from Florida. Neat! Talking to Ron while looking out over all this. Can't believe I had reception out here.
Further up the trail.
Even further up the trail. Starting to realize I have to go back down with that crazy man in the hot rod...uh, I mean with Bob in the Polaris.
Hole in the rock accompanied by one of the Hole-In-The-Head gang.
(See Alaska Trip - July 4th entry)
At some point in all this I put the camera between my legs and grabbed hold with both hands onto the bracing bar conveniently placed in front of me by some very smart design engineer with an awareness of the kinds of things foolish people might do with this vehicle. Of course, I could have been wearing my seat beat, but Bobby J., when asked at the beginning if we needed them, said, "No, it's not that bad." I knew better. I've known the guy for thirty years. I knew better! What in the hell possessed me to buy into that story?
Anyway, we got back down...and safely. No surprise to Bobby, but I was somewhat amazed. I breathed a sigh of relief as we headed back toward home. Then Bobby said, "It's getting near sundown and there's a great picture for you over here a little ways. Hold on." I knew better. I've known the guy for thirty years. I knew better! What in the hell possessed me to buy into that story? Especially after I'd bought into the earlier one? I'm dumber than a bag of hammers.
So, pulling south we rode for what seemed two days, but was probably only thirty minutes or so, flying along a well-beaten, but rocky road wending further and further toward the reservoir shown in the above map.
South of the reservoir is Mars. Really! Mars. Red sand dunes, one after another, clumped with greasewood plants and small cedars patches, higher and higher until some reach thirty, forty feet or more almost straight up. They couldn't have been totally straight up, though. Otherwise Bobby couldn't have traversed up and down them as he did. It was here we started seeing motorcycles and other four-wheeled drive vehicles flying around from pillar to post, dune-to-dune, and most, if not all, flying the pendant high on a swaying metal pole hopefully providing some warning of their coming. Of course, not all had one...for example, we didn't. I distinctly remembered Bobby disconnecting and removing it before we left. Why? I don't know. But I knew better!
I now wish I'd have unfrozen my hands from that holding device and taken some pictures. It was truly beautiful...and thrilling. Next time I'll be prepared, and I'll buckle my damned safety belt, and I'll say three or four hundred Hail Marys before departing (I ain't Catholic, but what the hell, can't hurt, right?). I'll know better next time. I mean, after all, I've known better for over thirty years. Right!
Thanks, Bob. It was a hoot!!
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