As warm weather arrives, we locals are forced to contemplate the last trip
to Frenchman's Creek until the cool days and rains of autumn make their
appearance. Autumn in the local mountains always occurs between December 11
and December 15, for anyone who cares.

So Sunday morning I prepared to go into Broken Back Canyon. I don't think
I've ever been in the Canyon this late in the year. This is a trip best (and
most sanely) done with a good hiking partner but I'll be DAMNED if I was
gonna hang around with a bunch of half-assed, ditto-headed, fascist,
rednecked assholes that....err...wait... no..that ain't right...lessee
here..sorry about that...Oh yeah, now I remember. I had to go it alone cuz
Bill Mason is up in the Sierras where they have actual trails and such that
actually can be followed using only your feet to trout streams (Look Ma, no
hands!). Not so in Broken Back Canyon.

I set out with the intention of hiking from the top of the canyon all the
way to the "point of no return" before rigging up and fishing my way back to
the top. The point of no return is the place where the canyon stops dropping
by feet or yards or tens of yards and starts dropping by distances that I am
not interested in climbing, either up or down, especially since, at that
point, one has hiked, scampered, skipped, slid, and bouldered for two and a
half hours.

Clambering merrily, hastily downstream, making no attempt at stealth, I
spooked every fish in the creek as I splashed by. Good! I'll know just where
they are on my way out, just keep moving, moving, moving. After a bit, it
became apparent that the fish were active...unusually active. They were
feeding everywhere and on everything. I was observing yet another relatively
large fish, this one in the small pool that I had just passed and debating
my "wait till the bottom" stragedy (that's a strategic tragedy, something
with which I am very proficient) when I realized that I had entered that
weird, slow-motion world where your legs are oh so much further away from
the ground than your head and everything is spinning round and round and you
just know that soon, really soon, your gonna go THUMP and then you will
return to the everyday, not-slow-motion world, replete with all the
requisite damaged tissue that one always collects in that other world. But
wait! Luckily, before the world sped up again, I was able to grasp with my
bare hands the nearest growing trunk of vegetation. Unfortunately, it turned
out to be a large clump of stinging nettles. The world slowed down. I had
traded several pounds of perfectly well functioning and happy tissue for
that spoiled and fetid kind that was sure to complain constantly for days to
come. Most of this horrid flesh was complaining about the nettles. This is
my first experience with these nettles. I am immediately aware of why they
are called what they are called. This is most uncomfortable, but nothing is
broken or twisted except my mind and it started out like that. Fortunately,
by great coincidence, my Cindy had just told me that morning all about
stinging nettles (she had conducted a children's nature trip the day before)
and that the cure for the maddening stinging was to rub the affected areas
with the leaves of the mugwort and that mugwort almost always grows where
stinging nettles do. Huzzah! Unfortunately, I wasn't listening to the part
where she actually described what the hell mugwort looked like. After
applying the leaves of several plants that I did not know the names or
habits of, I gave up on self-medication and continued down the canyon.

After another hour, I came to the first really big, deep pool and I couldn't
resist further. Out came the rod, on with the parachute olive, and the
trouties and I danced. Oh my, how we did dance. The water was warming,
caddis and mayflies were on the water, and the trout competed for most
offerings. God was in His heaven and I was on my trout stream and, despite
the nettles, all was right in the world.

It was about now that I realized that the second casualty in my fall was the
bladder in my hydration pack. My back and butt and legs were wet but I had
not yet even attempted a Reid of more than ankle depth. Upon inspection the
damage was minor. A slight leak was gonna cost me a pint of water, I
reckoned. No worries, one always brings more water and food than needed.

At the next pool I caught the largest fish of the day, a native rainbow of
about 11" and really fat. He left the water like a bottle rocket and then
danced under a log for a minute before swimming clear and coming to hand.
Several other nice fish were cooperative in this pool.

At the last pool of the descent, the fish did not want dries, so after a
nice lunch of wet sandwiches and wet
something-that-used-be-edible-but-I-can't-identify-it-now, I tied on a small
streamer and played with several nice trout from this largest pool in the
creek. Now, it was time to start upstream and catch all of those fatties
that I had spooked on my way down. After revisiting the last pool and the
one above it, I came upon a pretty little run that I had seen two nice trout
in. There was a conveniently huge log across the stream that I could hide
behind and flip the fly into the run. First cast....the fly had not even
gotten wet and a little fart of a 4 inch troutling hit the fly. As I set the
hook, the little guy flipped off the hook and landed on the ground, high and
dry, just the other side of the log from where I stood. Can't have that. I
swung my legs over the log and as they came to the ground I head the snap of
a twig under foot. I bent down and palmed the fish safely back into the
stream. As I stood, I pinpointed the location of the now-snapped twig. It
was between a few of its fellow tarsals and meta-tarsals, sinews, and
ligaments in the ankle area of my left foot, just about exactly where all
the stabbing, knife-like pains were coming from.

After testing the ankle with a few easy steps, not easy to find in that
locale, I ascertained that while not badly sprained or broken, this ankle
was not up to an afternoon of leisurely uphill bouldering and fishing. As a
matter of fact it rather quickly added its resources to the now-snowballing
array of equipment, organs and appendages that were doing more hindering
than helping. So it was that I decided, with much frustration, to break down
the pack rod, put everything in the now completely sodden backpack, strap
said dripping weight to my back, and make as close to a beeline out of the
canyon as my ramshackle body could manage. Now where the hell is my hat?
Well, it just wouldn't be complete without losing my best fishing hat, would
it. Nevertheless, out I go.

As I gingerly ambled up the stream, again not caring who or what I scared
and trying not to look at all the fat, hungry fish that seem to nudge each
other and snicker at my predicament, (I sweartagawd one of the little
bastids stuck his tongue out and gave me a Bronx cheer. Miserable little
****s. I never did like'm) I came upon the spot where I had taken the fall
and wrestled (and lost) with the nettles. There, embedded deeply in the soft
mud was my hat. Well, at least it had been mud and not a rock or root. I
recovered my headgear and got out of the canyon just as my water supply was
exhausted. At the vehicle, iced tea and oatmeal raisin cookies never tasted
so good and the beer that followed wasn't too bad either. That's my last
trip into Broken Back Canyon this spring. But it's not my last trip. Next
time I'm taking a new water bag and a good friend.

Danl


Oh, and I now know what mugwort looks like. Handy stuff if you're in the
nettles.


Sorry about going War and Peace....it just happened that way....