Another Crazy Hunt

If my hunts keep going like this, I’ll have to start writing comedy.
By Justin Stapley | Shooting Director

My friendship with Spencer Durrant began with a bit of bad luck during a crazy hunt chasing after turkeys. We didn’t bag a bird, which you’ll hear us discuss in our upcoming debut podcast episode. Usually, when bad luck plagues a hunt so thoroughly, I tend to think I’ve got all the bad luck out of the way for a while.

My recent archery hunt proved that wasn’t the case. 

The snowball effect began before I even made it onto the mountain to chase deer with my bow. For once, I tried to get ahead of the mad-dash packing fiasco we’re all familiar with. I inventoried all my gear and made my shopping lists. I even managed to find my old fly rod and reel, which to my amazement still worked. 

I deflated from my excitement rapidly when I got back from Sportsman’s Warehouse and my wife set the water bill in my lap. This wasn’t your run-of-the-mill billing notice. We’re talking an extreme anomaly or a severe leak. Worse yet, it was Friday night. I wouldn’t be able to call city utilities until Monday – the day I was headed out hunting.

Fast forward to Tuesday morning. I still had no clue what was going on with my water, but I’d thoroughly checked my house and grounds for any immediate problems and requested a work order from the city. I’d only lost a day. At least that’s what I thought.

The next morning, I woke up to sunlight shining through my window. My phone had died during a power outage, so the alarm that was going to wake me at six didn’t go off. Instead, I woke up at nine-thirty.

I finished packing, ended up having a conversation with my neighbor about the water problem, and didn’t get to my dad’s house until after noon. We hitched up his camper to his truck, the ATV trailer to mine, and got off thinking we had enough time to get to Cedar City, head up the canyon, and still hunt in the evening.

Yeah, that’s not how things were happening on this trip.

As we were getting close to Nephi, I suddenly found myself way ahead of my dad. I slowed down to 60 and drafted behind a semi for a good twenty minutes waiting for him to catch up. He never caught up, but I got ahold of him on the phone (via voice command folks, I promise). He told me his steering was getting squirrelly when he tried going over sixty. 

We stopped in Nephi but couldn’t find anything wrong. I figured it was just wind pushing his outfit around through the canyon. To be safe though, we crawled along at 60 miles-per-hour to Cedar City. When we finally got into town, it was way too late to head up the canyon. We crashed at my grandma’s house for the night.

The next morning, we got up, headed up the canyon, and set up camp. The first hunting we were able to do wasn’t until Wednesday evening. We started with an ATV road-hunt through some trails where we’d seen a lot of deer in previous years. At this point, it was my bow’s turn to give me problems. 

I’m pretty proud of my bow, though I get crap for it sometimes. After all, it’s a 1970s single-cam. But I’ve dropped two deer within five years and love the classic wood look. However, the manual screw-in site pins apparently weren’t designed with ATV engine vibration in mind. Just a half-mile down a trail, I heard a subtle plop-plop and looked down to see my pins falling off my bow. 

Amazingly, I found all my pins but couldn’t sight it back in again until the next day. I’d practiced reflex shooting before and felt confident out to about 20 yards, so I wasn’t too mortified.

Not that it mattered. The lack of typical August rainfall seemed to have disrupted the usual late summer deer patterns. We didn’t see anything.

Thursday morning, I planned to hike down deep to my breadbasket area. Same place I’d dropped a four-point a few years earlier on my first archery hunt. I’m sure most of you would understand if I leave this little spot nameless. Suffice to say, it’s one of my favorite spots, both for the success I’ve had there as well as the family history in the area.

But even this sweet spot wasn’t good enough to overcome the current of crazy that was this trip.

While driving to where I usually start my hike, my check engine light comes on. When we stopped and turned the engine off, we could hear the radiator fluid boiling. Since it was too early for a shop to be open, we hunted for a few hours (saw nothing, again). Then, we headed down the canyon. 

The head gasket had blown, and the negative pressure kept the radiator fluid from circulating which caused the engine to overheat catastrophically. How I was able to haul an ATV trailer all the way down to Cedar City and then up a mountain before the problem manifested itself is beyond me. 

My dad had to head home early with his camper, so he could make a second trip back to get the ATVs. I finally got into the deer and spotted a few big bucks Saturday night but lost daylight before I could stalk close enough for a good shot. And that was that. I helped my wife pack up and leave in her car Sunday morning and came home with my dad Sunday afternoon when he came to get the ATVs.

It was sure a crazy hunt, but it wasn’t what I would call a bad hunt. Cedar Mountain was looking beautiful this year. Navajo Lake and the other smaller lakes nearby were full for the first time in years. In response to some of the fires up there in recent years, they’re finally letting loggers go after the trees killed by wood beetles. New, young growth is sprouting up everywhere.

One of the hikes I made took me up above 9,000 feet and gave me a spectacular view looking south towards Zion National Park. Southern Utah is truly God’s country, and even though my trip had been the hunt from hell in a lot of ways, I still got to walk in places that are the closest thing a mortal man can come to heaven. Sometimes, that’s all a hunter really needs.

Justin Stapley is the Shooting Director for Spencer Durrant Outdoors, and a political writer whose principles and beliefs are grounded in the idea of ordered liberty as expressed in the traditions of classical liberalism, federalism, and modern conservatism. His writing has been featured at the Federalist Coalition, the NOQ Report, and Porter Medium. He lives in Bluffdale, Utah, with his wife and daughters.

The Campfire Chat

A tradition as old as camping itself — and just as therapeutic
By Spencer Durrant | Managing Editor

A campfire chat is just as effective as an hour on a shrink’s couch, but at a fraction of the cost. Your fishing, hunting, or camping buddies might not be licensed therapists, but more often than not, they’re unapologetically supportive, which is a cheaper alternative to antidepressants.

As someone who uses both a therapist and antidepressants, I see some cruel irony in how useful a campfire chat is at healing an ailing soul. For men especially, this is true. We’re largely terrible at discussing our feelings. I’ve regularly seen a therapist for the better part of a decade now, and still have a hell of a time putting words to what’s in my heart.

Put me around a campfire, though, and the emotions seem to flow like flames licking eagerly at a fresh log.

It was early September, unusually warm, and my buddy Mike and I sat around a fire in southern Utah. We’d camped alongside an out-of-the-way lake, accessible only by ATV or a high-clearance four-wheel-drive vehicle. Fishing was slow that day, but I’d netted three medium-sized brook trout and watched Mike haul in back-to-back 20-inch specimens. Even then, Mike shrugged the fish off as, “not as good as what I was catching two weeks ago.”

During the day, I focused only on fishing. Was I using the right fly? Was it deep enough? Was the retrieve too fast or too slow? Am I just a terrible angler?

Then night fell, chill crept into the thin air at 10,000 feet, and we called it for the day. It’s only when I fell into my camp chair next to a roaring fire, nursing a Coke Zero and a bag of buffalo wing-flavored chips, that I started thinking.

Everyone has family troubles, and I was in the midst of some. Those weighed on me while I started the third-to-last semester of my long-overdue bachelor’s degree. Work was hit-or-miss, and I realized summer was nearly finished. Despite the big brook trout I’d seen and caught, I had a bad case of the blues.

So, I talked.

The fire pulled my feelings to the surface, and whether Mike wanted to hear about them or not, he did. And, in largely non-masculine fashion, neither Mike nor I tried to fix my problems. Many of them didn’t have solutions — my family troubles are ongoing, and likely won’t stop for the foreseeable future — but I didn’t ask for any, either.

That’s significant, I think, because on the rare occasion men are willing to talk about emotions, it’s almost always done with some kind of fix in mind. And when we listen to the women in our lives, we often offer solutions instead of a listening ear. I’m generalizing, of course, but listening is the biggest stumbling block in effective communication between the sexes. So, when real listening happens between two men, I reckon it’s worth noting. For whatever reason, a campfire chat creates that opportunity more so than other situations I’ve experienced.

And it’s often the case that we all just need a listening ear.

A few days after that conversation with Mike, I felt I had a tighter grip on the insanity of working full-time, attending college full-time, and keeping up my work as an outdoors writer. Then, an email and a disturbing meeting sent my good mood into a tailspin. As I waded through the detritus of another shitty week, I found myself longing for another campfire chat.

It won’t fix anything, but it’ll help me feel better. And maybe that’s the reason we go fishing in the first place.

Spencer Durrant is a fly fishing writer, outdoors columnist, novelist, and bamboo rod builder from Utah. His work has appeared in Gray’s Sporting Journal, Field & Stream, Southwest Fly Fishing Magazine, Hatch Magazine, Trout Magazine, and other national publications. Connect with Spencer on Twitter/Instagram, @Spencer_Durrant.

Take a Kid Fishing

By Spencer Durrant | Managing Editor

The best thing you’ll ever do as an angler is take a kid fishing.

It probably won’t be the most enjoyable, productive, or relaxing day. It’s likely you’ll get five minutes into the endeavor and wonder what the hell you were thinking. You’ll never regret it, though, and most importantly, the kids won’t ever forget the experience. In fact, I reckon it’s these memories, more so than other events, that spur kids into becoming lifelong, passionate anglers.

I was five or six the first time I remember going fishing with my dad. For some reason, I distinctly recall him telling my mother, “We’re going to the store.” We went in the opposite direction of the store, dad winked at me conspiratorially, and said, “Don’t tell your mom I took you fishing.”

Depeche Mode, Duran Duran, and The Pet Shop Boys wavered through the car stereo as we drove. My dad’s musical tastes remain firmly planted in 80s New Wave and pop.

Thankfully, his fishing chops aren’t stuck in the 80s, and with minutes of rigging up on the riverbank, he had a brown trout in the net. We wet-waded a stream that meanders through a narrow mountain valley, running through a ghost town that was originally founded by my dad’s fifth-great grandfather back in the 1850s. The stream is one of those tiny affairs that’s somehow home to trout far bigger than what you’d expect.

One of those trout swam over my feet after dad let it go. It slithered, back half out of the water, on its way to deeper water. “Dad!” I yelled. “That fish just swam over my feet!”

Now, two decades after that muggy summer evening on the old family stream, I’m a semi-competent angler and hopefully above-average storyteller. Fishing is my living, but also my lifestyle. As a result, I spend hours with other folks who work in the industry, from guides to gear manufacturers to rod makers. Between shared stories of big fish and fawning over new gear, there’s an undercurrent of worry about the future of the sport.

It’s not a worry as persistent as what those in hunting have hanging over them — only 5% of Americans 16 and older hunt, per the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service — but it’s a consistent question. Who’s going to look over the rivers and lakes that give us so many memories? That provide thousands of guides with a living? It’s such an intricate piece of the tapestry of our heritage here in the West, that any change is frankly unimaginable.

That’s why you need to take a kid fishing. They’re the next generation of stewards of this grand tradition, but only if they’re given the opportunity to fall in love with it in the way you and I have.

Luckily, my dad wasn’t about to let me grow up without the influence of fly fishing. I fell head-over-heels for the sport at a young age. Most kids don’t have that opportunity. Which is why, as inconvenient as it is at times, we have to steel ourselves for a day of tangled lines and lost flies, and take a kid fishing.

Spencer Durrant is a fly fishing writer, outdoors columnist, novelist, and bamboo rod builder from Utah. His work has appeared in Gray’s Sporting Journal, Field & Stream, Southwest Fly Fishing Magazine, Hatch Magazine, Trout Magazine, and other national publications. Connect with Spencer on Twitter/Instagram, @Spencer_Durrant.

Just Wait

By Spencer Durrant | Managing Editor

A breeze pulled at my rolled-up shirt sleeves as I readjusted my hat to fend off the glare of a now-setting sun. It was the first truly warm day of the year – warm enough to make me itch for wet-wading. But the snow-laden peaks of the Rockies, still buried beneath 20 or 30 feet of the greatest snow on Earth, brought me back to reality. It’d be weeks, if not months, before wet-wading was an option.

I sighed and stretched my back, cursing the natural river side accommodations for not being more ergonomic. Standing up from the rough-hewn boulder that had served as my chair, I looked back down river, to the hole I’d just come from.

A fish jumped clean out of the water, snatched a bug mid-Sea-World-trick, and plopped back in the river. I swear the fish took time to wink at me on its way down.

That was the most activity I’d seen all afternoon, and I’d parked at the trail head well before the sun began setting. With it being so warm, and smack in the middle of May, I’d hoped to run into some caddis. I’d heard whispers that the bigger bugs were showing their wings, pushing the diminutive blue-winged olives to the peripheries of anglers’ attention. After a prolonged winter that featured the most spectacular blue-wing hatch I’ve seen on the Lower Provo River in years, I was ready to fish a size 14 elk hair caddis.

On cue, a light-colored caddis fluttered by in the rickshaw-like flight pattern that’s part of why the bugs are so endearing. The bugs were ready for a change too, it seemed. After a few minutes of re-rigging, paired with the inevitable curses of “I swear I tied more size 14s than this. These suck,” I was ready for the inevitable caddis hatch.

Except it wasn’t inevitable. A few more popped off, like blues guitarists in their frenetic, individual energy. The sun dipped behind the mountains and bathed the river in blue light. Fish rose, snacking on the menagerie of duns and cripples littered on the river’s surface.

Mayfly duns and cripples. Not caddis. A distinction I noticed but didn’t want to acknowledge. I’d just watched a half-dozen caddis buzz by in a half-hour. Surely those random bugs were harbingers of an upcoming caddis storm.

From behind, a voice carried over the noise of the river and made me jump out of my skin.

“How’s the fishing?”

I turned to see a young guy, around my age, standing a few yards away.

“I’m not really sure,” I said. “I’ve been here for a few hours but I’ve spent most of the time sitting on the bank waiting for the hatch to start.”

The guy paused a beat, not sure how to take that. He had an eagerness to his questions that suggested he wasn’t the type to sit on a stream and wait out a hatch.

“You see any caddis?” He asked.

I nodded. “A few, but nothing to really get ’em going.”

The guy shrugged and thanked me, taking off upriver, leaving me alone on the bank once more. Another half-hour dragged by and I started pulling up rocks, looking for caddis casings. I found plenty, but they were all full of larvae. Further proof that the hatch wasn’t quiet as ready as I’d hoped.

I turned my attention back to the river, expecting caddis but seeing only mayflies. As if reading my thoughts, a fish rose to a crippled dun as it drifted 15 feet from where I sat on the bank. The unmistakable plop of a big trout rising on small flies was insult to injury.

Just about then, the guy who’d stopped by a half-hour prior ambled back down the trail. His shoulders were hunched with the frustration of not catching fish, and I didn’t bother stopping him to ask how he’d done.

As it turns out, the guy should’ve waited another ten minutes. After he walked out of view, another fish took a crippled dun near my streamside seat. Then another. Within minutes, fish rose in that tight, predictable rhythm indicative of nature’s inherent truth – that sooner or later, predators will find their prey and finish the circle of life.

I insisted on fishing a caddis during the hatch, even though the fish were obviously keyed in on mayflies. I mumbled something about unmatching the hatch and a higher-protein meal target while tying on my size 14 caddis, but the fish didn’t hear my halfhearted pleadings.

Eventually, I broke down and tied on a size 18 crippled blue-winged olive. Within a few casts I had a fish in the net. Then another. I missed the next take, and broke my tippet on the following rise. But I fished until it was too dark to see, quietly grateful to step out of the water that had numbed my legs.

Later, as I stopped in town for a burrito and some Mountain Dew, I texted a buddy a blurry photo of one of the browns I’d caught that night. “The caddis were out but the fish didn’t care tonight,” I wrote. “Too many mayflies still kicking around.”

He wrote back, “I’m sick of fishing mayflies.”

I grinned because I felt his pain, but I wasn’t about to complain, either. The caddis would just be late this year, and while it was inconvenient, it wasn’t like the fishing sucked. The fish were just doing what they’ve done so well for as long as man has fished.

They made me wait.

Spencer Durrant is a fly fishing writer, outdoors columnist, and novelist from Utah. His work has appeared in Field & Stream, Southwest Fly Fishing Magazine, American Angler, Hatch Magazine, Trout Magazine, and numerous other national publications. Spencer is also the founder and editor of Spencer Durrant Outdoors. Connect with him on Twitter/Instagram, @Spencer_Durrant.

A Bad Trip

By Spencer Durrant | Managing Editor

A friend of mine recently said that I live a charmed life. The way he said it made the statement sound more like an accusation, though I suspect that was jealousy speaking. He made the comment not long after I had my first byline in Field & Stream. That wasn’t my first ‘big-time’ byline, but seeing my name in Field & Stream lent credibility to my career as a fishing writer.

I do live a charmed life, if I’m being completely honest. I get paid to fish, hunt, camp, and travel. I’m living the dream of every outdoorsy man who wishes he didn’t spend his life in a cubicle. What those guys – my friend included – don’t get is that behind the veneer of Instagram pictures and magazine articles is a life just as hectic, stressful, and annoying as theirs.

As I lay in the back of a Toyota 4-Runner trying to keep my insides from becoming my outsides, I half-wished my buddy could’ve been there to see just how “charmed” life was in that moment. Three days before I lay dying in the 4-Runner, I’d left on what should’ve been a leisurely backpacking trip. My buddies and I spent the better part of a year planning this trip, but things went south so spectacularly that we came home a day early.  

The tragedy started late on a Wednesday night. I was with the usual crew of miscreants who are the cast in my fishing adventures. Mike, Bill, and Marty – Mike’s cousin – and I huddled around an empty fire pit, staring off a cliff at the valley which unrolled before us. The moonlight revealed scant details, but we could just make out the far edge of Big Dog Mountain, behind which lay our destination. It was just after midnight, chilly, and the crisp air did little to help us relax. The sharp edge to each breath – shorter now that we were more than 8,000 feet above sea level – excited rather than discouraged. After countless hours of planning, and countless more spent ignoring honey-do lists and general adult responsibility, we could literally taste the adventure we’d come chasing.

From left to right: Spencer, Marty, Bill, and Mike. Photo by Spencer Durrant.

Like kids on Christmas morning, we turned from the cliff’s edge and started unpacking the trucks. The plan was to sleep on the cliff, get up with the sun, and start hiking shortly after first light. And, just like kids, we had to make camp as close to the edge of the cliff as was safely possible. Men may grow up, but rarely do we ever stop being children. Cast-in-point:

“Did you eat all the donuts?” Mike asked while I set up our tent by starlight.

“Does a bear shit in the woods?” I replied.

Dozens of bad jokes later, I lay on my thin sleeping pad, acutely aware of each and every rock’s exact location along my spine. All-night comfort my ass, I thought, thinking back to the review I’d read of this sleeping pad. I’d bought it specifically so I wouldn’t feel like I was sleeping on top of spilled Legos, but it seemed I’d been swindled yet again by savvy advertising.

And in case you’re wondering, spending $120 on a sleeping pad that wasn’t near as soft as the pile of feathers and angel tears I’d been promised wasn’t this trip’s great tragedy.

I didn’t sleep much, and was the first to wake to a weak sun and a sky dotted with clouds. Careful not to make noise, I opened Mike’s truck, rummaged around behind the driver’s seat, and pulled out a half-dozen nearly-frozen donuts. I was halfway through donut number three when Mike staggered out of the tent, looking surprised to be in the wilderness. He pointed at the donuts. “I thought you ate ‘em all?”

I shrugged. “I wanted one last good breakfast.”

Camp got packed up quicker than expected, and the sun hadn’t been up for more than half an hour before we started the trek. There wasn’t much of a trail for the first few miles, but we’d spent a year staring at topographic maps, Google Earth, and arguing about the best approach to get to a lake none of us had ever visited before.  

We couldn’t have asked for better hiking weather. Blacksmith Lake was nine miles from the cliff where we’d slept. Balmy temps and a slight breeze kept the sweating and cursing to a minimum, even when I insisted on stopping five times in a span of fifteen minutes so I could set up some still photography and video shots.

Perfect hiking weather. Photo by Spencer Durrant.

“I’m working,” I had to remind everyone else. “I gotta make a living.”

Bill and Marty both chimed in with variations of, “You have a rough life.”

As I lay in the dirt, directing their movements through the forest, I replied, “Yeah, call me when you’re up for two nights editing photos and videos after doing this hike.”

We passed a handful of lakes and eventually found a faint trail that’d take us through the rest of East Basin, which we were currently in, and up to the base of Big Dog Mountain. From there, the trail lost regard for the frailty of men’s legs and lungs at high altitude and shot straight up, taking us more than 1,000 feet from the bottom of East Basin to the top of East Basin Pass.

I was the last to arrive on the pass, and everyone lay sprawled on their backs, gasping for air. From the top of East Basin Pass I could see north, all the way to Mt. Emmons and the southern end of the King’s Peak Basin. Between Mt. Emmons and myself, buried beneath a canopy of emerald leaves, was the dull roar of the Yellow River. Sunlight glinted off it in a few places where the trees broke, but for the most part if was only noticeable by the sound it made.

Climbing passes at 11,000 feet above sea level isn’t for the faint of heart. Literally. Photo by Spencer Durrant.

East Basin Pass was more than halfway to Blacksmith Lake, so we soldiered on, the cursing increasing exponentially with the distance. Finally, we arrived at the most profane moment of the entire excursion. Blacksmith Lake was due west of us, but no trail led to its banks. We had to pick a route based on topographic maps, an ancient GPS, and the actual terrain before us. A year obviously isn’t enough time to pick out a path from maps and Google Earth, and hell will freeze over before four men agree on the right way to walk in a straight line.  Mike and Bill were certain their chosen path was the best, the only “straight shot” to the lake. Marty told Mike to go fornicate with a goat, someone said something about an ass-kicking so hard grandchildren would feel it, and in the interest of the only physical fight being between us and the hike, we split up. I went with Marty and Bill went with Mike.

Marty and I staggered into camp well after Bill and Mike arrived. I haven’t been in good shape since high school, and Marty wasn’t in his prime anymore, either. The only reason Bill and Mike beat us to the lake was due to them being in better shape – not the path they’d picked after we had to leave the trail. Regardless, the view of the lake was worth it all – accusations of fornication with goats notwithstanding.

As I set my pack aside, pitched the tent, and made dinner, however, I wondered if it was pretty enough to merit the hell that was the hike. Nine miles with 12,000 feet of elevation change isn’t for the faint of heart – literally. And we were camped at 11,000 feet above sea level. Even at a rest I had a hard time catching my breath.

Oh, how I wish I could tell you that being short of breath was the trip’s disaster. Alas, the journey only grew more perilous. I made note of my poor physical state as I wrote in my notebook around the campfire after dinner.

I have to go to the gym for like, a month, before I do these things, I wrote. I’m too fat for this shit. But it’s gorgeous. The lake is glass and the pines aren’t all dead from the pine beetle. The only trails are tracks of elk and deer, and I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re the first people here this year. This isn’t a place you stumble onto by accident – you have to know where you’re going to get here.

I have a notebook with me on every trip, because most every outing ends up being work-related. I make a living retelling the stories I live throughout the year, and if I didn’t come home from this trip with ideas for at least two columns about the adventure, I’d have wasted my time – and my money. 

High above us is the craggy ridgeline of Big Dog Mountain, barren and lifeless. This feels like most other backpacking trips, all things considered. More work than it’s worth, but a necessary evil if you’re going to tell a story worth telling.

I went to bed that evening – a Thursday – to the sounds of wolves howling in the distance and the gentle whisper of wind through cold aspen leaves. Friday morning, I woke to a layer of frost on my tent. Mike and I bunked together, but he’d been up with the sun. I could hear him and Bill down by the lake, a hundred or so yards from camp. They’d been fishing since they could see. Normally, I’d be down there with them. Normally, though, I’m not waking up after a hellacious stroll through Utah’s high country with 30 pounds on my back. Marty was in similarly rough shape, so we ate a late breakfast and commiserated together about growing old and out of shape. I went back to sleep and Marty went to the lake.

Missing out on a morning of fishing, realizing I’m not as young as I was (and I’m still young, so this train of thought is disturbing), and waking up almost too sore to move would qualify as fiasco on any other trip. But on this one? Those discomforts were the highlights.

I woke up at lunch, and that’s when I made my first big mistake. I sat on a log in weak sunshine, an open box of chicken salad and crackers balancing on one knee. The chicken salad and crackers have been a mainstay on all backpacking trips for as long as I can remember, and it makes a fabulous lunch.

I must’ve been 11 the first time I had boxed chicken salad and crackers on a backpacking trip. My grandma Pat loved the things, and she’s the one who taught me how to backpack in the high country.

“Always have something light and easy for lunch,” grandma Pat said while we were stopped in the middle of a trail. “That way you don’t have to stop too long to eat.”

“But I wanna stop,” I complained, because I was 11 and that’s what 11-year-olds do best.

Grandma Pat shook her head. “Nope, that’s another rule of backpacking. You don’t get to rest unless I say so.”

That hardly seemed fair. “What if I’m backpacking one day and you’re not with me? When do I get to stop?” I tried to be sassy. But grandma Pat always had a smart comment for every smartass one I made.

“Then I taught you something right,” she said.

I chuckled as I thought back to my first trip with grandma Pat. She still backpacks to this day, at the age of 72. Just this past summer, in June of 2018, she spent five days with her dog and a friend in Utah’s San Rafael Swell. I’d told her about this trip to Blacksmith Lake, but when she asked about the elevation and the length of the walk, she just shook her head. “I’m too old for that. Go have fun.”

Just that once, it would’ve been a good thing not to listen to grandma Pat and eat something else. I didn’t notice anything wrong with the chicken salad as I ate it, but short of something blatantly obvious – like bloody, raw chicken – I don’t think I would’ve. I was tired and hungry enough that I’d have eaten anything.

I burned my trash, cleaned up around camp, and got ready for the trip’s main attraction. In spite of the protests from cramped calves and thighs, I grabbed my fly rod and headed down to the lake. I was still beat from the hike, but I’d come all this way to write about the fishing in that lake. I had to throw a cast or two if I wanted my writing to have any ring of legitimacy. I made it to the lake, grumbling that I’d rather be back in the tent sleeping, in a generally foul mood.  

Despite everything, Blacksmith Lake was gorgeous. Photo by Spencer Durrant.

Then the food poisoning hit. Right about midafternoon on Friday, on the banks of Blacksmith Lake, at 11,000 feet and nine miles deep from a trailhead that lay at the end of a 20-something mile long dirt road, which was 30 miles from the nearest town.

In other words, I ended up on death’s doorstep while in the middle of absolutely nowhere. But fear not, my intrepid reader; if you’ve made if this far, you’re likely thinking that this is what turned the trip from bumpy to bad. Getting food poisoning miles from any sort of help has to be as bad as it gets, right?

Well, yes and no. Yes, the food poisoning was terrible, but it’s what happened after my bowels became impetuously inconvenient that’s truly disastrous. I ran back to camp, looking for the toilet paper, failing to find any, and answering nature’s call with nothing but dry sagebrush in arm’s reach.

I staggered back to my tent, found the toilet paper, and was just settling down to rest, in the hopes that this was a fluke accident, when my body decided everything inside of it needed to see Blacksmith Lake, too.  As Friday night turned into Saturday morning, the temps dropped precipitously and I spent the hours trying not to hurl and begging for sunrise. The sun eventually rose. I couldn’t hold back the urge to empty my guts. With snow falling around our camp, I wiped the vomit from my beard and declared, “I’m not spending another night on this damn mountain.”

With that said, we packed up and hiked out. The snow got worse. In any other situation it would’ve been beautiful. Snow in the high country, especially in September, is a breathtaking sight. A light dusting of the stuff on pines and aspens still clothed in their late-summer greenery is nothing short of magical. Sadly, I wasn’t in a position to appreciate the beauty. Instead, I spent the majority of the hike in a position not conducive to hiking

By a miracle I made it up East Basin Pass – the climb up on that side of Big Dog Mountain was easier than the climb on the way in – and stopped to either die or find the will to keep going. At that moment, death sounded like a splendid idea.

Then I heard the unmistakable squawk of a sage hen. I looked up to see two of the birds standing right in the middle of the trail, heads cocked to one side as if they’d never before seen a human being in such terrible shape. With a start, I realized this was the exact spot where we’d seen sage hen during the hike in. My mind flashed back to that moment – seemingly a lifetime ago, one in which I was healthy and whole and relatively happy.

“Shoot it, we’ll have it for dinner,” I told Bill. We stared at the sage hen. It stared at us. Nothing moved.

“I’m not eating sage hen,” Bill protested.

“It tastes just like chicken,” I retorted. “Come on, shoot it! If you won’t, give me your gun.”

That got Bill ready to shoot. He popped off ten rounds from his little .22LR pistol, missing every single one. The sage hen strutted off, clucking in what sounded like a disapproving tone. I shook my head in agreement with the sage hen. “Here, let me shoot,” I said.

Bill refused. He emptied the rest of his magazine after the sage hen, missing every shot, and concluded that the bird was moving too fast to be hit with a handgun.

“It was twenty feet away and walking!” I razzed him as we climbed down the north side of East Basin Pass.

In a fit of irony, I laughed as I remembered telling Bill that the sage hen would taste just like chicken. That’s completely true, by the way. Those birds are some of the best eating I’ve ever had, and as I sat in the snow, a cold wind doing its best to whip me into submission, I couldn’t help but think that if Bill had shot the sage hen, I’d have eaten those instead of my chicken salad, and I wouldn’t be in this mess.

This is rugged country under normal conditions. With snow falling and food poisoning? It’s almost deadly. Photo by Spencer Durrant. 

Mike showed up then, hauling me to my feet and practically pushing me all the way from the top of East Basin Pass to Lake Bonnie, a mile or so from the pass. We’d stopped there on the hike in for lunch and a bit of fishing, but this time we stopped only to refill water bottles and catch our breath. The wind was so ferocious that little Lake Bonnie – the size of maybe two football fields – had whitecaps crashing on its shore.

I sat on a large square boulder, my pack off for the moment while I rested. Almost everything was wet, but my Sitka rain jacket kept my torso dry. Most importantly, though, the jacket’s waterproof pockets kept the quickly-dwindling supply of toilet paper in usable condition.

The break stretched out longer than expected, and the extended time to sit on a flat surface made me feel almost . . . better? No, that was too strong a word. Less terrible than I’d felt a half-hour ago, definitely, but nowhere near approaching better. Buoyed by the thought that maybe I’d passed the worst of the food poisoning, I fished a package of cheddar and peanut butter crackers from my pack. These weren’t a grandma Pat-approved backpacking mainstay, but they fit her parameters for good backpacking food – light, full of carbs, and easy to eat while walking.

Reasoning that my body would do well with something in my stomach aside from acid and misery, I ate as many of the crackers as I could before we started hiking again. I even washed them down with a bit of freshly-filtered water, and for the next mile I felt like I was on top of the world. I could walk for five minutes without needing a break! I had the strength of a ten-year-old instead of a toddler! I was beating the food poisoning, consequences be damned!

The elation was short-lived. The mile after my brief encounter with hope, I dashed from the trail to the trees so many times I ran out of toilet paper completely, had to borrow some from Bill, used up all of his, and eventually had to resort to other means as I exhausted our once-impressive supply of one of backpacking’s most valuable assets.

Hiking in took us just under eight hours, with long breaks included. 10 hours after we’d left camp that morning, I found myself at the base of the cliff we’d slept on that first night. One last hurdle and I’d be . . . well, not home, but able to lay on something soft and die peacefully, instead of in a pile of unwashed pain in the middle of the mountains.

A faint trail – carved by mountain goats, most likely – traversed the cliff as it rose for a few hundred feet above me. Under normal circumstances, it’s a treacherous climb; loose shale, steep, muddy chutes, and nothing in the way of foliage to use to break a fall are the cliff’s defining features. In good health, I’d see the cliff as a challenge, as something in need of conquering, and I’d do so with a swagger, standing atop it with my beard blowing in the wind, surveying the wild kingdom I felt I owned after scrambling up a relatively small cliff.

In my present state, though, I saw the cliff as insurmountable. I’ll just die here, I thought. This is as good a place as any. The base of the cliff was pretty. Pinion pine, aspen, and cedar grew thick, and there was even a pile of what looked like horse bones next to the trail. I’m not the only poor animal to die here, I thought.

Despite it all, Blacksmith Lake is worth a return trip. Photo by Spencer Durrant.

Then Bill showed up, grabbed my pack, and set off up the cliff. Armed now with only my trekking poles and a bruised ego at watching Bill haul two packs up the cliff with ease, I staggered up the rocky trail, each step a victory that cost me untold amounts of energy and willpower. I’m certain my beard turned from brown to gray in the time it took me to climb that damn cliff, and I collapsed in a soggy heap next to Bill’s 4-Runner convinced I’d not live to see another day. It was the longest, most exhausting hike of my life. Worse than an expedition in 2017 which saw me go 35 miles in Wyoming’s Wind River Mountains, the last of which were spent fighting altitude sickness.

That trip had a silver lining – as I descended, I got better and caught fish.

This trip? Sure, the food poisoning was a blight on the experience. Running out of toilet paper was a literal pain in the ass, and I left parts of me on that mountain I’ll never recover. The true tragedy, however, is that I went through the entire ordeal without catching a single fish.

Bill drove as quickly as he could down the bumpy road, but there’s only so much you can do on a trail designed for ATVs instead of trucks. Saturday evening – a full day before we’d expected to get back to civilization – we arrived in Duchesne, Utah, and I staggered into a Sinclair for a bottle of 7-Up. I sipped while Bill drove in silence the rest of the way home. Somewhere around Strawberry Reservoir I passed out. I woke when Bill pulled into my driveway, and as I settled in my own bed in the wee hours of Sunday morning, I thought, a charmed life indeed.

Spencer Durrant is a fly fishing writer, outdoors columnist, and novelist from Utah. His work has appeared in Field & Stream, Sporting Classics Daily, American Angler, Southwest Fly Fishing Magazine, Hatch Magazine, Trout Magazine, and other national publications. Find him on Twitter/Instagram, @Spencer_Durrant, and on Facebook @SpencerDurrantOutdoors.