6/7/11 – Lyons Colorado

This morning, Sam made me a deal, that if I let her stay asleep in the car until we reached the river, she would wash the dishes from the night before. Despite how soundly I know she can sleep, the jostling of the car had her wide awake long before we arrived.

Prior to hitting the river this morning, we had to make a short stop at Trout Creek Flies to buy a third day’s fishing license. As we waited in the car by the front door of the shop, we watched as every few minutes, one of a small herd of old men ceremonially walked to the front door to check if it had been unlocked in the last 60 seconds. When the manager finally came and unlocked the door, Sam ordered our breakfast sandwiches from the woman running the kitchen while I used the courtesy computer to pay for my day-pass on the river.

For some reason, the breakfast sandwiches made at the Trout Creek Flies kitchen were among the tastiest I’ve ever had. Bacon, egg, and cheese were to be expected, but add in a layer of fresh cooked hash-browns and put it all in the middle of an enormous soft-yet-crispy bagel and it was enough to keep my mouth watering for the past three days.

As I assembled my rod at the little hole boat ramp, Sam revealed her plan to stay entertained while I was fishing. Because we only had a few hours to fish before we needed to be on the road, Sam was going to follow me with a book, and pretend to be the little indigenous guide/servant like on the TV show River Monsters. For some reason, the thought of running out to help me with the net and the camera seemed more appealing than trying to fish for herself.  

Once we reached the first of the sweet spots from yesterday, I wasted no time becoming irritated at why the fish no longer seemed to be interested in what I was presenting. Sam lazed in a comfortable spot of sun she had found further up the bank, happily engrossed in her book while I futilely changed flies and casted at different locations. By the time I was ready to blame the poor fishing on the moon phase, the shirt I was wearing, and my companion, I hooked up with a sizeable brown. As per our arrangement, I yelled out “Fish On! Fish On!” and Sam came running with the net to assist me delighted to be acting out the part of a small Indonesian fisherman’s assistant. It occurred to me later, that the fault was not my own, but that the fish had not become active or started feeding until the sun had risen to warm the water in the gorge around 10:00 am.

As she scooped up the fish, I brought out the tape measure to ensure that the fish was of a legal size to take, and we put it into our ziplock-bag-creel, to clean and bring as gifts to our friend and my former co-worker Larry with whom we would be staying that night.

Not surprisingly, having two people to manage the fish, the net, and the camera proved to be far easier than my tribulations the prior day. With two fish in the bag, we hiked quickly back to the car- as we knew we would be cutting it close to make Larry’s house by nightfall.

Larry had informed us of an event to take place at a local brew-pub known as Oscar Blues, home of the now-well known beverages, Dale’s Pale Ale. Leaving Dutch John and driving up out of the Flaming Gorge was a bit sad as I had no idea how many years it would take me to return there, but I was excited to finally visit my friend Larry with whom I had worked at Costa Rica Outward Bound. As luck would have it, he was now at his home in Lyons Colarado, forming his own company with a friend from New York.

As we reached the entrance for I-80 and turned East, it truly sunk in that we were beginning our trek homeward. We stopped at a nearby filling station and topped off the tank, and didn’t stop again until we reached Loveland, CO to fill up again. We had made the best gas mileage of the trip, a remarkable 26mpg! Proof of just how flat and straight southern Wyoming really is.

Larry and his friend Christina

The closest town to Larry’s cabin- Lyons, was very quaint with a pedestrian friendly down-town, an artsy vibe, and right in the middle, the Oscar Blues- brew pub where we were going to meet our friend for the evening’s festivities. Supposedly, Lyons is blessed with a large community of local musicians, and had recently begun meeting weekly for an event called “The Pick” where the musicians were invited to bring their instruments out and join in a free-for-all circle of bluegrass music.

Not only was the food and the beer great, but the music was fantastic! I was in nostalgia heaven, tapping my foot, singing along, I was unable to wipe the grin off of my face the entire evening. Many of the musicians were professionals- some with record contracts playing right alongside of the beginner banjo player. There were fiddles, mandolins, banjo’s, stand up basses, guitars, a dobro, a couple of accordions, ukuleles, washboards, and the coup-de-gras was a very mysterious character that played a hand-saw with a violin bow better than anyone I had ever heard.

The circle was formed in the center of the bar’s upstairs dining room by about fifteen musicians, and kept expanding until the small room was crammed from wall to wall with smiling musicians. Each tune had a solo from each instrument around the room. When the mysterious saw player entered the room with his long beard and his driving cap under the hood of his jacket, even the other musicians began to whisper to one another. The sound that blade produced was haunting! Very similar to the sound of the electronic instrument called a Theremin, the saw would moan and shriek as the bow dragged across it, kept in time by its mysterious maestro.

By the time we left the bar, there were two new circles of musicians that had formed in other corners of the bar including one in the hallway at the top of the stairs that we had to worm our way through the middle of just to leave. Sam and I were flat worn out by the end of the evening thanks to our fishing trip, and 8 hour drive all which preceded the evening’s music. We could not have been happier for a shower and a soft bed when we reached Larry’s beautiful log cabin.