By Mark L Reece
Utah Outdoors July 2002
ALL THINGS CONSIDERED, it turned out pretty well, my affable guide proclaimed after we wrapped up lunch and headed down the mountain.
With carnation, caramel and burnt sienna sandstone fins and hoodoos standing sentinel, Antimony Canyon's rugged features strike a fantastic southern Utah complement to the crystal-clear, beaver-dammed babbling water that perpetually carves its way downstream.
Typical of the alpine/desert micro-climates found south of Richfield, stoic stands of aspen, spruce, fir, pinyon and juniper intertwine with open grasslands, wildflowers and sagebrush to meld a seemingly incongruous patchwork of beauty.
This was the landscape where I would learn to fly.
Well, not that I learned it all in a single outing, but it was a great place to start. The classroom was Antimony Creek, about 210 miles due south of Salt Lake City, and some 5 miles east on dirt road from the quaint hamlet that carries the same name. The waters comprise the northeastern most section of the Upper Sevier River Watershed, just along the Aquarius Plateau and Boulder Mountains.
Five anglers made this trip: one master technician; his fearless and persistent youngest daughter; two true city-slicker novices; and myself, an intermediate bait and lure angler, but a newcomer and anticipated aficionado to the world of fly fishing.
The plan laid out weeks before in our Salt Lake office was to hit Antimony Creek somewhat early in the season (late May), play with the runoff, check out the water levels and do a little exploring.
Along the way there would be some instruction about backcountry fishing and, with a little luck, the chance to land a few.
Which is pretty much how it all came together.
Except for that pesky, busted-up fly rod that appeared to have been unwittingly stepped on then packed into the four-wheel drive, despite careful attention to inventory. Ingenuity paid off, however, when - after the Band-Aids failed to keep it straight — our inventive guide simply whittled off some of the black graphite with a mean, nasty knife, placed the top section of a different pole on board, restrung the tippet and voila!
I even caught two fish with that jury-rigged bad boy.
The section of stream we fished is probably pretty popular with anglers who want to switch gears from the wide-open expanse (and barrage of ski boats) found at neighboring Otter Creek Reservoir, or the slow fishing along the nearby East Fork of the Sevier. Campsites and rock fire pits sparsely dotting along the canyon trail prove getaways and overnighters are common.
But it seemed we had the creek pretty much to ourselves, except for one or two trailers and an RV unit on the front end of the trail. Still, we never saw any one else fishing the holes or bends, must have been playing elsewhere this Memorial Day weekend.
Named for the antimony mineral deposits found throughout the area, we hit gold early on as the first of us in the group, New Jersey native Franklin Aragundi - and on his second try in his life of fishing no less - nailed a small brown with a salmon egg skewered on an Eagle Claw. It was the first hole of the day, and, despite our announcing presence and clogging the small area of water with poles, Jersey Boy hit within the first 15 minutes of real-time fishing.
It was incentive enough to make the decision of splitting into separate factions to enter the foray—my friend, Heidi, with me: Aragundi by himself, and the formidable father-daughter team on the other side of the fast-moving but shallow creek.
(Though truth be told, dad/guide was really more into taking pictures, offering clinician-oriented tips about small stream fly fishing, telling us to stop spooking the fish and spotting the likely hideouts.)
We fished another half-hour or so, hiked further up along the stream for about a half-mile, hitting little pools in the creek that formed as much as the riverbed terrain would allow. A few nibbles, much more snags and the guide suggested I cast into a shallow area burgeoned with boulders near a small calm heading toward a fall.
With a hapless little renegade on the end of the fly line, I shot over once toward the darkest part of the water underneath the boulder. I came close, but missed the target, which, embarrassingly, was only about 10 feet away. Guess I was still getting used to not having the weight of a heavy spinner, a couple of lead shots or other gravity-pulling device on the line.
Regaining some composure, I then brought the line up into the air, flicked it back down, hit it in the heart and watched in amazement with the brightest clarity as an 8-inch brown was fooled by the artificial bug and took it on the lip.
Not a huge fish or fight, but hey, this was my first one on a fly rod. Nice. I was then told to reel him in close, get my hands wet before touching him, handle gently, pose for posterity and promptly release.
Right on. So that’s what all the fuss is about. Sorry, but I have to use the cliche: I’m hooked.
So, apparently, is Heidi, who less than three days after this, her first outing, said she was all but headed to REI to rent a weekend’s worth of gear and hit another high mountain stream.
After the excitement of my first fish calmed, we headed more upstream, fighting ail abundance of spiderwebs and dry tinder overgrowth, getting scratched liberally on the legs for the effort. Along the way I stopped to watch a resident lizard do a few push-ups on a blistering rock, as it appeared to he catching a glimpse of the clamping group with reels and rods in tow. After a brief time trying (and failing) more of the water's hiding spots, we derided to see how the others were doing.
Franklin found us first and hollered about a huge beaver dam and accompanying pool "full of some real beauties." Crossing several beaver downed timber, we caught up with young Xanthe and paid rapt attention as her eyes widened retelling her tale of casting her big spinner once into the hole, getting the hit and landing immediately, among other things. It would be her only catch of the short day, not that she didn’t give it the old college, er, junior high try.
Sure enough, there were a few fat browns sitting on the bottom of some of the clearest water I've seen in a mountain stream. Jersey Boy was again trying his luck at the beaver dam, then relented and offered the pole to Heidi, who cast and reeled salmon eggs with reckless abandon above the hole, but to no avail.
These fish were smart. Our guide again reminded us of the merits of sneaking up on the fish, and to give the hole a rest for a few minutes before hitting it.
Despite better judgment, I waited all of about 90 seconds before clamoring onto a huge fallen tree in the middle of the hole, shooting the renegade out and allowing it to drift ”naturally, as the current takes it,” as I was instructed, toward the schooling, scared browns.
We knew they were lunching on flies, as they came to the surface, mocking us while jumping for their natural snack skimming the water. Xanthe’s big gold and red-spotted spinner fooled once, and that was all it took. They’d have nothing more to do with that shiny metallic device that left one of their own sucking the air up there.
But, as they say, there’s one in every crowd, as the renegade sauntered by on one of my casts, another medium-sized brown took hold, much like my first experience, on the lip, suckered by a human with a pole. This time the fish was determined to get out of the situation.
Which it did, just as I pulled the line from the water to get a grip of the trout. It wriggled the fly out of its lip, harmless flopping to the water half a foot below with nary a fingerprint of mine on its scaly carcass.
I looked at the guide, whose broad, toothy grin said it all. To add insult to injury, he also spoke "That’s what Doug Miller calls a long-distance release.”
We all laughed and rigged up again.
Four fish, three hours up two off-road/hiking trails along this one spectacular stream. No matter how you do the math, it all added up to a great first fly-fishing experience.
And next time I’ll get that loop-de-loop technique down, without all the tailing, I promise.
Getting there From Salt Lake City, take I-15 south to Cove Fort [west of Richfield), I-70 east to Sevier, I-89 south to the Otter creek turnoff south of Junction, and then U-62 east (which turns into U-22) to Antimony. Then travel east 3 miles on dirt road to the Dixie National Forest boundary. Continue to travel east on Forest Service Road 138. This road generally parallels Antimony Creek for approximately 4 miles.
Services, camping The town of Antimony offers limited services, from gas and a mercantile store (do not miss breakfast or the half-pound burgers hum the grill) to RV camping and one major lodge.
Nearly Otter Creek State Park has a very nice developed campground.
Backcountry camping is allowed in surrounding forest areas.
Information Dixie National Forest, Escalante Ranger District (435) 826-5400; www.fs.fed.us.dxnf
