As soon as I saw northern Utah’s Logan River in 1968 I was infatuated. I expected to be. I had driven 2,000 miles to be. And, for sure, I was.
Step by step, slippery rock by slippery rock, cast by cast, as I learned about the river, from its high-country headwaters with cutthroat trout to its lowland, oxbow life in Cache Valley and the brown trout that finned there, the infatuation turned to love.
I had driven all those cross-country miles to live near the river, studying fish at the nearby university and playing with fish as I stood crotch-deep in strong currents. It was a wonderful few years with memories that remain strong a good portion of a lifetime later.
At the Idaho border, where the river is still young, it is only a hop, skip and slip from one side to the other, but the current runs strong and the willows and other vegetation reach out over the edges of the waterway making great spots for a cutthroat trout to spend a lifetime unbothered, unless, of course, some obsessed angler is in the neighborhood.
That would be me. The obsessed angler, I mean.
The river eventually reaches Cache Valley where it slows and meanders and, at that time, made perfect habitat for brown trout.
I loved the river’s top and also its bottom. In between the two, the Logan did a lot of descending, gurgling here, bubbling there. The gravity-driven river found a few places to have runs and even a pool now and then. It was a river that, if fished correctly, in that up-close-and-personal way that is the most fun, required strong legs and a determination that can only come with obsession.
Somewhere in the midpoint between beginning and end, the Logan rolled through a deep canyon and the U.S. highway, with few places to park, was high above. “No problem,” said the obsessed, 20-something angler. Using handholds to descend to the river and to climb back out, I learned that you don’t grab stinging nettle with a bare hand. There were lessons to be learned in this new country.
I had a lot of success catching brown trout in the canyon, but I longed to hook a big one, one of those holy-bleep fish. I was making my own spinners then. I’d mail order the parts from Herter’s. They worked great and were nicely cost efficient.
Every time I fished in the canyon, I would eyeball a stretch of water on the other side of the river. It looked to be a run of some depth where the water slowed a touch. In addition, it slipped back beneath some overhanging brush. I kept wondering if I could get a spinner beneath the brush and back into what I considered to be a perfect trout lair.
I had become quite accurate casting lures with the old Wright and McGill rod that I had brought with me to the Intermountain West.
“Here we go,” I thought and quickly reached back and side-armed the lure to the intended spot with a perfect cast. I bet the silver blade hadn’t spun twice before everything just stopped. For only a split second I figured I had hooked a log, but logs don’t go whump whump wham whack and make your lightweight rod bounce in your hand.
The game was on and it took some time to work the 24-inch brown trout across the challenging rocks and runs before we were both on the same side of the river. My landing net wasn’t big enough to secure the trout so I worked it for a long time until it was docile enough to be in front of me as I walked toward the steep bank. Finally, not knowing what else to try, I flipped my rod onto dry land and grabbed the trout with both hands, capturing it for good.
That’s the kind of memory I’m talking about.