Cabin Creek, A Cliff, and a Triscuit

I have done many stupid things while on fishing adventures. While many of my dumb ideas have happened while fishing alone, the really good ones generally occur with a companion. This particular fishing trip included my cousin, Dave Mann, my Pa (Grandpa), and my uncle Kent. My brother Ben might have been with us too but it I seem to remember him being at Scout camp in Spokane or something. Anyway, I was about 8 or 9 years old which would have made my cousin 11 or 12. Early on a summer morning we packed into Pa's truck with a topper on it. Pa and Kent in the front seat, Dave and I in the bed. We headed west on I90 in Washington and decided to drive in the long way. Many years before this there was a flood that knocked the bridge out that was located just a few minutes from where Pa lived. The long way adds almost an hour to the drive through back country mountain roads. If there was only one place in the world I was able to fish for the rest of my life it would be Cabin Creek. This is one of the original creeks I learned to fish on. It is a small mountain stream that meanders through the mountains in Kittitas County emptying into the Yakima River. There are three portions we usually fish; the lower, the falls, and the upper stream. More details about cabin creek in posts to come.

This trip we drove around the long way all the way back to the bridge and fished up stream from their to the falls and up the falls returning to eat lunch and drive back the long way looking for wild berries on the way back. We had driven back out the road we came down and had stopped at a place that Pa had spotted that looked good for berries. We pulled over, Pa and Kent got out and started looking for berries and Dave and I got out and started messing around. There was a small shale hill/cliff we decided needed to be climbed. Dave went up first and I followed. We messed around on top for a while and then heard Pa calling for us to come back so we could move on to a new place. I began my descent down the crumbling ledge and about 3 feet down slipped. I remember rolling over and over down the mound bouncing every few feet as I reconnected with the earth. After skidding to a stop I hear Dave from behind me shouting move there's a rock coming. The shale shards continued to shower on top of me as I jumped out of the ways seconds before being cold cocked by a small shale boulder. Shock of what just happened numbed me to the pain in my lower right flank. Dave took a safer path down the mound behind me and came to my aid while Pa and Kent rushed over to check on me also. Shockingly my only major injury was a laceration on my lower right back. It was bleeding profusely and needed some first aid attention which we had none of. The drive back home the long way was a good 2 plus hours from where we were so Pa decided fording the creek where the bridge used to be was what was going to have to happen. Dave and I load into the back of the truck and we take off. Getting across the creek with no bridge was a challenge but Pa and Kent were able to navigate us through and we were off and on our way to tend to my injuries cutting more than an hour off of my misery.

Here comes the more stupid part than climbing the cliff. How nice it was that Pa had given us a short cut to get me feeling better quicker, right. Yes. I negated that effort by doing what began a long string of stupid ideas Dave would suggest and I would attempt in my life. At this time Dave and I noticed a big box of Triscuits sitting left over from lunch in the back with us. Brilliant Dave, now an Ear Nose and Throat MD, suggests, "Danny, I dare you to put a Triscuit on your wound." You would think that some mental alarm would have said to me, "hold on, could this hurt you?" No such alarm came and I pulled out a Triscuit glanced at the coarse edges and salt granules barely clinging to the wafer, and slapped that bad boy right onto my already throbbing flesh wound. The pain intensified from bearable to what felt like dipping my kidney into liquid magma. I lost it screaming like crazy, Dave is about to pass out laughing and Pa and Kent bob down the dirt road oblivious to my nightmare.

The pain subsided as Dave and I gained our composure. My tears of pain vs. his tears of laughter. You would think this lesson would have taught me to never trust or take a dare from Dave. Well It didn't. I have plenty more stories waiting to be told. But I'll never forget the day I consciously placed a Triscuit on my blood weeping laceration at Cabin Creek one summer. I think I caught some fish too!


Twenty Years Later the Scar Still Stands. Hard to see in this picture but still visible in person.

Wormsly, Sups, Carp, and a Little Chum

Sups on the Left, Wormsly on the Right

In order to completely understand this story you really have to know about my two best friends from nursing school. Leandrew Tirrell and Bradley Johnson. For the rest of this article I will refer to them as Sups and Wormsly respectively. I'll start off by letting you all know a little bit about each of the Murses (Male Nurses). Lets start with Sups and his lack of fishing knowledge. Wormsly and I have been fishing, whether it be fly(me) or bait(Brad), since we were youngings. Sups on the other hand is less versed in the fishing genre. One of our first visit to the fishing hole was a trip out to a dirty old carp pond just off of I-15 and the Provo River. Most people hear Provo River and think Blue Ribbon fly-fishing for trout. We thought, Provo River, nasty carp. Well this first trip was a day planned to go "study" on the banks of the carp pond. There were many a "study trip" to a fishing location to prepare for midterm tests and finals. The only person who ever studied was Worms. Sups and I spent our time moving along the banks of the carp pond site fishing for carp. Me with my fly rod and Sups with his power bait. Sups quickly learned that neon-pink powerbait with large flakes of sparkle glitter wasn't the best way to entice a carp to his hook. He went through an array of different lure combos and powerbaits, including a roostertail with a large shinny trailing spoon and powerbait connected to the hooks of each lure. He thought the more options the fish had the better chance he had of them taking a bite. For anyone with any knowledge of fishing you know this is insane. After our first trip to the carp pond with no luck Sups was determined to catch one. Before the next visit, Sups had heard Wormsly talking about chumming. He now had learned that throwing canned corn out into the pond would draw the carp in close and then using corn as bait would be a much better way to catch one. The legality of this technique was fuzzy but Sups would not let it go. Anytime Wormsly or I brought up fishing Sups would bring up Chumming. This was a new concept to him and an obsession formed. Well, we arrived at the pond with all our normal gear and Sups with his can of corn and spinning rod. Wormsly sat down on the bank, threw his powerbait out into the middle of the pond, jammed his rod into the ground, rolled up his sleeves in the sun, and sat back studying in the warm summer air. I walked around the pond to a submerged log I had seen on a previous trip looking to trick some carp on the fly. Sups opened the can, shook half the contents into the pond, and began to wait. Things weren't happening fast enough for Sups who is a little bit impatient as a fisherman. He decided the best way to get them to come would be to throw the entire can into the pond and let juice goo out. He baited up his hook with a few kernels and watched waiting for something to come. I honestly can't remember if he caught one or not. Carp are nasty and stinky anyway. Brad and I each caught one and I know that I just put my foot on the fish unhooked my fly, and kicked the retched thing back into the mudhole. To this day if I mention fishing he somehow Sups brings up chumming. Chumming changed Sups' life. Wormsly and I, lets just say, Worms regrets ever mentioning chumming with corn.

Big Fish Little Creek

I found this little creek in Utah when I moved up to the Salt Lake Valley. I pulled multiple 18 plus inch fish out of it. The creek is only about 10 feet across. It is the smallest creek containing the biggest fish I have ever fished. I will spend some time later explaining a few of my trips to this beautiful creek.

My Life as a Fly-Fisherman

I decided that I have too many great fly fishing stories that I am keeping to myself.This will be a collection of stories for all to enjoy. The name of this blog says it all for me and anyone that has ever fished with me will attest to the truthfulness of it. I just wanted a place I could write my stories like a journal that everyone could get a laugh out of. Enjoy the blog and pictures. --Dan