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Full Version: Back in the day...when I was a copy editor
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Back in 1999, I worked as an editor at "The Daily Herald" in Provo. Soon after I was hired, my boss asked me if I wanted to write a weekly outdoor article for the paper.

I was looking through some old papers today and found a few of the fishing articles I'd written. I thought I'd share one with you that I wrote on fishing Strawberry soon after ice off.

I'm not trying to be presumptuous here. I just thought a few of you might enjoy this article. I've got one more on fishing the Uintas that I wouldn't mind sharing, if any of you are interested.

Here's the article: [indent]Joy of Fishing One of Life's Great Treats

The copy editors at "The Daily Herald" share a small space. Our proximity facilitates many of the duties we share, but it also means we occasionally overhear each other's phone conversations.

I had just hung up the phone with Scott, a long-time fishing and hunting buddy, after finalizing some early-morning fishing plans, when Amy, a fellow editor, asked, "How can you get up at 5 a.m. to go fishing when we're here until after midnight each night?"

"How does a kid stay excited for Christmas morning after not sleeping a Wink," I responded.

I related the Christmas comment to Scott the next morning as we ascended Provo Canyon's winding highway--the gray-blue color of dawn barely illuminating the interior of his truck, while I sipped orange juice and ate chunks out of a chocolate donut.

I saw enough of his profile in the half-light, however, to recognize a wry Smile, which signaled to me that he too felt that fishing was more important than sleep.

Fishing is in his blood; it's in my blood. Folks who fish understand each other. Time away spent fishing, far from the crowds and confusion, make up the red-letter days on fishermen's calendars and make campfire chats worth staying up for.

Being the fortunate husband of an understanding wife and the father of three small children, it takes something special to want me to steal away a few moments from them.

I heard a true story once about a pioneer boy who got a big piece of rock candy for his birthday. Such a treat for a boy in the remote early West was rare, indeed! He wished to savor the treasure for as long as possible, so he wrapped the piece of candy in some paper and hid it under his mattress--taking it out only on occasion, slowly unwrapping it, licking it once or twice, and then carefully replacing it.

That infrequent moment of savory bliss he experienced by tasting something out of the ordinary illustrates how many of us fisher folk feel when we slip away to our hidden holes.

I am thankful that early-morning venture with Scott was the beginning of a memorable day. As we rounded the bend past the last sage-covered hill, our eyes beheld the barren expanse of ice on Strawberry Reservoir.

After Scott and I emerged from the warm cab of his truck, we quickly donned our thick sweatshirts, wool hats, neoprene waders, and equipment vests to shield ourselves from the cold. We then threaded the guides on our fly poles and tied on big, furry flies before slipping insulated gloves over frigid fingers.

Soon thereafter, Scott and I stood in waist-deep water with the huge mass of retreating ice in deeper water just yards away. For several hours that morning and well into the afternoon, we sailed dark-colored woolly buggers and olive-green mohair leeches out into the deep.

Each long cast was first allowed to sink for a moment and was then retrieved with quick, intermittent tugs to mimic leeches, worms, baitfish, and crayfish. With each cast and subsequently retrieval, we anticipated those wonderfully exciting strikes that only fishermen know.

A biting wind on our exposed faces was the only unpleasant note in a melody of swirling mists of ice, deep green water, brilliant blue skies, and snowy-white clouds.

Occasionally, beautifully spotted, orange-gashed cutthroats and flashy silver-sided rainbows graced our nets for a brief moment before being returned to their watery homes for a future angler to enjoy.

I released all but one of the fish I caught that day. It was decided that a fat, football-shaped rainbow needed to accompany me home to be prepared, cooked, and savored--for as long as possible.

After all, it's not every day that a guy gets to catch, then hold, and finally savor a rainbow.[/indent]
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[cool]Nice work, PrinceFisher. Most on this board TOTALLY understand the restlessness the night before adventures on the pond.
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