Ghost Flute Canyon

Ghost Flute Canyon


I had heard about the canyon. Rather, I had heard of some folks searching for the canyon.
The canyon known as Ghost Flute Canyon was a place where monster fish rose to gigantic hatches. It was a place of mystery and magic.

It was also a myth.

I started putting out feelers for the canyon just after I had over heard two men at the fly fishing store. I was on the other side of a tall rack and they didn’t know I was there. One man had claimed to have been to the canyon and the other man was busy telling the first just how full of it he was.

The basic gist of the tale or what I had come to call “The Story” went like this.

Who ever was telling the story had happened on the canyon and started to tell about how big the fish were, how tough it was to get to and just how many fish were caught.
As usual, when pressed, the story teller had to relate exactly when he had been there, but of course he was lying and his story soon fell to pieces.

I chuckled, picked out some more Bead Head Pheasant Tails and went to the counter.
This little drama played itself out a few times over the years and I had resolved that as nice as it would be to find a place like this, it was not to be.

Then one night I was down on the Provo fishing just above the trestle. I had just gotten off work and only had an hour or so. I was tying up my rig, when one of the guys from the fly club pulled up.

I had known Charles for about four years and he was a good fisherman. He and I had shared the water many times and I always looked forward to fishing with him. He was rigged so we made our way down the gravel road towards the water. As I waited for him to duck under the Iron Gate that blocks the road, I asked him if he had heard about Ghost Flute Canyon. As he straightened up and looked at me, I realized from the look on his face that this place might be real. Charles had never claimed to have been at the canyon, but when I asked him this harmless question, his response spoke volumes.
His face grew hard and in a gruff way I had never heard him speak before he said “Don’t ask foolish questions damnit!” He then left me behind and started fishing across the river rather than walking the trestle. His behavior was so odd I was actually shocked. He and I had never had a cross word, why was he angry?

As I climbed over the big orange gate and made my way across the huge boards covering the trestle deck, the answer came to me, he knew where this place was! He had been there!

I fished alone that night; Charles never made his way up to me and left without saying goodbye.

The following Tuesday we went to the club meeting and he was as familiar as ever. I didn’t bring up the incident and neither did he. I think we were both glad it was behind us and I made a mental note to not discuss it around him. At the meeting though it was brought up by a fellow standing near Charles. Charles got up and left without a word.

Over the rest of the summer, I observed Charles and noticed that he was heading out alone about once a month and was gone for the weekend. When I would see him after these short absences, I would inquire what he had done on the weekend in question. Most the time he told me that he had been rock hunting or had gone to see his folks.
I ignored the fact that he had never really done either of these activities before.
Instead, as the fall crept up, I would walk the dog past his place and noted the mileage on his truck. Then when he got home from “seeing his folks” I would walk the dog again and note the return mileage. The average was about 270 miles.

When I was pretty sure I had the miles correct, I spent the winter at the library and looked over some USFS Topo maps.
As spring finally started to peek through, I had made a plan.

Following the rules of the story, I felt I had narrowed the possible location of the canyon down to a few different mountain ranges in Central Utah. These were the rule of the Canyon as based on the story told by the locals.

The river was 8 miles long.
It was a glacier created range.
It had no outlet.
It ran through quaky covered highlands.

Not a lot to go on I know, but I had Charlie’s miles and that helped to narrow down the range.
I went to my Brother and asked him to fly me over the area. We left airport number 2 at 8 am on a crisp spring morning and the hunt was on. I didn’t tell him why we were going, just that I wanted to see the area.

I had narrowed the search down to two places and as we flew over the first, it became quickly apparent that the range was too narrow to fulfill the 8 mile width. Farther south as we crested the next range I watched the mountain spread in front of us and widen to just over 10 miles.

As we reached the highest part of the mountain I looked down and deep in the valley I could see the river. It glistened in the sun as it wound down through the quaky lined valley floor. I anxiously looked around for an access road and realized the closest road was over 40 miles away. As we flew over the farthest downstream stretch of the canyon the river disappeared. It was hard, but I kept the discovery to my self. I pulled the GPS from my pocket and grabbed some readings as we flew over the valley one last time and back to Salt Lake.

The next weekend was forever getting here. I had packed my gear and re-packed it several times. I wanted this to be perfect if I had found the canyon.
Excitement finally got the better of me on Saturday Morning and after kissing my wife goodbye, I headed out to see if I was right. I gave her the GPS reading and told her I would be home Sunday night. As I drove I sipped my coffee and thought about the 2 years I had into this search. If I was wrong, that was ok, the search had been great. But I hoped I was right.

I need to be somewhat vague from this point on, if you fly fish and hold special spots sacred, I’m sure you will understand.

I idled my truck over the last section of desert floor and stopped at a low slung spot in a foot hill. I picked a spot behind some cedar trees in a small gulch hoping to hide it from anyone that may pass by. I found this unlikely but the thought of someone tripping over the spot I had spent so long researching bothered me.

As I worked my way up the valley I was amazed at how the landscape changed. The sharp tangy smell of sagebrush slowly gave way to the cedar. Then a little farther on I could see the quaky tree leaves shuttering in the almost still morning air.
This place felt magic and my imagination ran away as I thought of the supposed history if the place. I had walked for about 30 minutes and was quite sure I had the wrong place when a sound caught my attention. It was a low rumble, felt more then heard. As I walked farther up the canyon the sound grew louder and began to sound like a muffled water fall.

There was a mound in front of me now about 100 yards wide and looking almost like an earthen dam. It was quite steep in the middle, so I made my way around the right edge and caught a spray of mist. My heart started pounding and I ran up to the edge. I caught myself at the brink, paralyzed by the sight.

A shaft fell off deep into the mountain. The mist from the falling water lifted lightly into the air and made damp all that strayed too close to the edge. I fell back from the edge grabbing for support from trees and bushes afraid I would fall into that dark hole. It took several minutes to catch my breath. Finally, I looked to my right and saw a pool no less then a hundred feet wide and at least that long that held the water before it plunged into the depths of the mountain.

The edge of the pool nearest the drop off looked man made. It seemed that way at least and I felt at some point that perhaps in my excitement, I was imagining things.

I worked my way around the pool and started up the canyon. My head swam with the discovery. I had believed that this whole thing had to be myth because a river does not simply disappear. But this one did, right into a subterranean chasm. The thought of that abyss made me shudder, but I pushed on. The day was bright and although I was sure I had found the right place, I knew it was so remote that it had to be barren water.
Just as I thought the word barren in my mind, I heard a splash and my head jerked over to the top of the pool. A ring was working its way toward me and I thought I saw movement under the water. I pulled on my sunglasses and was blown away to see what appeared to be a nice Cutt. It was far enough out that I couldn’t see the fish well, nor could I see what it was eating, but it was working the riffle where the inlet fed the pool and was happily chewing something up. The river at this point was narrowing down to about 50 feet wide and not too deep. There didn’t seem to be any run off and the water was clear and pure looking. I decided to rig up and walked a short distance to a flat rock I could use as a bench.
I rigged quickly and rather badly I must admit. I always do for some reason when I stand on the bank of new water. I forget my mentors words and I turn 12 again, hardly able to wait to get that first cast into the water.
I tossed on a BWO size 16 and put my gear in order. I was using pretty light tippet and frankly the first take caught me by surprise. I worked my cast a few times and had just settled the line softly in the water when the water exploded beneath my fly.
I ripped the tip up and put the wood to the fish and promptly snapped the fly off.
These fish had some bulk! I quickly re-rigged putting on some heavier tippet and made the same cast. Again the explosion was there, again the rod tip came up but this time the fish was there as well. I worked her around and brought her to net and was please to see the girth on this fish. Thick and heavy she was all of 16 inches long. I plucked my fly from her lip and gently got her back into the stream.

As I sat back on my haunches and looked up through the trees I closed my eyes and listened to the rustling of the small round leaves. They chattered to me and seemed as happy as I was just to be here in this place right now.

As I looked to my right and started planning my next casts, I heard the sound.
It was low and climbing. It nagged on the edge of really hearing, but it was distinct none the less. It was the sound of a flute. Not the kind you hear in an orchestra, but the kind you would hear if you were visiting a time long past, a time where Native Americans sat around their fires and sang chanting songs to celebrate a successful hunt, or the birth of child.
It was the canyons name sake and for the first time I felt very alone. The sound came from up stream and I struggled with the decision. Finally, I decided I had to discover the source.
As I climbed along the rivers edge I passed countless rises. Fishing had taken a back seat for the time being and I moved forward peering intently ahead to find the source of the sound.
I made my way around a bend in the canyon wall and stopped at the edge of a pool. The water wound its way around the bend, slipping softly through the deep runs of the river bed. I watched a few risers and looked up river again. There was a shelf of rock that stuck out over the pool and as I glanced up I saw the toe of a boot sitting upright as though someone was taking a nap. My heart raced as I quickly thought about where I parked my truck. Had there been any tracks? Had I missed the sign of another person?
I looked up at the boot and thought hard, but there had been no sign, no track. I was alone.
I called out to the man “Hello?” and waited for him to wake up. There was no answer so I made my way across the river and up to the side of the shelf.
The man lay on his back as though resting. All I could see was the toe of his boot. He had waders on but the old Red Ball kind thick and unyielding. The shelf was structured such that one had to be careful climbing out to it. An animal on four legs could not navigate the thin trail with the over hang situated where it was. I crept around and looked at my “sleeping man”. He was all disconnected bones in a red flannel shirt that was crumbling to dust. His hat was pulled down over his eyes and it looked like he had just laid down and fallen to sleep, never waking again.
There was a slip of paper in his pocket. I carefully worked it free and un-folded it. It was so brittle that I had to be very careful. The writing was feint but careful and neat.

To whoever finds me, please leave me where I lay.
My name is Stan Harwick and today is May 27th 1965.
I found this place in 1938 and it has been my place of peace all these years.
I stocked it with Colorado Cutthroat Trout, the native fish to this region, and also my favorite, by hauling buckets up the mountain with mules.
I have fished this place alone until now, you find me here because this is where I chose to die. The cancer got as bad as they said, and with all the strength I had left, I made my way here. My last day on earth was spent fishing this pool and drinking in all of God’s beauty. My final request is that you not move me. I like to think that I will listen to the sound of the flute and fish jumping forever.

I carefully folded the paper and placed it back into Stan’s pocket.

As I sat thinking about how this man had been laying here for almost 42 years, a voice nearly stopped my heart.
“I see you’ve met Stan?”

My eyes darted over to the back of the rock shelf and there was Charles. My startled expression caused him to break into a big grin. I expected him to be mad, but he actually seemed relieved.

“I always figured you would find this place” Charles exclaimed “To be honest I am kind of glad you did.”

Charles went on to explain that he had been fishing this place and listening to the rumors since the mid seventy’s. He had always wished he could trust the secret with someone because even though fishing a great spot alone was nice, it can get lonely.
When I had first asked Charles about the canyon that night on the Provo, he told me he had sort of been pulling for me to find it, and hoped that if I did, I would keep the secret.
“Charles” I said, “I am happy to keep the secret assuming of course I am allowed back!”
Charles replied “As I said, it will be great to have someone to fish with again.”

With that said, the pact was made.

Charles had rigged his fly rod so we left Stan and made our way down to the pool. We worked opposite sides of the stream and took turns sort of leap frogging up the canyon.

It is hard to explain what it feels like to realize a dream. I will try.

The fish came fast to the line, but your casts had to be soft. Imagine your idea of fly fishing heaven, and you will be seeing this place. Soft grass banks with the shade of the trees keeping the sun at bay. The shadows left an almost fall like chill to the air. It smelled of sweet canyon mornings and as the day wore on, I marveled at the amazing luck I had.

Charles stopped ahead and as I caught up he began explaining the flute. He told me that on his first trip up he had spent the better part 2 days trying to locate the source.
Finally as the sun set on the second day he crested the spot where we now stood. He pointed up to the ridge line located about 200 yards distant. In the space between the trees I noticed a sort of structure. There were a number of them and I had to get my binoculars out to see them properly. They were burial stands! This canyon was a holy place of an American Indian tribe. Charles told me that out of respect he had never gone into the grave yard, but that at the edge he had found the source of the sound. We walked to the spot just a few yards distant and there between two tree branches someone a very long time ago had placed a flute. The tree had grown around it until it was almost completely obscured. The shape however was still definable and the holes were still uncovered.

Charles said “I have kept the tree clear of the flute all these years, but that first trip the wind had died and I had a helluva hard time finding it.”

I turned and looked down the canyon. The soft glow of the afternoon made long shadows of the trees around us. Golden beams broke through the small cloud cover on the horizon and the land below us glowed with the warmth of the day. A breeze rustled up the canyon wall and the flute sounded once again. It was now a comforting sound that kept us company as we made our way down the canyon.

That evening as we camped just above the first pool, we talked about the day, my search and the times we would have in the future. The smell of the fresh coffee, spiced potatoes and Italian sausage swept up to me from the fire and the heat on my face was like a baptism. Later, as I settled into my sleeping bag and listened to the stream and the distant sound of water plunging into the dark, I smiled to myself.

It was real.


The End

Streamside

All stories are copyrighted and may not be used in whole or part with out my permission.

Streamside

BY

Tom Bean



Have you ever experienced magic time? It is the time of night when the hatch is starting to cook.

I had a night like this and it was like nothing I had ever seen before.

As the sun set casting shadows deep and blue up the canyon, the caddis flies

came thickly off the water. You had to keep your mouth shut for fear of having

bug for dinner. As the shadows deepened to night the action was almost unbearably fast.

Strike after strike splashed my waders as some of the fish would swarm into the eddies

created by my legs.

I jabbed myself so many times I stopped counting trying to release thick German

browns from my net. I finally stopped using the net, trying to cradle the fish

gently and extract the hook so I could cast again. I scrambled to retie a new fly

after an errant cast snapped me off into a thick streamside tree.

I barely managed to finish the knot when night dropped down like a blanket

tossed from the patio over the heads of shrieking children.

I continued to fish but now it was done almost completely by sound. I would cast

ahead or slightly to the right and when I heard a splash I would set the hook. More

often then not I encountered the fish sneaking his meal.

As the night wore on, the next phase of this journey began.

The Moon broke free from the Earths grip and started to float over the hillside that the stream

was curling around. I stopped casting for a time and watched the Moon’s silver edge

slip over the hill. Trees high up on the mountain were silhouetted against its

shining surface and you could make out each branch of the forest sentinel’s arms.

I glanced back down to the river and the Moon bled onto the surface so that each

rising fish was a shadow of rings gently floating from its nose. I could see my line

now as it settled across the widening rings and the sharp splash was met by my

line as it jerked off center from the drift.

Cast, wait, set, it was a wonderful rhythm that was more felt than realized.

During this time I had sensed a splash near my leg and quickly dismissed it

because the action was still so swift.

It was more than 20 minutes later when it happened. I cast to a riser near the bank

and in the darkness my cast flew wide. I saw disaster too late and ripped the fly

back only to find the tree winning this battle. In my desperation to re-tie and cast I

snapped the fly off and reached for my fly box and another fur and feathered

offering.

I opened the box and fished in my vest for my light. I reached for the zip but

found it open and the splash then made sense.

My light was now with Davey Jones, if he is the one that inhabits churning stream

water, and it was now too dark to see to tie on.

Bugs still pelted me and fish still rose but now the sound was mocking. Almost

knowingly they would leap nearby and I could only stand listening and grinning

like the village idiot. I had brought more then 30 fish to hand in the last hour

alone, and a night like this I was sure would not repeat itself anytime soon.

As I stood in the now freezing water the chill of the night tapped me on the

shoulder. My back was sore from standing crouched and my arm was weary from

1000 casts into the darkness.

I made my way to the bank and slowly scrambled onto the grass ledge. I

wound the reel bringing the remaining line back home and started to walk back

down the road to my truck.

As I clumped across the trestle deck and climbed over the big orange gate, age

was starting to show. Up the dusty hill and under the big iron gate that protected

the trestle entrance to the river, my hand carefully resting on the ornate metal

elk and trees the gate maker had carefully worked into the metal.

I got to my truck and lowered the tail gate. Boots off, waders carefully put away,

rod broken down and slid into the double rod holder. It’s companion a thin 3

weight for the Cottonwood River.

Hopping in my truck I started it up and flicked the heat to high.

It grumbled a little but as I made my way down the canyon, the heat caught up to

the night and the warmth felt like hope.

The next morning I stood outside of my truck fumbling with my keys. My

shoulder and back still creaking from last nights abuse. As I found the key I

needed, I heard a fluttering sound against my window. I looked in the truck and

there working its way up the window was a Caddis Fly.

I opened the door and watched him flitter away. The night was brought back with

a rush and I knew my wife was about to get angry with me.

I knew as I drove to work my day would bring a lunchtime trip to the fly shop, a

dozen flies, a new light plus a spare for my vest, and a dozen roses for my best

girl.

Tonight would bring the guarantee of an over done dinner and the promise of

magic.



The End

To Fish, or Not to Fsh....

This will be a quick way to read some of my stories, fishing trip musings and miscellaneous outrages that take place in life. I may blog daily or skip months, it will depend on how good the fishing is.