My travels have taken me to the World's Largest Ball of Twine in Cawker City, Kan., and to the World's Largest Cedar Bucket near Oxford, Miss., but the acme of greatness is the World's Largest Fishing Fly at Dutch John, Utah.
Made of rebar, the 32-foot long fly reportedly weighs three tons and requires something stouter than a 9-weight rod to cast to the trout in the Green River. The Green River at Flaming Gorge National Recreation Area near the Utah-Wyoming border was my last stop in a fishing pilgrimage across Utah, an undiscovered sportsman's paradise. Desert and arid scrublands define much of the state, but its highlands contain hidden lakes and streams, as well as an abundance of mule deer, elk, moose and bighorn sheep. These are largely unnoticed by sportsmen who gravitate to seemingly greater plenitude in neighboring Colorado and Wyoming. For those that take the time and effort to uncover them, Utah lacks nothing except, perhaps, crowds.
The sojourn was hatched on Memorial Day, when my son Ethan suggested scattering some of his late brother's ashes at his desert haunts near Moab, a place that was dear to him. They flew for a quick in and quick out. I drove and fished my way back home.
First, I called Chris Gulstad, executive director of sales and marketing for PRADCO in Fort Smith. Gulstad, who backed up Heisman Trophy winner Ty Detmer at Brigham Young University, is an avid angler who knows many of the best fishing spots in Utah. He suggested the Provo River above and below Deer Creek Reservoir; the headwaters and tailwaters of Scofield Reservoir; the Strawberry River below Starvation Reservoir; and the headwaters and tailwaters of Strawberry Reservoir.
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"You and I have the same philosophy about fishing, and those are right in your wheelhouse," Gulstad said.
Shortly after entering Utah, I stopped at a rest area near Crescent Junction and climbed a big hill. A Latino man who was about my age and his teenage son scampered up the hill behind me. The son taunted his gasping father who, upon catching his breath, went live on Facebook and preached a fiery 15-minute sermon on the mount.
Moab, that mystical mecca for desert enthusiasts, was about an hour south, and I immediately understood its attraction to my late son. In my teens and early twenties, I gravitated to similar places in northern New Mexico. Everyone in Moab is lean, tan and taut from an intense outdoor lifestyle that includes endless miles on desert trails that lead to panoramic overlooks, water-bored arches and rocky mesas.
At the Quality Inn, I met David Hill of Greensboro, N.C., a member of Raptor Nation, a national organization composed of Ford F-150 Raptor owners. Three were in town to experience the off-road maze of trails surrounding Moab.
"You'll want a picture of this," said Hill, showing me the air filter that he just removed from its housing. It was as red as Mars.
"This was brand-new yesterday," Hill said.
He dropped the air filter on the pavement, and a mound of dirt cascaded free.
"That's from just one day?" I asked.
"Yep. Gotta put a new one in before we leave out this morning."
These Raptor guys drive roads and trails that test a vehicle's limits, and sometimes its driver's limits. The West Rim Trail is an example, a road cut into a mountainside like the one where Roadrunner always vexes Wile E. Coyote.
"You have to pull the side mirrors in and rub up against the cliff," Hill said. "It's a straight drop on the other side, and there's no guardrails. Your tires are right against the edge. Sometimes they're part way over the edge."
"I guess you're out of luck if you meet somebody coming the other way," I said.
"It happens," Hill replied. "There's no way to turn around or get around. Somebody's gonna be backing up a long way."
My boys and I took a trip into the high country of the Manti-La Sal National Forest south of Moab. While they clambered down into a narrow canyon cut by a roaring creek, I shook the dirt from the floor mat of my son's rental car. A car pulled alongside, and the driver asked whether I needed help.
"I'm good. Just trying to preserve the deposit on this rent-a-car," I said, flapping the mat like a sheet.
"Where you from?" the driver barked.
"I'm from Arkansas," I said.
"Hot damn, I knew it!" he said, gently punching his wife's shoulder. "I'm from Alabama. Montgomery, Alabama."
"Say it right, man," I said. "It's not Montgomery. It's Mont-GUM-Rah!"
"You got it, brother, you got it!" he said, laughing wildly. "My name is Travis. What's yours?"
Travis works at a place in Moab called NavTech running boat tours of the Colorado River.
"You saw it when you came into town," Travis said. "We're right there at the Portal."
"The Portal?"
"Yeah. It's a big opening in the rock. The Colorado River goes like that for 570 miles to the Grand Canyon. In fact, that's technically the start of the Grand Canyon. It just keeps cutting deeper and deeper. Come on by, and we'll take you out and show you around."
Winding upward through an aspen forest, the road ended at Oowah Lake, a big pond that reminded me a lot of Mirror Lake at Blanchard Springs Recreation Area. Jumping trout snacked voraciously on an evening insect hatch. Two fellows fished from the bank. A pack of dogs surrounded them, including two mixed border collies that sat in the water. They eyed the water intently.
"Do the dogs try to get your fish?" I asked.
"No. When I catch one, they herd it to the bank and make sure it doesn't get away," replied one guy who has a YouTube channel called Hook, Line and Sinker. He told me about several remote creeks nearby that are full of big trout.
"They're hard to get to and hard to fish, but they're worth the trouble." he said.
Joining us was Trevor Saylor of Fort Collins, Colo., one of my son's friends at Marine Corps boot camp. He drove down to honor his friend. None of us knew where Daniel actually went in Moab, so we joked that we were scouting out some new places for him.
That changed on our last day when we visited a series of arches. The last one had a tall, wide roof that offered shade. A cool breeze blasted through the keyhole. I climbed up the inside of the arch to a small bench where I sat and lost myself in thought. About 20-25 people were there from all over, including a young man and his son from Israel, a couple from Germany and another couple from Sweden. My son Ethan stretched out on the rocks below, his head resting on his palms.
I don't know what prodded me, but it made me sit up. My senses buzzed, and I got excited.
"Ethan, this is the place!" I said.
"Yes, it is!" Ethan replied.
We walked out on a precipice away from the people to a place where the wind would carry the ashes into the valley below. Ethan told Dan that he was happy that we'd found him a place where he could rest in peace, and he commended his remains to the wind.
When we turned to leave, every one of those people stood shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the arch, silently, reverently, respectfully. They parted to let us through, and their compassion moved us deeply.
Four years after Daniel's passing, the moment was sweeter than bitter. It is hard to leave a part of a loved one in a place you might never see again, but after days of wandering in the desert, it gave us peace knowing we got it right.
