Tag Archives: memories

Filthy Success

I am not a fan of Safe queens, I don’t have many collectibles, and if I can’t use it in the most applicable fashion, then I don’t want it. This applies to most things in my life, but to my hunting equipment there is a special reason.

It’s not that I like to be hard on things, I just take pride and security knowing me and my gear can take it. For those that know me well, I’m not much for organizing, or cleanliness. Yet oddly enough I am a bit of a cleanie, and a germaphobe, it’s a weird combination to behold I must admit.

There is a strange phenomenon that happens when I retreat into the wilderness though. Cleanliness seems to fall by the wayside, and almost like a savage from centuries passed, I find myself elbow deep in blood and other less desirables. It’s certainly not the joy in having taken a life, but something much deeper. There is a profound connection with success and the palpable sign that goes with it. I have long enjoyed the images of success, that most often for me are filthy. Dirty guns, bloody hands, worn gear showing signs of hard use, it all reminds me of the amazing adventures that brought them to this condition. The header photograph of this piece, is one of my most favorite pictures of all time. It doesn’t have anything particularly special, but the memory it draws from my mind takes me back to that sub zero sunset.

The fading light seemed to suck both the heat and the sound from around me, almost as if it had opened a hole into the vacuum of space. The bite of the ice crusted around my fingers, was so contrasted by the soothing warmth of blood. I felt an incredible feeling of loneliness, and exhaustion, but I had also never felt so alive.

The filth and grit that accompany success often take time to wash out, but so do the marvelous memories that come with them. I am very grateful for that, memories are sometimes all we have. And were it not for a stained picture, or heavily worn pack, that beautiful memory might slip away into the chasm of the forgotten.



“Freedom to roam, and explore are the currency of boyhood, and we took every opportunity to spend it”

I couldn’t have been more than seven or eight years old, way back when hair was longer, and shorts were shorter. My father bow-hunted every year, and my young mind was fascinated by the deer he would bring home. It was one of these trips into the wild mountains of Utah that forever cemented several of the many obsessions in my heart.
A young coldboremiracle, circa 1984

It was a scouting trip into the high Uinta Mountains in the late summer, that destined me to be a junkie of sorts. Dad and a couple of friends were on a scouting mission, checking out the deer population and general conditions on the mountain. I was lucky enough to be towed along. I cant say for sure, but I believe I was the only kid that received the honor.
Junior enjoying the beauty of the Uinta Mountains

Times were different then, simpler and less apprehensive. As a kid, I was happy just being there. All it took was a slice of Mom’s applesauce cake, and a Shasta to keep me happy. Surrounded by the beauty of those mountains, carpeted with forest trees, and never more than a short walk from a stream or river, how could I not be in heaven?
My Father and his friends would leave at times, hiking off into the hills to find the best spots, and leave salt rocks pulled from the Great Salt Lake. I’d like to think that my Dad knew what made me tick, I think after all, that we were cut from the same fabric. He’d hand me a fishing rod, and a box of flies, and leave me to it. It could have been hours or days, I couldn’t tell. The time I spent drifting flies and wetting my sneakers passed without my recognition. Even then, my little eyes squinted and focused on the prize, unconcerned with anything beyond my casting radius.

My Father, and my Son

Dad had given me some modest direction as how to catch these vigilant little fish, but it was trial and error none the less. What Dad had made look so easy seemed so hard to me. I kept after it until I had become proficient, and one after another, the little trout found their way into my hands. Satisfaction was my prize, the feeling that I was part of this wilderness. I would sit there, on a large rock to the side of a noisy little brook. My damp hands holding the fly-rod as the evening drew nearer, even in the summer cold air is never far away.

These deep rooted memories, based on senses, became the building blocks of my passion. The profound colors of a native mountain trout, glistening in the sunlight with an almost three-dimensional glow, so beautiful that a camera can only scarcely do it credit. The smell of mountain blossoms drifting on a cool breeze, or that of the soft soil broken underfoot, black and damp with fresh vegetation thriving throughout. The quiet soundtrack of the forest with chirps of bird and squirrels echoing through pine trees, with a gently running creek mixed in. These and many other effects forever cemented the alpine forests at the top of my home element. And there is no better way to enjoy these beautiful wilderness’ than floating a line.
six degrees can make fishing more an obsession than a sport

This fall, I was able to return again to one of these beloved places with not only my father, but my young son as well. Sharing these beautiful experiences with my son, has made them so much more cherished. Much the same way my father did for me, I tried my best to let Junior feel the freedom of this beautiful landscape on his own. Wandering along a grassy creek, drifting a fly through crystal clear fishing holes, learning to watch his shadow and rod tip. Freedom to roam, and explore are the currency of boyhood, and we took every opportunity to spend it.
When nothing else can, I know what will light a fire in his smile, as both he and I are definitely cut from that very same fabric. We come from a long line of great men who also enjoyed being part of nature’s dynasty. I can only hope that his memories like mine, only grow brighter with the passage of time. And maybe if I’m lucky, someday share these same majesties with him, and his son. What memories could mean more?


Uinta Mountain Brook Trout