I’M NOT ONE TO BRAG about my fishing accomplishments, but what few trophies I’ve labored to accumulate while flyfishing lay strewn about my home and yard—placed strategically out of sight, as deemed by my wife. Below a juniper shrub near the shed sit three ceramic Better Homes & Gardens dinner plates found submerged—stacked and fully intact—in a shallow pool of Big Cottonwood Creek while fishing pocketwater for browns.
The great white shark hand-puppet gathers cobwebs in my garage, a few feet from a partially deflated volleyball, both recovered pre-runoff from the same home-water stream. Nearby, wedged into a bundle of cardboard, stand two arrows—one found in Millcreek Canyon as I plied skinny water for Bonneville Cutts, the other plucked from behind an Upper Provo boulder while casting ants to brookies. Near my desk sits a rescued plastic bulldog with big puppy eyes and a pink bow. A nearby shelf holds a jarful of bobbers surrounded by various spinners and spoons
