Beautiful Gardens
The Gardeners Glove
Seasons
Summer Splendor
Take The Thyme

Summer Splendor


Ah, the once a year picnic. It's the only time of the year that the family gets together and gather up memories
at the North fork campground.
With Mom's potato salad assembled the picnic box's are packed with all the traditional Summer foods, that
were always our favorites.
I try to remember if there isn't something I have forgotten to stick in at the last minute.
Picnic box's filled with: barbecue beef ribs, macaroni salad, the thick sweet baked beans, corn on the cob
and oh yes the watermelon basket must be packed in a separate box.
Add the strawberry sour torte and the pudding chocolate chip cookies along with the homemade ice cream
on dried ice. All the favorite beverages carefully packed for the days outings of, fishing, eating and
reminiscing.
It's only an hour and a half away and we'll spend the morning watching a long wonderful parade. Then it's load
up again and we're off to drive up the river to our favorite campground we've been going to for 20 years.
Ears pop as you climb a little higher in altitude, but the scenery is breathtaking.
There's such a peaceful feeling you get as you pass through the valley. The pastures are hunter green in color
filled with a heard of cattle or flock of sheep. The rocky mountain pine trees line each side of the road and the
air is fresh and clean. You just can't wait to get there so you can dip your line in the clear waters of the White
River.
My Dad started this tradition. He loved fishing and could out fish anyone around him. Well until I caught the 2"
12 lb. 7 oz. Mackinaw fish at Granby Lake.
My Dad taught me to fish when I was very little. With his green knee high fishing boots on, a white straw
cowboy hat and smelly old fishing jacket, he was ready to go fishin.
He'd say, "it's really quit simple" all you require is... you take an open faced spinning reel, # 6 hook, 3 round
split shot weights on a braided monofilament fishing line and a 4-6 lb. leader with test line. The key is three
large white Atlas salmon eggs.
"No perfume", no bright colored clothes and be quiet (the fish can hear) is what I remember my Dad telling
me each time we went fishing together.
He'd cast out first and I'd watch from a distance. It was a true art my Dad had at fishing.
A little tug and with one figure holding the line oh so lightly, he could feel the slightest pull from a rainbow.
A quick yet easy jerk of the pole and he had the first trout caught before I had time to scan the river for another
deep hole. I was too busy watching in awe of my Dad.
He'd catch several then head for shore to gut and clean each fish. Never would he return to camp unless the
fish were ready for the cast iron skillet resting on a grate of a deep open fire.
He used to say, "the innards were for the other fish in the river to enjoy".
Whether we stood on the bridge near the campsite and each of us casting out into the shimmering green
river or beneath the bridge onto the bank, we were assured of filling our stringer with 6 to 8, 3 1/2 lb. rainbow
trout.
My Dad taught me to enjoy fishing, he would say, "Lake fishing was a lazy mans sport, you work a river"!
Mid to late August I hunger to get back to the White River. Whether I'm up the river or at Wilbur bridge, just to
cast out long and slow, then wait for a slight pull then easing back my pole ever so tight towards me as I reel
in a beautiful rainbow for myself.
I can recall teaching the same tricks of fishing to my first born son. He too has the gift, like his Grandpa.
My son also can out fish anyone around him. He casts, walks and moves in the river just like my Dad. Maybe
someday his little one will be watching from a distance the art of our family fishing.
Tablecloth now spread and the picnic box's unloaded with all the wonderful food that was packed so carefully
a few hours ago, I stand back and listen.
Each one around the table takes their turn in telling a story they remember from years past, the memories of
our family outings.
One remembers the arrows shot high into the pine trees and how they remained there years later.
Another tells of the fun in climbing the dirt hill behind the picnic tables. How high it was to climb and how
scared they were when they were young, but how much fun it was sliding all the way down on their bottoms.
Yet another reminds me of the .22 short rifle shells placed into one of the picnic tables, spelling their name.
Who could forget the huge bonfire Grandpa always started and that one year the flames of the fire soared
straight up into the 40 and 60 foot pine trees.
The coffee can filled with cherry bombs and what a sound they made echoing through the canyon.
Each year we get a little older just like the old pine trees, but we keep going back to our favorite place.
It's a time of fun, laughter and a special little place we call our own.
From one generation to the next, the North fork has been a summer event always filled with splendor.
Happy 4th of July to my family...