“Shooting Line.” The original painting is sold, but reproductions are available printed on 100% cotton rag watercolor paper.

Using a newly engineered Winston spey rod that my guide is testing for the Winston Company, Ryan shoots 100 feet of line into the Deschutes River north of Maupin, Oregon.  It was midday and we had stopped stream side for lunch and an afternoon nap.  Ryan took to the water and threw a few magnificent casts with the same ease that a concert pianists might stroke the ivories.

“Poling For Redfish” This newly painted original watercolor is framed in burled walnut and measures approximately 29 x 65 inches including frame.  Price is $3200.00.  Reproductions available.

We are stalking redfish on the Texas Gulf Coast outside Rockport.  This sight casting and we look for tailing redfish.

“Dennis on the Salmon” Original watercolor is nicely framed in dark walnut.  Outside measurements are 27 x 42 inches.  Price $2000.00.

This past summer Dennis and I spent time together exploring and fishing the Salmon River outside of Stanley, Idaho.  The previous two summers, Dennis’s wife, Caroline, and I have participated in the Sun Valley Arts Festival.  After the show, Dennis and I planned a couple of days fly fishing on the Salmon.

“Attached at the Hip” This is an illustrative watercolor painting that I created in the studio this winter.  That is my yellow Lab, “Dude,” who seldom leaves my side.  I have this collection of vintage creels that I used in the painting, though I am strictly a catch and release fisherman myself.  My grandfather carried a creel much like the one in the painting.  The river is taken from memories of two summers ago on the Metolius River in Central Oregon.  I was there as a guest of the Deschutes River Conservancy.  This is only one in a series of paintings that I am doing for the conservancy.  Some of these will and have been used to promote special fund raising events for the DRC.  This painting is framed in rich burled walnut and measures 45 x 55 inches including frame.  Price $4000.   Reproductions are available.

“Old Friends” is a new watercolor that I painted this winter using props in the studio.  That is a George Lawrence creel, the type hand tooled and manufacture by the George Lawrence leather company in Portland, Oregon in the first half of the last century.  Still life watercolor studies such as this one are perfect decor for a second home or mountain getaway.  This taller and somewhat slimmer shape is perfect for confined places and taller ceilings next to a window or a doorway.  It is framed in a beautiful distressed burled walnut with a deep cut 8 ply cotton rag matting that is antique white in color.  I keep all of my matting simple, as to never over power the image.  25.5 x 46 inches including frame.  Price is $2000.00.  Reproductions are available.

“Day’s End” Like “Old Friends,”  this new watercolor painting uses props from the studio.  I have a love of what is old.  Old things have a certain developed character like myself.  I believe that as we grow older, we all take on a certain patina like the antique Hardy fly reel with telephone latch and the George Lawrence creel.  Bamboo rods are mostly a thing of the past.  The Granger seven foot fly rod that I used as a prop, was hand crafted in its day by an artist every bit as talented as I.  At day’s end I wonder how many of us will have ever experienced hearing the loud click of a Hardy reel or the feel of bamboo in our grasp.  This painting is framed in distressed burled walnut.  Outside dimensions are 32 x 35 inches.  Price $1800.  Reproductions available.

“Willow Creel” This is a watercolor study of a creel and river rock that I did in the studio this winter.  I go around in the summer picking up small stones on the rivers that I fish that I take home to the studio and use as props in my paintings during the winter months.   Framed in dark walnut, outside dimensions are 25 x 33 inches.  Price $1200.00.  Reproductions available.

Thinking back…….

It was the summer 1981. I was in the middle of a road trip traveling to an art fair in New Mexico with my close friend, and fellow painter, Jerry Ellis. It was an interesting journey filled with big talk and even higher expectations. We gazed out the windows of Jerry’s Little Red Truck, looking at an open landscape that stretched as far as the eye could see. The miles effortlessly dissolved behind us in the rear view mirror.  I remember listening to Willie Nelson’s  current hit, “On the Road Again,” and another album that I had brought with me, “Red Headed Stranger.” I often mark periods in my life by the music that was popular at the time. I hear those songs and they still stir up memories.

My friend, Jerry, and I had begun to toy around with the idea of  doing art fairs as a means of making a living in 1978.  I had done my first fair in the early 70′s, and by the early 80′s Jerry and I often traveled to shows together, sharing our expenses along the way.  I  first got my feet wet on the art fair circuit in the days before artists had tents or outdoor displays were professionally manufactured for our trade. In those very early days, art fairs were best advertised by word of mouth and in my own mind, I felt darn lucky to live where I did.  Talk about naive, I did not know that art fairs even existed outside the state of Oklahoma and its midwestern sister states until the late 70′s.   I can remember meeting a photographer from Colorado who had begun to compile and publish a listing of shows with a few basic facts and contact information.  It was called the Harris Rhodes list and for a nominal subscription fee artists could learn what was going on outside of their own backyard.   Word gradually leaked out and some shows earned a reputation for having better sales than others.  My friends and I began to travel state to state doing the better art fairs.  I cannot say that our show in New Mexico was worth a grain of salt, but it was an adventure, and I savor those earlier adventures to this day.  I learned a lot and made good friends along the way.

I was not yet thirty at the time Jerry and I struck out together. Jerry was seventeen years my senior. I have never told him this, but I often looked up to him as my mentor; not so much as a teacher where painting came into play, but as an example of the type of person that I longed to be. Jerry was closer to the age of my own father, than he was to me.  I was the one who had the college art degree.   College had taught me plenty, but my professors had never mentioned anything about how to use my degree to make a living using my art unless I planned to teach.  Jerry had come up through the Navy, before entering private business in Florida.  He and his wife, Jo, had moved back to their home state of Missouri to be closer to aging parents.  I had never questioned why Jerry wanted to become a working artist, and I never doubted that he could be successful. So it came as some surprise when he asked me that night in the summer of 1981, if I truly thought that anyone could make a full time living as an artist doing fairs. I remember that conversation because we had promised ourselves a fishing trip after the art show. We were camped under the stars by a bubbling stream somewhere up in the Rocky Mountains. Fishing had been over the top that afternoon, and we had kept a few trout that we roasted for dinner, skewered on alder branches over an open campfire. We had lined the campfire with river rock. Jerry had rested a shoe on one of the bigger round stones lining the campfire. When he pulled his foot back the sole of his shoe stretched long like a wad of gum stringing up from hot asphalt. I laughed until my sides hurt, but Jerry wasn’t laughing. In those days, it was not so easy to justify the loose change for another pair of shoes.  We weren’t exactly starving, but the word, frugal, does come to mind.  Those shoes needed to last a bit longer and whatever profit that we had made the day before seemed a little lighter.

That was three decades ago. The art business was still in its infancy at the time, and the total concept of traveling from fair to fair while making a living was an uncertain dream for many of us.  I mention the story about the melted shoes and the campfire because those were days of big dreams and even bigger uncertainty.  The dreams were never about making a wheel barrow full of money.  Rather, it was a poor man’s dream about living the life we loved and a shared passion for making art.  Somewhere along the way, both Jerry and I managed to live out our dream, and somehow we both made a pretty decent living doing it.  The 1980′s was a decade when art fair artists could almost make a living blind folded.  Our timing could not have been any better.

So, much has changed in over thirty years of doing art fairs.  Any of us who have lived this life have our own stories, I am sure.  Shows have certainly gotten bigger and for many venders it has become a very serious business.  I am one of those people.  These days I am not surprised to arrive at a show a day early and see a semi truck full of artwork being unloaded with a fork lift.  That may not be the norm, but nothing will surprise me anymore.  As a group we travel longer distances and stay in nicer hotels, and a good meal at the end of the day is commonplace.  We are like any other business person or road warrior out there earning a living. We don’t generally wear a coat and tie, but artists have accountants to help manage their businesses, and we pay our taxes just like any other serious business person.

Over the same period of time many shows have morphed into big machines with corporate sponsors and full time staffs that work all year long to put together a three or four day event. This kind of staffing costs money and the show budgets have stretched to feed this growing monster.   The bigger shows have taken on corporate names the same way that college bowl games have become recognized more as corporate icons than football games.  I often wonder if it is all necessary, but the machine moves forward year after year, season after season.  Today’s outdoor events are filled with corporate glitter, shinny automobiles, pretty girls taking public surveys and giveaways.  And, oh yes, don’t forget the art.

Art fairs are an American cultural phenomenon. I am guessing that the concept came out of the hippie movement of the late sixties and the free spiritual thinking that came with the times.  The first artists hung art on clothes lines or propped up artwork  to storefronts on downtown sidewalks.  Not wanting to work “for the man,” gave way to the idea that an “artist” can actually craft something that the public will buy.   And buy into it, they did.  It did not take long until the idea caught fire, and there were more artisans wishing to display their wares than spaces available.   Individual shows began to jury, and a competition for spaces at the better shows became the norm.   At first jurying was done with photographs, and later using slides. It was not until the last decade that digital applications replaced film. Think about it. Today everything is part of a digital world. Film has been delegated to museums. Not long ago, I was asked by a show director to remove my signature from my jury images by using Photoshop.  This would not even have been an option in times gone by.  But I will leave that kind of pettiness for another story.  It is my personal opinion that my scratch of a signature would not be easily recognizable even in the best of light.  So, why remove it?  Because we can, and times require fairness in every way.  A bit anal?  Maybe.

During this evolutionary process, show committees discovered that they could charge a separate fee for the privilege to jury. This met with little resistance from the abundance of artists wanting to gain admittance.  As a group, we may have not liked the idea of having our pocketbooks raped, but it was the price we had to pay to play the game.  Artists had little choice, but to comply, or not be included in the better events. Some fees might have actually been necessary to cover expenses, but the idea of raising jury fees over the years became just another means to feed the growing monster. As show staffs got larger, and show committees looked for additional ways to increase profits, optional fees were added for the artists to pay. Extra fees for booth requests like corner locations were the first add-ons that I can remember.  And most recently, artists can request last years location if they are willing to pay up.  Having the same location from year to year used to be a given, but not anymore. Shows are beginning to charge to honor such requests.  I am guessing that the add-on fees will only end when art fair staffers can no longer squeeze liquid out of a stone.  Booth fees have increased to such a large degree that it is debatable if some of these shows are even worth the effort of doing anymore.  Shows need to remember that at the same time booth fees have increased, so has the cost of travel.  In the end this is a sales driven business. Artists will be willing to put up with increased overhead provided the ends justify the means.  Take away the sales and everything changes in a heartbeat.

I still have a lengthy list of art fairs that I participate in each summer. These days my priorities have changed a bit.  It is much more important the geographical location of a show than its reputation for ultimate sales.  I like to make a loop through the western mountain states and fly fish along the way. No longer do I race from one side of the country to the other week in and week out.  I suppose that things are winding down a bit as I near retirement. I  jump through fewer hoops than I used to, and I look for shows that treat the artists with the same degree of respect that they demand for themselves.  It is interesting to note that many of my aging friends agree with me. This is a great way to make a living and I still love what I do.  Give me a GPS, a hot cup of coffee, and pack my fly rod in the back of the van.  The open road is calling my name.

I write these observations as a notebook to myself, and as a reference for others who may follow in my footsteps going forward.  Nothing stands still for very long.  Our cottage industry is constantly in flux.  I feel that it is important that as artists we remember how the art fair culture evolved.  It is equally important to take notice of where it is headed.  As artists we should never lose track of what is important from a practical point of view where the business end of making art is concerned.  For me it has always been about living to paint another day.  Recognizing that this is a business, makes continuing in my craft on an professional basis possible.  And, yes, dreams really can become reality.  Some of us old timers still walk the walk and manage to talk the talk. Those of us who have paid our dues along the way, understand that we are all cogs turning the wheels of “the machine” that is creeping forward one season into the next.

It has been a good year surrounded by great friends,  experiencing good times and new adventures across the country.  In July Sheryl and I took a week-long cruise to Alaska with two of our closest friends, Tom and Martha Marple.  The cruise was a chance to kick back and soak up the Pacific Northwest while dining on exotic meals and engaging in intellectual thinking.  Both Tom and Martha have interesting personalities, consisting of many layers.  Like the skin of an onion, peel back one layer and discover something new.  That trip was a wonderful opportunity to catch up.  Once on land, Sheryl and I rented a car and spent another week exploring the Kenai Peninsula on our own.  We met the locals, ate our fill of halibut, and as usual, Sheryl caught the biggest fish.

That Fish(Halibut) served up Thai style on Christmas Eve, smothered in coconut milk and spices on a bed of fresh Chinese Broccoli, a member of the Kale family, common in Vietnam and Thailand, and accompanied by spiced Southern Indian style finger potatoes rolled in spices and oil and then baked.  Yum.  My own creative cooking twist for a full weekend of cooking and eating.  Smoked ribs are outside on the smoker today as I write this epistle.  When Cullen arrived home, I asked him if there was anything special that I could fix for him.  He said one word, “Ribs.”

Not all has been the easiest this year, but our lives remain blessed.  Sheryl had three back surgeries to correct disks in her neck and lower back.  The third and final surgery was performed here in Wichita; the first two in Oklahoma City.  This has allowed for some improvement and alleviation of neck pain, but we both understand that as we grow older, every day presents new challenges accompanied by assorted aches and pains.

I am still working selling my paintings, and pretty much enjoying life.  I would not trade what I do for any other job in the world.  My travels this summer took me to Sun Valley, Idaho again this year, where I shared a week in a rental with close artists friends Dennis and Caroline Viene as we participated in the local art fair.  Dennis and I love to fly fish and this is becoming a yearly tradition.  We had a great time fishing the Salmon River.  The Salmon River of Central Idaho is one of the premier trout rivers in the lower 48.  With art shows scattered across the upper Northwestern mountain states, I got in my share of summer fly fishing.  I also was lucky enough to be invited to spend time in between shows with friends in the San Juan Islands.  Dan and Mary took me to their favorite beach where we dug clams for a clam bake and grilled oysters fresh from the sea.

Sheryl continues to enjoy working as the Director of Marketing for the Cessna Credit Union.  Her surgeries took her out of commission for a few months and she was anxious to get back to her close community of co-workers.

Christmas Morning.  No one seemed to get into as much of the action as our best friend, and constant companion, Dude, an 87 pound Labrador Retriever, who thinks these socks are for him.

Christmas was as nice as any that I can remember.  Bo and his girlfriend Jenn came to visit, and Cullen got a few days off work to fly home for a short visit.  The only missing son, was Reese.  Reese could not get away from his job in Aspen, Colorado.  Bo is a sous chef at Teller’s Restaurant in Lawrence, Kansas.  Cullen teaches in the art department at The University of Michigan in Ann Arbor.

Dad and I. Two generations of Stephenson men. All smiles, Dad looks pretty good after almost nine decades of Christmas cheer.

My folks came over for a visit Christmas Day.  Dad is looking great after getting quite ill this time last holiday season.  Mom is as witty as ever and just as thought provoking.  Christmas was a great family get together including one of the most memorable Christmas meals I have ever eaten prepared by Bo and served up with holiday cheer by Jenn.  Jenn is a joy to have for a visit any time of year, because she has the ability as a young person to communicate extremely well with both young and old.  My parents found her a joy to be around.  Dad is eighty-nine, and Mom is eighty-two.

Bo has that somewhat devilish smile that translates into having fun.  I am so glad that he has found his passion in creative cooking. Not every family has the pleasure of having their own professional chef home for the holidays.  I was amazed by Bo’s skills in the kitchen, and that is saying something in a family where all three sons are good cooks in their own right.  Hanging around in the kitchen and whipping up a great meal from scratch is about as common as breathing for any of us.  It was a big part of the evening entertainment when the three brothers were growing up.

Jenn shared her talents in the kitchen with something yummy to snack on as dinner was prepared.

So, we end another year in the lives of family and friends while looking forward to what 2012 will bring.  We wish all of our friends, both new and old,  the very best in the coming year.

“May the road rise up to meet you, may the rain fall soft on your fields, may the wind always be at your back, and may you be in heaven an hour before the devil knows you’re dead”

Pics of the Christmas Meal:

Veggie Prep.  Swiss Chard and Brussels Sprouts.

Mom wears this traditional sweater each Christmas.  She is 82, and has the patience to still take good care of Dad.  She actually drove the two of them over to our home on Christmas.

Sheryl, Bo, Larry, and Cullen.

The Day after Christmas, and the backyard is filled with the aroma of smoked applewood.  I got up early and thoroughly rubbed three slabs of ribs for a Kansas City style barbeque. The smoker is fired up and we will slow cook the ribs until they are so tender that they fall off of the bone.

Cullen loves his vintage Navy Pea Coat.  This fall his mom patched up the lining and sewed the loose buttons back into place.  After a thorough cleaning it was ready for another winter in Michigan.  Cullen stands in the backyard next to the Oklahoma Joe smoker that has cooked many a meal.  I am old fashioned enough to never use propane, preferring natural coals and wood to cook anything from steaks to slow smoked chicken or pork.  The trick with barbeque is to maintain an even low temperature of about 250 degrees when smoking ribs.  Five hours and they will be done. (slow smoke a bit longer for extra tenderness.) I also loosely wrap in foil after a few hours so that they do not get too much smoke. Using a fruitwood such as apple or cherry helps give a milder, sweeter smoke.

Brussels Sprouts and Swiss Chard with bacon and pine nuts.

Last weekend Sheryl and I were talking about the boys coming home for Christmas.  The talk logically turned to Christmas dinner.  We are all about big eating, and Christmas is a great excuse for expanding our talents.  These days the pressure is on more than usual.  Our youngest son, Bo, is a very talented licensed chef at an upscale gourmet restaurant.  Creativity when it comes to cooking is always on the table where the Stephenson family is concerned.  All three of our boys grew up around our family gatherings in the kitchen as we experimented with the evening meal.

Christmas is still a couple of weeks away, but ideas for an array of meals are already taking place.  I am never afraid to bring something to the table that I have never tried before, and I think of recipes as simple road maps pointing the cook in the right direction.  Nothing is set in stone.  It is all up to experimentation.

Lately, I have experimented a lot with greens, Chard, Collard, Spinach, and Kale.  These are dark green healthy foods. They taste great too, when properly prepared.  Many of the greens that we eat come from the cabbage family that also includes other healthy dark green veggies like Broccoli, and Brussels Sprouts.  The trick is not to overcook.  Overcooking does away with much of the benefits from eating healthy green vegetables.

Here I combined Swiss chard, for color, with Brussels sprouts in a steamed and stir fried dish that I will fix on Christmas day.

First I fried three pieces of thick bacon until crisp and set aside.  When cooled the bacon is crumbled or chopped and added to a mixture of Brussels sprouts, garlic, and scallions.  I halved the Brussels sprouts, sliced two scallions into rings, and sliced four cloves of garlic that I tossed with salt and pepper before putting them into the steamer.  I steamed the mixture for about thirty minutes careful to leave the sprouts bright green.

While steaming I stir fried the chard stems separately in olive oil using Sheryl’s grandmother’s cast iron skillet.  This old fashioned kitchen utensil has become my go-to skillet because it heats so evenly.  I had removed the center ribs on the Swiss Chard and cut the bright red stems into quarter inch slices that I fried until softened.  I stacked and rolled the big green leaves into one giant cigar shape that I cut crosswise into one inch strips.  I then cut these rounds down the middle before adding the greens to the stems already softening in the cast iron skillet. After stir frying for a few minutes, I added my steamed mixture of shallots, garlic, and Brussels Sprouts.  I took a half lemon and squeezed it over the mixture and stirred for a few minutes longer.  Pine nuts were sprinkled over the top and it was served immediately.

This is a knock dead color combination and the bright crimson stems of the Swiss Chard compliment the bright green Brussels Sprouts.  It is the steaming that makes them particularly green and that is why I steamed them first before blending both mixtures together in the skillet.  Keep in mind that the tougher stems of most greens require a longer cooking period than the fragile leaves that quickly wilt.   I am sure that you can Google this idea and come up with other recipes for similar combinations.  I used this one to mimic the colors of Christmas.  Next, I will begin to think of a meat dish and a salad to begin to complete the meal.

Two nights ago the lake behind the house froze for the first time this winter.  Winter has finally arrived.  It was a bit humorous to watch the Canada geese skate across the glassy lake’s surface as they tried to land on the ice this morning.  These days the squirrels are busy raiding the bird feeder and the dogs don’t beg to go out and play quite as often.  Even the uninitiated can look outside and know that it must be cold out there.  A few weeks back,the trees were the first to hint the coming of winter.  The tall pin oaks in the backyard began to empty a bounty of spent brown leaves onto the lawn as northern winds whipped through the treetops leaving the uppermost limbs naked in the arctic air.   It  is this time of year when my dogs seek comfort in front of my studio fireplace.  I would like to think that they come downstairs just to visit me, but it is the warmth of the fireplace that pulls at the dogs into the studio with a magnetic force. The fire warms the ceramic tile floor and my two yellow labs love to curl up on their bed watching me paint.

Dude and Lexi in the studio.

It is this three month period each year when I get most of my artwork done.  I am off of the road and home in the studio creating work that I will sell at my shows the following spring.

My wife, Sheryl, told me the other day that a friend, Jackie, had emailed her at work and asked how the dogs were doing.  She mentioned to Sheryl that it had been a while since I had posted any pictures of Dude, our 87 pound baby Lab, on the website.  So, here is a much needed, and slightly overdue, canine update.  Other pics will follow over the coming weeks.

Dude is this package of energy that rules his domain with a certain forcefulness that is hard to describe unless you feel it first hand.  Anyone who has raised a big dog from a puppy probably knows what I mean.  To say that he is spoiled would be an understatement.  Dude has Sheryl so completely wrapped around his two front paws that I can do no better than come in a close second. Lexi is our ten year old female and just as much a member of the family.  But it is Dude’s full time job as the alpha dog to know exactly where Lexi is at every moment day or night.  Dude took on that responsibility as a youngster and there has never been an ounce of doubt as to who is boss.  As Dude has grown older, he has expanded his duties to keep track of our comings and goings, almost knocking us down every time we arrive back home.  In his own way, Dude has taken charge of his family.  No doubt, Dude is pretty happy with himself.  Just ask him.  Dude can talk, or he thinks that he can.  At two years of age, he sees himself every bit our equal.  And Dude is one smart overgrown puppy.  He never tires of playing catch.  His athletics have developed his physical appearance into a blocky body studded with popping muscle.

Dude with his favorite toy.  Dude wants to play.

Having two loving Labs living in the home is not everyone’s ticket, but we bought into the idea a long time back and have never regretted the extra family members under one roof.  We love our dogs, and just because we can sweep up a third dog in the vacuum cleaner every weekend does not alter that love.   It tends to make it stronger, if that is possible.  Who would have ever thought that we could love two dogs so much?

I recently painted a painting that included a self portrait and my overgrown puppy, Dude.  I call it “Attached at the Hip.”  Getting Dude to sit still long enough to model is not necessarily a piece of cake, but this does look quite like him.   I have never really taken him fly fishing, but someday I would like to take him with me.  I have been out on the river and quite often come across a fisherman and his or her dog.  Labrador Retrievers are an intelligent breed and quick to learn how not to get into the way.  Dude would make a great fishing companion.

A new watercolor painting, “Attached at the Hip.” I am a “catch and release” fisherman.  I seldom keep a fish for the grill, but years ago fishermen used creels like the one in the painting to store their catch.  This antique creel was reinforced with leather by the George Lawrence Leather Company.  That is a classic Hardy fly reel mounted to a Granger split bamboo rod from the early 1950′s.  The river is my interpretation of the Metolius outside of Sisters, Oregon.  The Metolius is a spring-fed stream so crystal clear that trout can see you coming from a mile away.  I hope the image tells a story about a certain amount of stealth involved in the art of fly fishing as the dog patiently keeps watch.  This is a story of a man and his dog.

More puppy pics to come.

As a first time artist, I was delegated to show on the inner circle of artists.  This part of the show gets much less traffic than those facing the boulevard pavement.

I cannot think of a more enjoyable means of earning my living than traveling and doing art fairs.  When I factor in all of the wonderful people that I have met along the way, it is hard for me to imagine a better way to sell my art. I meet my collectors face to face and come away with a certain satisfaction that each of my paintings has gone to a good home.   I get to see beautiful places where my travels take me.  I mingle with the same artist friends from show to show, share stories, and live a life full of adventure. It just does not get much better as far as I am concerned.  I love what I do.

Of course there are the occasional bumps in the road, those unplanned inconvenient experiences no one in their right mind would purposely schedule into their day. A flat tire, or running out of gas.  Maybe arriving late at night to find that the motel room you paid for through Priceline has been given away or was simply overbooked.  If earning a living this way was all that easy everyone would be doing it.  Right?  The job comes with long hours, extended periods away from home, and zero time off for sick leave.  No excuses.  Fail to show up for an art fair or miss the jury and that storied income is out the window.  Period.  Talk about a risky business.  My best selling show one year can just as easily morph into the show that I am juried out of the next year.  Try and budget for that.  Yet, at the end of the day,the cream generally rises to the top. Those of us who have made our living this way for long enough are still here for a reason.  We are a tough-skinned breed willing to work hard while taking public criticism on artwork  that is out there for all to see.  If that is as bad as it gets, life is still pretty good to me.

But the ugly is still out there.  It is that rare encounter with a sad or sick personality that can sometimes knock the glitter off your day.  The show had ended on a good note at St. James in Louisville, Kentucky.  The weather had been nice, the people friendly, and I came away with a little money in my pockets.  This show is a bit of a zoo with 700 artists linked up in adjoining shows going on at the same time throughout the neighborhood.  The original St. James Court show, where I was located, packs artists in like sardines six booths deep down a boulevard in an upscale neighborhood of victorian homes.  Set up is fine, because everything is staged to prevent congestion.  And if everyone can follow a planned exit rule, the take down can be established without too much pain either.  It is a slow process, but it unfolds easily enough, unless just one person decides to throw a monkey wrench into the process.  Then everything can come to a screeching halt.  It only takes one vehicle to decide to double park and traffic stacks up without any room for movement.  Why the car in front of me felt it necessary to stop in the middle of the fire lane and halt traffic  I do not know.  I finally got out of my van and asked why they were stalled.  The driver told me that she was waiting for a parking spot to clear near her booth.  Okay, but the rules clearly stated that this was not allowed.  The lane must remain open at all times.  It was then that this woman’s partner told me to *#@* off!  I did not argue, but told her that I would not get into a pissing match.  Instead I found the show personnel and they made the car move so that a long line of vehicles could begin moving once again.  As I got back into my van and drove away, the same woman who had previously shouted vulgarities chanted, “I hope you’re happy,” over and over again.

The saying goes that one bad apple can spoil the whole bunch.  But I will not condemn the show because of the thoughtless and childish acts of a few unprofessional vendors.  It saddens me that there are a few rotten apples in any profession, and ours is no exception.

I will add, that shows this large seem to attract more than their share of undesirables.  The relaxed jury requirements for the St. James shows do not meet the same higher standards as quality shows in other cities.  For that reason, this most likely was my first and last time to do the show.  That said, I came away with a loving feeling for the neighborhood and its people.  I enjoyed my stay in Louisville.  Sales for two dimensional artwork seemed a bit underwhelming and I did not do well.  Cheap trinkets and glitter seem to have their appeal to the huge crowds that mob the streets.  There was no shortage of cheap craft throughout the show and questionable artwork was in abundance.

My booth at Autumn & Art 2011. For the second year, I won a nice award and took home some good prize money.  Thankful for my award, prize money alone, is not going to keep artists coming back.  Read on for the rest of the story…..

Now in its second year, Autumn and Art was held in a beautiful location behind upscale retail and restaurant establishments on a winding avenue that provided easy access with ample parking.   The show committee is experienced and professional, yet they tend to micro-manage to such a  point that set up became unnecessarily snarled and delayed for a small show of this limited size.  The street is wide enough to allow for parallel parking within reasonable distance to all booths while allowing an open fire lane for passersby.   I found that most artists wanted to simply be left to their own setup and takedown procedures.   This in not a show taking place on downtown streets.  Fewer than one hundred artists are spaciously strung out in an ample, if not too ample,  area equivalent to several city blocks.

If you decide to attend this event, you will find the people of Wichita overwhelmingly friendly and willing to discuss your artwork in most every way possible.   That said, this community has a ways to go before becoming accustomed to being able to buy good art on the street.  Wichita has a long history connected to the Riverfest, a downtown country fair like event, consisting of everything from corn dogs and cotton candy, to tied balloons and art on a stick.  The Riverfest is much more about entertainment in a festival environment.   Wichita is not a high end fine art show community.  The Autumn and Art committee is trying to change all of that.  But  participating artists need to understand that changes evolve slowly in some circumstances.  The downtown Wichita Riverfest has long married itself to the Wichita Art and Book Fair, a rather poor excuse for an art fair, attracting mostly knuckle dragging, white bread eating patrons who would not know good artwork if it were staring them in the face.

Bradley Fair, where the new fall event is held, is an upscale neighborhood and shopping center that is the perfect new home for a high end art fair  respectfully similar to the likes of the Plaza in Kansas City, but on a much smaller scale.  This show has yet to fill to capacity, but plans to remain small in the neighborhood of one hundred artists.  This year eighty-some artists showed their wares in cool, but reasonably dry autumn weather.   Sales were spotty for those that I spoke to personally.  My own sales were much less than stellar.  I attribute much of that to the current economy and the times that we live in.  This is my local show, so my costs were quite low compared to others who traveled any distance to do the show.

Opening night attendance started off with a bang.  Patrons paid one hundred dollars each for wine and fancy finger foods.  The crowds lingered well into the evening but produced few sales.    The hours on Saturday night are unnecessarily  long.  The crowds diminished by five in the evening and were mostly gone by six.   There was little to keep them there in the way of food or entertainment.  The show was called by 8:00 because of area lightning, but had originally been scheduled to go to 9:00.  Thank God for the weather.  Sunday, was fairly well attended, with fewer sales than Saturday.

I did my first art show in 1978 and began traveling to shows while making a living selling my paintings soon thereafter.  It has been a great journey and I have learned a few things along the way.

My take.  I want this show to succeed.  The location is premium.  The staff are friendly. It has a long ways to go where the overall quality is concerned. Sales are questionable.  That could all change for the better overnight.

First light south of Galena Summit.

I awoke to a hint of daybreak creeping slowly over the mountainside. The jagged silhouettes of lodgepole pines surrounded my makeshift campsite reminding me that I was not in Kansas anymore. Surreal sounds of silence hung on the crisp mountain air much the same way the hum of a distant highway can integrate itself into an urban landscape. But it is the lack of noise, the coolness of first light and the smell of evergreens drifting on the slightest breeze that awakens the senses at high altitude. I could just as easily have spent the night in a motel, but you will not receive this kind of wakeup call at the Hyatt. As I oriented myself, I became more aware of my surroundings, and noticed a ground squirrel scratching the ground while looking for breakfast. A robin pecked under fallen pine needles as a few swallows darted in and out of spotted daylight, gliding effortlessly on the breeze while capturing invisible insects out of thin air.

I instinctively pushed the button on my iPhone just to see what time it was. Reception can be scarce in the mountains, but forget all that. My mission at the moment was to leave most of civilization behind and concentrate on more important things at hand. I had stopped in Ketchum the night before to purchase a ten-day out-of-state Idaho fishing license, before heading north up highway 75 toward Galena pass. I was going fly fishing on the Salmon River. Camped on the south side of the summit, I could barely discern the tumbling of water as the Big Wood River made its way down the mountainside somewhere in the pines. Galena Summit is the dividing line for where the Salmon River begins and the Big Wood gives birth on the opposite side of the divide. I had to pinch myself. This had to be the next thing to heaven for any flatlander from the state of Kansas. It was time to drive over the summit and on into Stanley, the jumping off place for the Sawtooth National Recreation Area. By the time I arrived in Stanley I hoped to find a warm cup of coffee to help get me started, as well as the very latest scuttlebutt on the fishing.

Driving over the pass from Ketchum, and plunging into the valley on the other side of Galena Summit, the entire landscape changes from more rounded mountaintops to the raw jagged rock peaks of the Sawtooth mountains. Once into the valley, I traveled some distance along side the Salmon River, beginning as a trickle and gathering steam as a plethora of individual creeks flowed into its banks along the way. This is a large flat stretch of land bordered by mountains in every direction. By the time I reached Stanley, the Salmon is a wide flat meandering river speckled by big boulders that pockmark its surface. A sign greeted me as I approached town announcing that I had arrived in Stanley, Idaho, population 100. There, I stopped at a general outfitting store where a sign on a fence post stated that they served Italian style expresso. I purchased a vanilla latte and a poppy seed muffin, the first bite of food since noon the previous day. This was to become a morning ritual the next few days. I asked the barista about the water levels and fly fishing in general. She volunteered that fishing had been good, and that I could expect to get away from many of the “factory fish” distributed by the hatchery, by traveling further down river. Beyond the old Sunbeam Dam, maybe fifteen miles north of town, native trout are more likely to be found.

It is easy to see why these jagged peaks are named the Sawtooth Mountains.

The Sunbeam Dam is more of a landmark to locals than anything else. It is a strange half dam, a crude concrete affair, originally constructed in 1910 to supply electrical power for the Sunbeam mining company. A year later the mine went bankrupt. Details about the dam and the mine are sketchy, as history has a way of evading itself in this scarcely populated countryside. But the dam is noteworthy to any fly fisherman because the fishing does improve downstream for those wishing to find more native trout, and it also marks where many rafters begin putting in and taking out ten miles further down stream from the dam. By traveling another ten miles beyond the Sunbeam Dam, fishermen can find the river mostly to themselves without the occasional rafters passing by. It is in this stretch of water that many of the guides like to drift and fish, keeping in mind that you will encounter few of them if any. I say this because the Salmon is such a long stretch of water and is located in a fairly remote location. Roads are good, but you make an effort to get there.

Leaving Stanley, I traveled maybe one mile before entering Lower Stanley, a wide spot in the road where you can find a grocery store and a gasoline station, a bevy of backwoods motels and countryside cabins that stay fully rented during tourist season. Make reservations early if you need a bed to sleep in. From there on north in the direction of Sunbeam it was mostly the river and I. I saw few other fishermen and only the occasional vehicle coming my way. The morning was early and I wanted to beat the crowds. To my surprise those anticipated throngs of hearty fishermen never developed, and I had much of the river to myself. The highway snakes contiguous to the river with plenty of turnouts providing access. It was simply too beautiful to ignore, and I stopped long before I reached the Sunbeam Dam to wet a line in perfect water.

Looking down from a pullout on the road, I stopped and studied the water below me.

I spotted an isolated small stretch of white water with pan-like flat water above the rapids and a channeled v-shaped flow below. This was bordered by a defined foam line telegraphing dinner for awaiting trout. Not only did the foam line attract my attention, but the water also changed color from crystal clear to a deep greenish blue along a row of large submerged rocks providing ample cover for trout to dart in and out of the foam line as they feed. I quickly determined to give this location a try and was not disappointed. It took me longer to navigate myself into position than it did for me to hook up to my first fish. Casting slightly upstream I floated a large yellow hopper with spindly legs into the deeper water along the foam line. Within seconds the head of a rainbow trout hit the surface snapping at my fly and rejecting it before I could blink an eye. The next cast had my full attention. I flipped my fly into a similar drift keeping it free of slack and watching as it bobbed along the wake of the deeper water. As it spun into the foam, I held my breath for that come to Jesus moment when the fish hit the surface and I set the hook. Fish on. That was the story for the rest of the morning as I played and released ten to twelve inch fish until my arms grew tired.

Except for the occasional, and much smaller native cutthroat, all my fish proved to be rainbows released by the hatchery. Hatchery fish have their adipose fin removed for identification purposes. These are the only fish legal to keep in the Salmon, though I released all of my catch. Native trout are catch and release. I also managed to catch two tagged trout with luminous orange tags attached to their dorsal fin. I determined that I would need to travel further downstream if I wanted to find mostly native fish.

Casting to rising fish in crystal clear mountain water.

I got into my van and drove further north to a turn off just past the Sunbeam Dam. A sandwich sign planted on the side of the roadway read “hot burgers,” and pointed to a turn off. Turning east along the Yankee Fork I found a short order café at the top of a hill called Grumpy’s. I pulled into a gravel parking lot and went into the burger joint to eat lunch. Walking through a well-worn door I crossed on faded linoleum flooring to a bar and a cash register. A single stool stood at the bar. I sat as a skinny waitress on the other side recited the menu and relayed my order over her shoulder to a short order cook in the next room. Wearing a ball cap perched sideways on her head, and her back facing me, I watched as the cook began fixing my lunch. Moments later I was enjoying a seven-dollar quarter pounder with cheese and special sauce on an open-air deck, chasing it with an ice cold Indian Pale Ale. Sitting in a flimsy plastic patio chair that flexed from my own weight, I took in the moment and recalled the events of that morning. I found myself asking how fishing could possibly get any better. It would.

My friend, Dennis, stands on a flat with water up to his knees as he casts upstream into deeper water.

Finding places to fish is never the problem on the Salmon. Finding the time to fish them all is. Because I was wade fishing, and not in a boat, I became fairly selective in choosing locations. The river had been running high for most of the summer, and was just now getting to the place where it was easy to navigate on foot. The rocks are smooth and rounded and come in all sizes from small to boulder sized monsters lurking under the surface. More than once I lost my footing on slick stones and went down in the river. I was wet-wading without waders, wearing only my wading boots with steel cleats and felt soles. I looked for flat shallow runs where I could approach deeper water in the middle of the river where my casting was not influenced by the trees and brush along the banks. It was in these seams where the deeper water met the shallower flats that I found the most fish. Using an assortment of large spongy hopper like bugs, I caught my fair share of nice sized native cutthroats. I will attest that these fish, for the most part, were much larger than the hatchery fish I had caught earlier up stream. I won’t call them football fish, but they reminded me a bit of a football because they were wide at the middle and of reasonably good size. Let’s just say that these fish knew how to put a bend into a rod.

A few days later, I returned to the Salmon with my friend, Dennis, to the same pools that I had previously fished and scouted. Again, we found more hatchery fish upstream closer to the town of Stanley. Nice native cutthroats seemed common downstream of the Sunbeam Dam. This is simply a beautiful stretch of water as far as the eye can see.

After hooking up with five or six nice sized cutts, I moved a bit further down river as my friend, Dennis continued working his way upstream. Casting and drifting my fly in and out of pockets and pools alongside huge submerged boulders, I walked along crystal clear mountain water. The bank was free of undergrowth, covered with rounded saucer-sized stones bleached by the sun. Fine silted sand had been pushed up to the bank in the shallows, the ice cold water giving off a golden hue before morphing into colors of browns and a darker green where the water deepened over the submerged boulders. Tall pines shadowed my back, limiting any back cast. A breeze had also come up, making casting upstream a bit more challenging. Using a roll cast, I flipped my fly upstream alongside the seam where the faster water began to level out over the boulders. Allowing my fly to drift into the seam, I stripped in the slack as I watched a golden flash roll under the big bug, and a huge head seemingly moved up and out of the water taking my hopper full in its mouth. This all happened in slow motion and I resisted any temptation to set the hook too fast, thus taking the fly away from the fish. I have overreacted before with bigger fish, by attempting to set the hook too fast. This fish was overly confident as he slammed my fly, sending a shutter down my rod that telegraphed, “fish on.” Taking line, and diving back into the faster moving current this big cutt headed for the deeper boulder strewn bottom. I angled my rod tip to the bank attempting to steer the fish into the shallower and slower water, but was forced to run along the bank as the fish slipped into the current and moved rapidly downstream. This all came to an end when I managed to wrangle the fish into shallower water and land the fish. It took some time to revive the big cutthroat, but after a few minutes he lazily returned to the deeper water on his own.

This was my first time to fish the Salmon, and I hope to visit again soon. The Sawtooth National Recreational Area north of Ketchum, Idaho is a beautiful destination and Highway 75 is worth the drive alone. You will not be disappointed.

You can purchase your fishing license in Ketchum before driving over the pass, or in Stanley. I love Silver Creek Outfitters in Ketchum. This is a full service and fisherman friendly fly shop, offering guided trips to the Salmon and surrounding rivers. They can update you on the hottest flies and offer up expert information, free for the asking. You will find Silver Creek Outfitters at the north side of town as you head out of downtown Ketchum north up the valley.

August 8

The Park City Arts Fair ended last night and I got my booth torn down in time for a late dinner and a moment’s reflection. As bad as the economy is at the moment, I still made a small profit at the art show. The last thing on anyone’s mind is making a major art purchase when they have just given blood to the stock market. That said, I am off to the next show in Sun Valley and am camping tonight in the Sawtooth Wilderness Refuge. Fly fishing begins in earnest tomorrow morning.

As I write, the sound of cascading water soothes my head after a day on the highway. Tall pines shade me from a setting sun as the light fades behind the mountaintops. It was a leisurely six-hour journey through northern Utah and south central Idaho. That is not much of a drive for a road warrior, but I needed a day off after laboring all weekend at the art show. It felt really good to get behind the wheel and drive for a change of pace.

Tomorrow, I will cross over the mountain pass and swing down into Stanley, Idaho, where I will begin fly fishing the Salmon River. It just does not get any better in my book. Without television I am not keeping score on a blow-by-blow basis as the market ventures off a cliff. Jim Cramer will have to do without me in his audience tonight. I did stick my head inside a restaurant today as I got fuel at a roadside truck stop. The tube was on and the market was in a tailspin, already down 553 points at the moment. The chicken -littles of the world were all scurrying to the side lines, as all indications pointed to the fact that the sky must be falling. If I wanted to write about the ineptness of leadership in Congress and their failure to inspire confidence in a sliding economy, I could easily write a book. But I will decline to give my thoughts on government, instead opting to focus on things I can control, and relaxing for moment stream-side. Forget that I, like most any other aging middle class American has ties in some way to the stock market. So what if I must put off retirement for a few more years. It is only money, and the old adage says that money cannot buy happiness; fly fishing can. Tomorrow morning I will be on one of the finest fly fishing rivers in the lower 48.

If you have not figured this all out by now, I will sketch in a few details. I make my living as a working artist. This requires (by choice) that I travel the country and do some of the better outdoor art festivals in the Rocky Mountain states, along with a scattered few art fairs in the upper Pacific Northwest. That is where the fishing is. I could just as easily have chosen to do my shows throughout the Midwest and in bigger metropolitan areas east of the Mississippi. (Not a whole lot of good dry fly fishing along the banks of the mighty Miss.) I paint winters and fill my summers with traveling to art fairs and fishing in between. That might not sound like heaven to everyone, but it sure as hell works for me. Put me streamside any day and I am happy as a pig on a mudslide. We all have our vices, and fly fishing is mine. The fact is, that I am not even that good at it, but it is not about catching fish, as much as it is about simply being there. (I do catch my fair share, and I always release what I catch. I will leave the fish to be caught again another day.)

This is a bit off of the subject. It drives my 81-year-old mother crazy that I do not keep my catch. She is of the old school where the hunter brings home the meat. Forget the fact that she personally hates the taste of fish. My mother sees little good in fishing if
there is not a fish fry at the end of the day. My wife, Sheryl, and I love cooking and eating fish, but we buy our seafood at the local fish market. Today’s trout streams are generally over fished and there would not be a single wild trout left if everyone kept their fish. I like the idea of catch and release. In a way, I feel that I am doing my share to provide the same opportunities for my future grandchildren. Again allow me to underscore the fact that it is more about standing in the middle of an ice melted stream and casting a feather-weight fly against all odds than it is about filling my freezer with meat. I think that you get the idea. Tomorrow I will test my skills with a nine foot 5 Weight rod and a selection of dry flies. (I like dry flies and dry martinis. The drier the better.) Leave the nymph fishing for the other guys.

August 9

Today I took a lazy drive north to Stanley, Idaho. I could have missed it had I blinked at the wrong time. Stanley is but a wide spot in the road and the home for 100 dyed in the wool hardcore mountain folks. It is the jumping off place for the National Sawtooth Wilderness area, were the Salmon River begins its long journey through the Sawtooth Mountain range. The scenery is simply incredible, and so is the fly fishing.

A drive north of Ketchum provides a scenic view of the forested mountainsides as you gain altitude. Dropping over the pass, I found this wonderful view of the Sawtooth Mountains in the valley of the opposite side near the town of Stanley.

August 10

I got a late start this morning, sleeping well after sunrise, following my first day at fishing. I guess that yesterday’s hiking and fishing in the Salmon River took it out of me. I drove back into Stanley to get my wakeup shot of coffee after spending the night in one of the upper campgrounds fifteen miles north of town. I am taken back by the vastness of the valley surrounded by the Sawtooth Mountains. Surprisingly there are far fewer tourists than I anticipated. Perhaps they stop over in Sun Valley and never make it this far back into the wilderness. That is a shame really, because the Big Woods River of Ketchum /Sun Valley pales in comparison to the mighty Salmon River that runs through the Sawtooth wilderness area. Normally places like this are covered with people crawling across its surfaces like ants on sugar. Many of the campsites have ample room available. If this were Yellowstone, I would have needed reservations to pitch a tent.

Today provided fly fishing worthy of remembering. I nailed a large number of very nice rainbow trout, all returned to the water to fight another day. My wrist ached by the end of the day; my shoulder tired, and my feet were dragging. I felt like I had spent a day at the salt mines, but I would give a pretty penny to have another day just like it. (As I write this, a small weassle-like rodent is skillfully hopping from rock to rock. He is standing up on his back legs as if trying to peer into the van where I am seated and writing on my laptop computer.)

The last two days I have taken a break from fishing to drive up to an old mining ghost town where I can get lunch. Seven dollars buys you a quarter pound hamburger with secret sauce, onion, tomato, and shredded lettuce on a sesame seed bun. It is not fancy, but it works and tastes pretty darn good. I chased it with an Indian Pale Ale from my ice box. While my burger was being cooked, I talked to an older gentleman and his wife who stumbled in for a similar meal. He looked to be well into his eighties, trim as, and stout as, an oak fence post, but small of stature. His eyes twinkled with an understanding of been there done that. We traded small talk and chatted briefly about our travels. I was quite taken with his wife, although we did not speak. I only listened. Well beyond eighty, she seemed as spry as a twenty year old. Here diminutive frame was stylishly clothed, wearing a pair of Mary Janes on her feet. The couple was up for a jaunt in the mountains, driving a motor home and camping along the way. The gentleman wanted to know about my sprinter van. He very much liked the way my Sprinter is tall and narrow, unlike the wider and awkward mobile motor home that he was driving. His comment was that he had first come across a Sprinter when traveling in Baja.

Tomorrow, I will wet a line on the Woods River and fish for half a day before setting up for my next art show in Sun Valley.

August 11

One artist’s view of the Wood River are the many stones that line it’s banks.

I fished the Wood this morning without much success. A huge caddis hatch was coming off as I stepped into the riverwith Caddis flies hanging to my clothing. I did not see one trout rise as caddis floated on the water heading downstream. I tried a variety of flies, both wet and dry, without success. After a couple of hours with water beating at my knees, I decided to give it a rest and go into town. I checked into the rental that I am sharing with good friends for the next week. It was a relief to take a hot shower after three nights camping at high altitude in primitive campgrounds. By mid afternoon I began my show set up at my assigned time. Set up went as could be expected, but after three hours of intense labor, I was ready to call it a day. My show is ready for tomorrow’s opening, and I feel like I have just gone ten rounds in a boxing ring. Everything hurts. My knees, my elbow, fingers, and a sore right shoulder all feel the pains of old age. This business isn’t for pansies. The heavy lifting, long hours, and extended play all add up. I am waiting for good friends, Dennis and Caroline to show up so we can burn a steak. (My inside joke, because I would rather serve time in prison than burn choice grade beef.) Pink to bloody red is how I like them. I hope Dennis gets here soon, because the food and wine is packed in his van. He and Caroline drove into Sun Valley from Eugene, Oregon, and I know that they both feel about as tired as I am after a full day of driving capped by setting up for a show. It is time to let our hair down and settle in for the evening. Tomorrow will be a long day.

August 12, 13, 14…… the show begins. The Sun Valley Art and Crafts Fair.

It is time for the Sun Valley Art and Craft Fair and it will not disappoint. As anticipated, the overall quality is unmistakably high for a venue this size. Artists from all over have gathered to present their wares at this mountain fair. Despite an unsettled economy, sales prove to be strong. This is a neighborly event where artists and patrons alike, simply enjoy being there. The atmosphere is laid back in a postcard setting made for a good time. I enjoyed seeing old and new friends alike, and on Saturday night a few of us got together and fired up the charcoal grill for a backyard barbeque.

Dennis is up at first light crunching on a bowl full of granola.

August 15 Today I take Dennis with me up the valley for a little fly fishing.

We have both been looking forward to this all year. It is one of the few perks working artists get from their travels aside from following an artistic passions that we love. Hiking, fishing, biking, or simply searching out hot springs along the way often comes with the job when doing art fairs in the mountain states. We have worked hard at the art show, and it is now time to reward our efforts with a little R & R. We did the same thing last year after the show, and the fish are waiting. After stocking up on specific flies for the region at Silver Creek Outfitters, we will be on our way.

• Fly Fishing

I took this picture of Dennis fishing a pool near Sunbeam.

It does not get much better than this. Our day began before sunrise with a cup of coffee and a full plate of anticipation. Once our gear was loaded into the van, we headed north out of Ketchum, traveling highway 75 into the Sawtooth Wilderness area. A full moon still hung motionless in the sky above the mountains as the sun slowly rose into the heavens. The trip from Ketchum into Stanley is a beautiful drive paralleling the Wood River as we ascend up the mountain passing camp grounds and breathtaking vistas along the way. Reaching the Galena Summit at 8700 feet, we began our descent into the opposite valley, marking the separation between the Wood River and the beginning of the Salmon River. Today we will fish the Salmon, a wide, free stone river that has humble beginnings before picking up water from numerous creeks as it snakes through the valley. The first bridge crossing marks the Salmon as a narrow thread of water no wider than a footstep. Before we reach Stanley the river beckons us to stop and fish, but our destination is further down river, miles out of town.

The Salmon is also known as The River Of No Return. It flows for 425 miles through central Idaho from near the summit of Galena to its confluence with the Snake River. Fishing on a Monday, I am amazed by our solitude and the lack of vacationers along the way. No other fishermen were to be found until later in the day. Even then we saw little evidence of fly fishermen other than ourselves. The 75 Scenic Byway simply takes you away into a wilderness where few travel other than to experience the beauty of central Idaho and the river along its path. The further we drove north of Stanley, the fewer travelers we saw. Highway 75 snakes its way alongside the river leaving only the occasional pullout to get off of the road and experience the river.

August 17
Today, we fished Silver Creek, a cold spring fed stream surrounded by low lying willows and vegetation. It meanders across a flat plain snaking its way between biscuit colored hillsides. Much of the creek has been set aside through corporate and public donations as a nature preserve.

I believe that our fishing was an effort in futility as few fish even rose to look at our flies and the hatch was not nearly as heavy as usual. A trico fly hatch generally appears by 8:30 in the morning in clouds that rise and roll down the water in waves. These hatches can be seen a half mile off the water as the sunlight catches the wings of the many insects balled into a cloud.

Forget not catching fish. That is why they call it fishing and not catching. It was a bluebird day without a cloud in the sky. The water of Silver Creek runs still and flat without a ripple or a whirl. Any clouds in the sky would have helped camouflage the faintest of leaders (12 foot 7x) and the somewhat obvious fly line crawling down the water. Fishing Silver Creek requires casting long distances to perfection while using a fly smaller than a knat’s ass. All odds are stacked against the fisherman from the get go. I have long said that it is more about the experience of being there surrounded up to your thighs by cold running water than it is about catching fish. A great horned owl flushed out of a mound of trees along the river bank scaring up a pair of mallards as birds of all types and colors danced above our heads plucking insects from the air. At one point two very large bucks with ample racks slowly crossed the stream twenty yards in front of me without a care in the world.

We finished our day with a soak in a local hot spring north of Ketchum where Dennis and I chatted about past adventures and big things to come. That night we fixed another wonderful dinner. Tomorrow I travel for home, my wife and two yellow labs are calling me.

A note about conservancy

I am a catch and release fisherman, but I leave that choice to the individual. Where the law requires, every fisherman should release their catch no questions asked. It is only with our help that future generations will enjoy the same pleasures that we do. As for trash, if you haul it in; haul it out. That means you, mister smoker. Learn to field strip your cigarettes if you do not already. Dropping cigarette butts stream side simply ruins it for others and adds to the cumulative amounts of trash that constantly gather no matter how much some of us try to keep it clean. Central Idaho is a beautiful place and deserves only the finest conservation efforts.

A note about stream side etiquette.

The waters throughout our national parks are used by boaters and fisherman alike. Cyclists travel alongside streams stopping to enjoy the vistas and have a splash of cold water. As a fly fisherman I appreciate a moment of solitude and the silence of nature the same way a golfer enjoys getting away from the office and onto the links. Fly fishing is about silence and connecting with nature. No one would think about yelling and screaming as a golfer concentrates on making a difficult putt. When river rafters pass they need to respect that silence and share the water with the fishermen. While fishing north of Stanley on the Salmon River a bevy of boaters came our way, choosing to have a water fight with their paddles in the pool in front of us as we stood there in amazement at their poor choice of manners. (These were adults.) We had hiked into that spot to fish the pool surrounding us. We made way for the boaters, holding our casts as they passed, and then they made so much noise and splashing that our fishing went totally cold. What turnip truck did these boaters fall off of?

At another bend in the river we found ourselves fishing only to have people come up on the other side of the river on mountain bikes followed by their dog. They began throwing large sticks our way and the dog chased the sticks into the water attempting a retrieve. They seemed somewhat oblivious to the fact that we were there on that bend in the river before they ever arrived. I am sometimes amazed at human behavior. We ran into so few people on the hundreds of miles of the Salmon River in the Sawtooth National Recreational Area, yet these people chose that particular piece of river bank to chase us away with their outrageous behavior. I will never understand.

Homeward bound.
5300 MILES LATER. Home at last and waiting for my lovely wife to return to the house from a day’s work. I have already been mauled by my two dogs. Life is good.

Kimball Arts Center Art Fair, Park City, Utah

If your idea of an art show is sitting on your hands much of the day, this year’s show could be for you. I think the Park City show got the double whammy this year. Part of that is the fault of our illustrious congress in Washington, but they do not have a monopoly on blame.

Sales sucked air as the anticipated huge crowds failed to materialize. I blame two things. One, and foremost, I blame Congress, and their ineptness, for creating a shaky economy that is falling off a cliff. Two, I blame the Kimball art show committee, who has down-graded the quality of this show over the last several years.

The local paper reinforced the obvious. The economy was, and is , in the toilet. The stock market dropped off a cliff a day before the show openned. (the odds were stacked, but I remained optimistic. I prefer that my glass always be half full.) Yet, the show quality is what it is. What follows is one artist’s view from a personal perspective. Take it for what it is worth.

This year the overall quality resembled a show from a big box store. Wal-Mart would have been proud. Buy and sell merchandise that is mass-manufactured was to be found everywhere throughout the show. I counted at least two booths selling store goods that featured mass produced cowboy hats. Yuk! One of these featured manufactured dotted swiss lady’s dresses, buffalo hide belts and cheap tourist jewelry along with a selection of hat bands. None of this appeared to be artist made which left me wondering what they were doing there in the first place. There were plenty of stores up and down the streets of this tourist destination that already sell the same things. What a disappointment for an art show that once prided itself for its handcrafted original artwork.

So here’s to you, Kimball Museum, I lift up a toast: Your once proud show has gone down the sewer and prostituted itself all in the name of fund raising for the museum. It may be easy to turn a blind eye to what is really going on in the name of profits, but I really doubt that the left hand even knows what the right hand is doing.

That is my take. If you are willing to peel back the onion, you will see that most any serious artist has long since left the ranks of attendees. No longer is Park City a destination for the creative spirit who takes enough pride in their artwork to show at the best events available. Think about it. None of this is rocket science.

P.S.   My sales at the show were good  when measured by a newer yardstick.  Like one artist commented after the show, “his sales were good if you are considering the ‘new’ good.”  In this economy everything is adjusted to the “new good.”  Forget about comparisons to better years.