by Clint Thomsen

GUEST COLUMNIST

Daddy-O, look!" 2-year-old Coulter elatedly tapped my shoulder, rousing me from a stupor caused by prolonged staring at my motionless fishing line. He pointed toward two men in an aluminum boat in the middle of the lake. "Pirates!"

The men had just launched from a crowding boat ramp on the northwest corner of Grantsville Reservoir. The fishing was slow, so I decided to reel in and ask a few of the other anglers if they were having any luck. As I reached for my spinning rod, the line went taut and the tip bounced. I carefully picked it up, but when I arced to set the hook, the fish was gone, and so was my bait.

Regular readers of this column are familiar with my failed attempts to master the art of fishing. For an outdoors writer, the only thing more terrifying than returning from a fishing trip empty-handed is the prospect of sitting down to write a newspaper article about it. Last November, I treated readers to a 1,000 word essay about getting skunked at Horseshoe Springs. Earlier this year, I struggled to muster up a face-saving way to recount a fruitless ice-fishing venture. Whether it's bad technique, bad luck, or a combination of both, I have become somewhat hesitant to write articles about fishing.

Still, the thought of a relaxing day on the water and the thrill of the sudden tug from unseen depths lured the boys and me out to Grantsville Reservoir last weekend. The area surrounding the hillside lake was teaming with people on horses and ATVs -- folks eager to take advantage of the year's first warm weekend. A dense collection of RVs and trailers populated the campsite, and a handful of fishermen lined the wind-swept shores.

We had started on the south boat ramp, where the boys scampered onto the boulder wall that encloses all but the western shore of the trapezoidal reservoir. Rex, our three-year-old cocker spaniel, kept me company as I rigged my line with a nightcrawler and cast out into whitecap waves and a stiff wind. Eventually we moved to the north boat ramp where the rock wall broke the wind and the water's surface was downright glassy. I worked the deeper waters near the northern shore while the boys combed the banks for bleached crawfish exoskeletons and lady bugs.

Frustrated by my missed bite, I walked over to the ramp and introduced myself to a fisherman who looked like he had cast a few lines in his time.

"I'm getting skunked over there," I complained.

The man looked out toward the water and chuckled, "That's not too hard to do out here."

"There won't be much action until that front moves through," he said, pointing toward a gray cluster of clouds gathering around the Stansbury Range behind us. "Once it starts sprinkling, they'll start biting again."

The reserved, yet personable man struck me as an interesting combination of Mark Eubank and Doug Miller. He introduced himself as John Llewellyn, a one-time Tooele resident who now lives in West Valley City. The 60-year-old is a plumber by trade, but by the way he casually rattled off climate factoids, Lewellyn might be just as comfortable behind the weather desk on a TV news set.

"It's all about the barometric pressure. It changes at the beginning of a front and the fish stop biting. I haven't caught anything yet either."

Suddenly I didn't feel so incompetent.

Llewellyn, it turns out, is something of a pro. The unassuming angler has been outsmarting fish since he was a kid, and has placed well in several professional tournaments on Lake Mead. In 1995, he helped organize the first Western Outdoor News sponsored bass tournament in Utah. Since I need all the help I can get, I jumped at the opportunity to pick the brain of a master.

Llewellyn said the best fishing in a lake like Grantsville Reservoir comes when the fish can't see you. A slight ripple on the water makes it tougher for fish to see the bank, and shadows cast on a rippled surface by flies create an appetizing sight for a hungry trout.

"At sunset, the sun coming over the top of the Oquirrhs puts a glitter on top of the water," he said. "A slight breeze will create a shimmer and that makes good fly fishing. Same thing in the evening when the sun sets over the Stansburys."

"You've got to be quick here," Llewellyn said of my missed bite. "The smaller the treble hook, the better. The smaller the ball of cheese, the better. If you don't set the hook as soon as it bobs, you've pretty much lost him."

Llewellyn told me about prime temperatures, how extreme cold and heat make trout lethargic, and how you can save a fish with a distressed air-bladder by deflating it slightly with a hypodermic needle.

I didn't have time to wait for the front to pass, and neither did Llewellyn. The boys had grown weary of boulder-hopping and were getting hungry for the kids meals I had promised them in town. Most of the fishermen were packing up for the afternoon, ahead of what looked like a potentially ugly storm. Even Coulter's "pirates" were heading toward shore.

Llewellyn said he wasn't so worried about not catching anything.

"Sixty to eighty percent of time spent fishing is spent not catching fish. You go out fishin' -- you don't go out catchin'."

Hey, if it works for the pro, it works for me.

The next day I called him to make sure I had taken accurate notes. He was in his truck driving back to Grantsville Reservoir to try again. I'm not sure I'll ever find luck in fishing, but adding science and a little tenacity to my approach just might make my next endeavor a little more successful.

Clint Thomsen is a Stansbury Park resident who grew up climbing mountains, wandering desert paths and exploring Utah's wilds. He may be contacted via his Web site at www.bonnevillemariner.com.