The Boil Master ... Caught on Digital
Back in January of 2002 the story of a encounter laced with legendary overtones was posted on the Waynes Words Bulletin Board. Just recently there was an reencounter with an amazing twist... and some of it caught on digital!
Since this post is no longer archived and there are now many new BB readers and quite likely some original readers who have forgotten salient details, the original story as posted in its entirety, follows, and then continues on with the reencounter.
It's a story about a living legend. A legend not bandied about in newspapers or even on the Internet, locals who know only speak of it in whispers. And, they're very protective.
THE BOIL MASTER
In an isolated cove tucked away in the upper reaches of Lake Powell, it was two hours past sunset and the moon was taking the night off. Darkness had descended. Blackness was as thick as it gets. Comfortably snuggled in snowsuits, a companion and I anchored in fifty feet of water 100 yards offshore were patiently dangling pieces of anchovy impaled on #1 hooks, waiting for wandering stripers to inhale our offerings........................
We both suffer from the same affliction; a passion for pursuing Lake Powell striped bass. Every fall this malady strikes with an urge no less controllable than that which drives spawning salmon to leap tall waterfalls and unflinchingly run gauntlets of hungry bears, eagles and other perils until spawning grounds are reached. Similarly, hazardous weather forecasts, family and work obligations and any other impediments are summarily damned into nonexistence once our spawning run begins, as we swim 400 miles upstream from Phoenix, stopping only for fuel, towing a 20’ bass boat which becomes home and transportation once we reach spawning grounds at Lake Powell.
The Salmons urge, unfortunately, is satiated only by death; ours, thankfully, is gradually assuaged into remission...it takes about a week.
We fish all day long, that's all we do. Though some think us touched, at night, while other fishers wile away their night huddled around campfires or chilling out in their houseboats feasting, drinking, telling lies, and, of all things, sleeping...we're fishing. We figure the year has hundreds of nights available for body pampering, but only a few for night fishing, why waste them? Besides we can still lie and fish at the same time, and, without alcohol influence, lies tend to be cleverer.
Fishing tactics at night differ from day. During day we mainly search, often covering vast stretches of water, using birds and electronics as indicators, and, when stripers are located, try and fool them with lures. At night we let them come to us. Anchoring in a likely location, a floating light tossed overboard sets a food chain in motion. Light attracts plankton, plankton attract shad, shad attract stripers. At night pieces of anchovy are the piece de résistance.
Typically, sunset ushers in an embrace of relaxing delight...no sun, no threatening waves, and no passing boats or people noises. A new set and new actors appear on the day’s stage. The nightfall play begins with a hush of silence, a brief introductory interlude announcing the beginning of the evening’s symphony featuring vocal performances from coyotes, grebes, owls and occasional frog, with accompaniment from musical plinks of gentle ripples slapping against the hull occasionally punctuated by cymbal like splashes of surfacing fish.
Usually this Shangri La-like lounging is frequently interrupted as previously illusive stripers become anxious to taste our bait when light fades. Often, an overwhelming majority of the trip’s catch occurs at night. A good night’s catch typically exceeds what most other fishers catch during a week of day fishing. Catching fish and telling lies while being gently serenaded by nature’s permanent residents...what more could you ask for? Admittedly, it lacks the excitement and unabashed mayhem of a striper boil but consistency is far superior. The darker the moon the better it gets.
......................So far fishing had been mediocre, allowing time for a few lies, but we’d already put a few early biters on ice. Frequently it takes time before the food chain is fully established with catching frequency quickening as night passes. Off in the distance the soft putt, putt of a slow moving outboard joined nature’s chorus. Gradually the putt, putts became louder and louder, it sounded like a possible collision in the making and we were the collidees. We peered into the black both out of curiosity but also mounting apprehension. What would a boat be doing out here at night? Always before, we’d been the only fools of the night. The sound grew even louder. It appeared we were a destination. Then in front of us the dark began to open faintly revealing............................
Another afflicted with a striper passion works for Utah Division of Wildlife at Lake Powell, in fact he runs the show, has spent his entire career there. Friendly, likable and non-assuming, in addition to his management duties he serves as a ready and reliable source of information for anglers. He maintains a web site featuring fishing tips and techniques, weekly fishing report and other useful information. He does his job well. Over the years we’ve become phone friends and have at least several conversations annually.
His affliction differs somewhat from ours, his is the Striper Boil!
A striper boil occurs when a school of stripers surround a school of shad, their prey; drive them to the surface and attack! The lake surface erupts as shad having running out of water leap into the air in vain escape attempts. The lake surface below the air born shad implodes as stripers thrash and slash in frenzy! It now resembles a giant washing machine run amok under an aerial display of exploding splashes and spray! On a calm day the ruckus can be heard one-half mile away. Any floating lure tossed into this massacre is instantly pounced upon and often smashed with such abandon it pops two feet into the air, sometimes again and again before hooks grab hold
An open water boil is a magnet for seagulls which circle and surface snatch injured shad. A boil against shore draws ravens, herons, and sometimes coyotes to feast on chased out-of-water shad. A full-blown against-shore boil can feature screeching and diving gulls, wading and stabbing herons, ravens and coyotes pinning and devouring floundered shad, surface lures being volley balled in the air, witnessed by whooping anglers thru a veil of thunderous splashes and spray in a din that drowns out all other sounds! Piscatorial mayhem in full splendor! The striper fisherman’s Holy Grail! Usually it’s brief, over twenty minutes is a long one.
That’s his passion. Can hardly blame him.
He doesn’t talk about it much, but sometimes, if gently pried, he’ll briefly mention running into a 20-minute boil in this canyon, a ½ hour boil in that canyon, a 45 minute one in another, etc. Though secretive about specifics, if you pry, you can feel his passion... a passion kept under wraps from most.
But, if you’re lucky enough to catch him really off guard, he’ll go on and on, describing boil after boil, until you begin to wonder if anyplace exists, that a boil doesn’t occur, once he makes an appearance. Those who know say...maybe not.
He efficiently pursues his passion with a knack of knowing where to go so uncanny it borders on eeriness. It seems wherever he stops, stripers boil.
Those who have caught him in action say he comes armed with five or six pre-rigged rods. Once a fish is boated he immediately drops the rod and casts an unfettered one. No down time is wasted unhooking. Clever. Striper boils can be short, seconds count. If all rods have flopping fish they say he has a way of giving a rod just a few flicks and the attached striper becomes immediately unhooked, almost as if in abeyance to some unspoken command. For the ordinary mortal the unhooking process requires, pliers, gloves, and a moment or more. His production is legendary. They say he buys fillet knives by the dozen.
The universe harbors many mysteries. Those who know say he is one of them.
Those who know say if you happen to be at the right spot just after dawn, and fortunate enough to catch sight of him on the hunt, his boat will be followed by flocks of ravens and seagulls. This is quite odd. Ravens and seagulls are an observant fisherman’s eyes and ears. Ravens hopping along shoreline are probably eating beached shad. Circling, diving gulls are surface snatching striper wounded shad. Either occurrence screams stop and fish here! But, ravens and seagulls following a fisherman? Why? Is it possible they have recognized a superior master...one who acts as their eyes and ears?
Those who know say maybe a boil always seems to occur wherever he stops not because he somehow intuits where to go, but merely because of his presence. They say he doesn’t locate boils, he makes them happen.
Lake Powell stripers have a habit of multiplying faster than their food supply. When food supplies are inadequate a striper die off occurs. This lets the food supply rebound and eventually so do the stripers, and, the endless cycle starts anew. Attempting to replace these boom or bust cycles with equilibrium, lake policy has been redesigned to make man the striper’s primary predator. Limits have been lifted and anglers are encouraged to catch and keep as many as they can. Hopefully anglers will harvest enough to keep populations balanced ending the revolving cycles of either scarcity or abundance.
Has our mystery man’s passion reached a mystical level allowing him to manifest as the harvesting tool necessary to protect that which feeds his passion... the stripers? Has passion and occupation merged into an ideal? Those who know seem to think so.
Those who know claim when on the hunt a transformation occurs, something similar to the Clark Kent-Superman switch. You won’t find any phone booths on the lake, but what about those floating restrooms? Perhaps he doesn’t need a cover. After all, Superman is fiction. Is it possible in some unknown way, a change does occur, resulting in emergence of the one whose name those who know reverently whisper...The Boil Master? Maybe.
I say maybe, because of the one and only outing I had with him on the lake, which occurred several years ago. Annually, each fall he supervises a small crew that samples fish populations with gill nets at different lake locations. They measure and record fish number, lengths, weights, etc....part of their management research. For comparison consistency they sample the same locations every year. One location is in the area I fish. This particular year he arrived at this location the afternoon before his next days sampling was to begin. When prime time arrived we went cruising for striper boils. He stepped into my boat carrying five pre-rigged rods.
Thirty minutes before dark we came upon a heron on a point, in a feeding position. I slowed the boat watching for tell tale splashes. Suddenly, he yelled Stop! I did, but couldn’t see evidence of feeding stripers. Cast! he commanded. I did...amazingly the striper boil began. It ended at dark. Can’t say I noticed any transformation, but then again, we’d fished off opposite ends of the boat and I’d been too involved in enjoying the show to pay any attention to him. However, afterwards I noticed more fish flopping around in his end of the boat than in mine, in fact, a lot more. The next day he went to work and I went back to fishing. Interestingly, though I boil searched every day, that was the only boil of the five-day trip
This year our paths had crossed again, in fact, he was the reason we were night fishing at this location. My companion and I and he and his crew had both arrived in the area yesterday afternoon, we for pleasure he for work, and we visited with each other briefly. He chose to camp across cove from friends of ours in a houseboat who had arrived a few days earlier. We camped in a totally different area more convenient to our night fishing spot. Next morning we visited our friends and found to our chagrin we had just missed a good striper boil.
They hadn’t seen a boil during the three previous days they’d been camped. However, right after sunrise they looked out and saw stripers boiling next to mystery man’s camp. They claim he was chasing them down the shoreline toting 5 rods. When he beached a fish he’d grab and cast another rod. When he jumped into his boat chasing them into open water, they jumped in theirs and joined the melee. He sure picked the right spot to camp, they commented naively. I didn’t say anything. I asked if they saw any seagulls or ravens during the boil. Lots of ravens were hopping along the shoreline, yesterday afternoon a large flock arrived in the canyon. Hmmm.
We changed night fishing locations and were now located only a couple hundred yards from this morning’s boil. It was a setup waiting to happen. They’d boiled this morning, he was still camped, and ravens were still in the canyon. We were well positioned for next mornings boil.
................................The putt putts silenced as a boat glided up next to ours; its sole occupant was the mystery man himself. Smiling, he thrust out two plates full of hot food. "Thought you might enjoy a hot meal". Surprised but grateful I gingerly grabbed the warm plates. It took a minute or so to arrange a level spot on which to set the plates. I turned to express our gratitude and discovered his boat already slipping back into the night. "Thanks!" I yelled into the black. He had come and gone like the proverbial ghost in the night. It happened so quickly it was more like a dream than reality. But it wasn’t a dream because we had the food....which was delicious and quickly engulfed.
My companion and I both agreed what we witnessed was more than just an act of kindness. We both felt a presence, the presence of one deep passion acknowledging existence of another. An "I understand" spoken in silence. The meal was an additional aside, sort of a thank you for helping control the striper population...helping to keep healthy the source both passions feed on.
Next morning’s dawn found us eagle eyed, vigilantly watching in anticipation. Disappointingly, stripers never boiled. Meanwhile our mystery man expressed complete indifference to the possible happening. He spent his early morning as Clark Kent, busily preparing to move to a different lake location. It was obvious he knew his passion wouldn’t be scratched that morning. The question is...how did he know? Was it because of exceptional intuitiveness.... or was it because duty called and he didn’t have time to create one? My companion and I suspect the latter.
If you should happen to become one of those lost souls infected with a passion for Lake Powell striper fishing, and so be it learn to express your passion by indulging in pleasures of the night (fishing) and become real effective at it, and...if some dark night you hear the soft putt, putt of a slowly approaching boat, don’t be frightened and don’t make any sudden moves...you just might be the recipient of a catering from.....The Boil Master!
-------------------
Do those who know, really know...or is this just another campfire story?
-------------------
Many mysteries lie concealed deep in the bowels of consciousness, mysteries constantly shaping destiny yet seldom puncturing our awareness. For instance, how many of you, while brushing your teeth, eating, working, playing, praying, etc., are aware of the ongoing life and death struggle, great wars and battles constantly going on within your own body. Toxins, viruses, mutating cells, etc., bad guys trying to destroy you, are constantly invading your body. Fortunately the body has a defense system composed of good guys constantly waging war in defense. We're talking about millions maybe billions of good and bad guys constantly at war and the bad guys are trying to kill you. When bad guys begin winning we send reinforcements in the form of pills, shots or other remedies and continue on, blithely unaware of the blood being spilled and lives constantly being lost and replenished.
If this great ongoing battle can exist beyond our everyday scope of awareness, might not there be other hidden influences, other mysteries lying just out of sight of normal consciousness, other streams of "goings on" that protect, guide, and shelter?
I think so. Some refer to it as the mystical and you can call it that if you like, as long as it refers to the underlying current that manifests itself as balance.
The world we exist in is a world of duality, a world of opposites. Everything knowable and experienceable has to have an opposite in order to be known or experienced, no exceptions. Good is not knowable without its counterpart ..bad, and visa versa,...neither can big without small...sweet without sour etc. But there has to be balance between the opposites and sometimes the universe in its normal functioning gets out of whack, out of balance. That's when the mysterious arises and the Balancers appear. History records that Christ, Buddha, Allah, and other saints, sages and prophets all appeared but only in times of great necessity, when things were out of balance, not all at once,...and their legacy?...a restoration of balance between the opposites.
Even our myths reflect this on going struggle. Our most treasured myths are those of vanquished ogres, vampires and werewolves and we still flock in delight to see movies of fictitious Balancers such as Superman, Batman, Captain Kirk, and others.
So as I see it, there are balancing influences constantly at work though not all are commonly noticed. And, I suspect there are individuals with unusual abilities, quietly and secretly providing necessary balance, and, by both design and destiny, can only effectively function when cloaked in secrecy.
Is the Boil Master one of these? Maybe. But I've always been a doubting Thomas. On the one hand, those who know...don't lie....and, one has to gain their confidence before they even whisper. But maybe they've been deceived. My question is, what great balance has he brought forth? "Keeping the striper population in balance," one might say. But has he really? Maybe.
From his office he can be on the lake in 15 minutes, and sometimes he does his thing in Wahweap Bay. But more often than not he goes 10, 20 or 30 miles up the lake before he works his magic. That doesn't make sense. There are stripers everywhere. Seldom would it be necessary to travel more than a mile or two before he could perform his balancing act. Why waste all that time and effort? It certainly doesn't seem efficient. "Maybe", one might postulate, "it's to escape prying eyes." Maybe so.
But the critical factor for me has always been that other mystics and masters blessed with extraordinary abilities all, without exception, left another legacy in addition to the restoration of balance...a legacy of love. Where's the love? A striper slayer extraordinaire, undoubtedly. But where's the love?
That's been my problem and has kept me doubting something I'd really like to believe...that is until the Incident! The Incident that just happened a few days ago. The Incident that shattered my skepticism, answered all my questions, and opened my eyes to a side of reality I could not have imagined in my wildest of musings (and I get some wild ones) !
The Incident...It happened mid morning during one of my recent trips to the south end of the lake after morning fishing had slowed. Originally my love affair with Powell started on its south end which I came to know intimately. However, during the last 10 years the southern end has been neglected in deference to the north. With the lake so low nothing is now familiar, it's like a brand new lake. It won't stay that way forever and I wanted to photograph exposed areas that soon may never again be exposed in my lifetime.
Armed with a brand new digital camera and a powerful telephoto lens I slowly putted into a canyon, the name of which I choose not to reveal. The morning was bright, sunny and calm.
Putting around a sharp bend I came across something quite unusual. I was entering a fog bank about 100' high, so thick I could no longer even see the bow. Shutting down the motor I cautiously drifted into shore. Securing the boat I scrambled up a rocky slope trying to get above the fog. Once on top of the ridge I saw a break ahead and soon walked out of the pea soup.
And down below, there he was! Yes, his 5 loaded rods were there, but merely leaning peacefully against a boulder. What greeted my eyes was a spectacle so foreign to my assumptions it loosed waves of deep shame. I had been so quick to judge...
In the cove below, hanging just offshore, was a tremendous school of stripers, at least 100 yards in circumference, all at the surface, facing shore with noses sticking out of water, waiting, and one by one taking turns swimming to shore. Peacefully standing below at shore's edge was not the feared Boil Master of legend but...
The Fish Whisperer!
Inexplicably, he who was standing on shore did not appear to be the renown Scourge of the Striper Nation, preparing for battle, but rather more like a Holy Man ministering his subjects. Amazingly both stripers and the mystery man were addressing each other with both respect and affection. And then bells went off in this head hard as stone, I was witnessing the manifestation of a critical aspect I had previously sought in vain. What both parties were mutually exchanging was love! I saw the love! Alleluia!
But what was being said in the conversations they were having? Was he advising them about personal problems? Teaching them morals? A catechism class? Directing them to where the shad were hiding? Jokes? Bawdy stories? I could hear the back and forth whispers slicing thru the breeze but couldn't make out what was being said. Gosh I wish I'd learned how to speak fish. One by one they took their turns.
Then suddenly the fog returned, couldn't see a thing. I tried to move forward and break thru but some unseen force was preventing me. An inner awareness told me that for some reason I was being allowed to witness something special, but I could not interfere. I waited and soon the fog cleared.
A new scene appeared, the Fish Whisperer had suddenly morphed into...
The "School" Teacher
Now they came to shore in small groups of 4,5 or 6 and he'd give them short lessons. You could tell he was a tough disciplinarian, sometimes he'd scold causing them to cringe and turn pink. If they were too rowdy he'd make them sit on a rock. But overall he really seemed to be in his element, thoroughly enjoying himself.
And at times both he and his students laughed heartily. I suppose it was a good fish joke. Does this look like the dreaded striper exterminator?
This pastoral scene went on for some time but then the serenity began to dissipate. There was a disturbance of some sort in the middle of the cove and now there seemed to be more stripers assembled than before, a whole lot more. The School Teacher cast a furtive glance but kept on. Then out in the middle a boil erupted, at least it looked like a boil, a vicious boil. But something had changed, his students, devotees or whatever, the entire school, strangely no longer faced shore, they had turned to face the "boil." Mystery man began paying more attention to the commotion, which was intensifying, with more frequent glances that now seemed to express a certain degree of alarm.
What was going on? Then it finally dawned on me. The reason for more stripers was another school had arrived on the scene, an invading school, and the original school had turned to face them. It wasn't a boil going on out in the middle. The rumpus was the result of havoc, havoc created at the battle line between two opposing striper schools! There was a war going on! Then the obvious suddenly struck home! Bad stripers had arrived! Bad stripers were attacking good stripers!
It quickly became ugly! Striper bodies came hurtling out of the water, often landing back on the surface then remaining there finning feebly. It was like a boil from hell! The spray was like that of two tour boat wakes colliding head on at full speed. At first gulls began excitedly circling, but after assessing the situation they suddenly zoomed off in fright!
Then the Clark Kent switch happened, I don't know where the phone booth was, and the former "school" Teacher grabbed his five loaded rods and began his octopus routine. A heave, a strike, another heave and the striper would come flying out over his shoulder! He grabbed another rod, heave, strike, heave...then another rod and another. Stripers were popping out of the water like giant pieces of popcorn, scales fluttered down like falling snow.
For some reason the picture that came to mind was that of Don Quixote fighting the windmill. I don't think Don Quixote won his battle and this battle soon took on a similar cast. The good stripers had fled, the bad ones, like demons possessed, now beached themselves in murderous pursuit of their now abandoned arch enemy ! Meanwhile, our champion, now out of ammunition from broken rods, shredded line and straightened hooks, was in trouble!
He could have fled up the hill and escaped. But no, instead he stayed, and now it was hand to hand combat!
Amazingly, though no longer smiling, he displayed no fear and in fact seemed to be enjoying the battle! It soon became evident, that to him, this was sport! This is what the Boil Master was designed for, he was merely using the talents he had.
Though he's quite nimble footed that didn't phase the stripers much. They backed off, regrouped and came again with a rush! Then I saw fear in his eyes, he turned to run but it was too late. They launched themselves into the air, aiming for his throat!
I tried my best to come to his aid, but whatever force was there, kept me from moving. And then,.... the final realization hit, and flooded me with shame. The answer to the enigma haunting my soul, which had lain obscured by dark clouds of doubt, arose! It had been right in front of me all of the time.. He wasn't slaying stripers just to keep the population in balance, he loved the stripers, He was only slaying the bad ones and protecting the good!
GOOD STRIPERS
BAD STRIPERS
He efficiently pursues his passion with a knack of knowing where to go so uncanny it borders on eeriness. It seems wherever he stops, stripers boil.
Those who have caught him in action say he comes armed with five or six pre-rigged rods. Once a fish is boated he immediately drops the rod and casts an unfettered one. No down time is wasted unhooking. Clever. Striper boils can be short, seconds count. If all rods have flopping fish they say he has a way of giving a rod just a few flicks and the attached striper becomes immediately unhooked, almost as if in abeyance to some unspoken command. For the ordinary mortal the unhooking process requires, pliers, gloves, and a moment or more. His production is legendary. They say he buys fillet knives by the dozen.
The universe harbors many mysteries. Those who know say he is one of them.
Those who know say if you happen to be at the right spot just after dawn, and fortunate enough to catch sight of him on the hunt, his boat will be followed by flocks of ravens and seagulls. This is quite odd. Ravens and seagulls are an observant fisherman’s eyes and ears. Ravens hopping along shoreline are probably eating beached shad. Circling, diving gulls are surface snatching striper wounded shad. Either occurrence screams stop and fish here! But, ravens and seagulls following a fisherman? Why? Is it possible they have recognized a superior master...one who acts as their eyes and ears?
Those who know say maybe a boil always seems to occur wherever he stops not because he somehow intuits where to go, but merely because of his presence. They say he doesn’t locate boils, he makes them happen.
Lake Powell stripers have a habit of multiplying faster than their food supply. When food supplies are inadequate a striper die off occurs. This lets the food supply rebound and eventually so do the stripers, and, the endless cycle starts anew. Attempting to replace these boom or bust cycles with equilibrium, lake policy has been redesigned to make man the striper’s primary predator. Limits have been lifted and anglers are encouraged to catch and keep as many as they can. Hopefully anglers will harvest enough to keep populations balanced ending the revolving cycles of either scarcity or abundance.
Has our mystery man’s passion reached a mystical level allowing him to manifest as the harvesting tool necessary to protect that which feeds his passion... the stripers? Has passion and occupation merged into an ideal? Those who know seem to think so.
Those who know claim when on the hunt a transformation occurs, something similar to the Clark Kent-Superman switch. You won’t find any phone booths on the lake, but what about those floating restrooms? Perhaps he doesn’t need a cover. After all, Superman is fiction. Is it possible in some unknown way, a change does occur, resulting in emergence of the one whose name those who know reverently whisper...The Boil Master? Maybe.
I say maybe, because of the one and only outing I had with him on the lake, which occurred several years ago. Annually, each fall he supervises a small crew that samples fish populations with gill nets at different lake locations. They measure and record fish number, lengths, weights, etc....part of their management research. For comparison consistency they sample the same locations every year. One location is in the area I fish. This particular year he arrived at this location the afternoon before his next days sampling was to begin. When prime time arrived we went cruising for striper boils. He stepped into my boat carrying five pre-rigged rods.
Thirty minutes before dark we came upon a heron on a point, in a feeding position. I slowed the boat watching for tell tale splashes. Suddenly, he yelled Stop! I did, but couldn’t see evidence of feeding stripers. Cast! he commanded. I did...amazingly the striper boil began. It ended at dark. Can’t say I noticed any transformation, but then again, we’d fished off opposite ends of the boat and I’d been too involved in enjoying the show to pay any attention to him. However, afterwards I noticed more fish flopping around in his end of the boat than in mine, in fact, a lot more. The next day he went to work and I went back to fishing. Interestingly, though I boil searched every day, that was the only boil of the five-day trip
This year our paths had crossed again, in fact, he was the reason we were night fishing at this location. My companion and I and he and his crew had both arrived in the area yesterday afternoon, we for pleasure he for work, and we visited with each other briefly. He chose to camp across cove from friends of ours in a houseboat who had arrived a few days earlier. We camped in a totally different area more convenient to our night fishing spot. Next morning we visited our friends and found to our chagrin we had just missed a good striper boil.
They hadn’t seen a boil during the three previous days they’d been camped. However, right after sunrise they looked out and saw stripers boiling next to mystery man’s camp. They claim he was chasing them down the shoreline toting 5 rods. When he beached a fish he’d grab and cast another rod. When he jumped into his boat chasing them into open water, they jumped in theirs and joined the melee. He sure picked the right spot to camp, they commented naively. I didn’t say anything. I asked if they saw any seagulls or ravens during the boil. Lots of ravens were hopping along the shoreline, yesterday afternoon a large flock arrived in the canyon. Hmmm.
We changed night fishing locations and were now located only a couple hundred yards from this morning’s boil. It was a setup waiting to happen. They’d boiled this morning, he was still camped, and ravens were still in the canyon. We were well positioned for next mornings boil.
................................The putt putts silenced as a boat glided up next to ours; its sole occupant was the mystery man himself. Smiling, he thrust out two plates full of hot food. "Thought you might enjoy a hot meal". Surprised but grateful I gingerly grabbed the warm plates. It took a minute or so to arrange a level spot on which to set the plates. I turned to express our gratitude and discovered his boat already slipping back into the night. "Thanks!" I yelled into the black. He had come and gone like the proverbial ghost in the night. It happened so quickly it was more like a dream than reality. But it wasn’t a dream because we had the food....which was delicious and quickly engulfed.
My companion and I both agreed what we witnessed was more than just an act of kindness. We both felt a presence, the presence of one deep passion acknowledging existence of another. An "I understand" spoken in silence. The meal was an additional aside, sort of a thank you for helping control the striper population...helping to keep healthy the source both passions feed on.
Next morning’s dawn found us eagle eyed, vigilantly watching in anticipation. Disappointingly, stripers never boiled. Meanwhile our mystery man expressed complete indifference to the possible happening. He spent his early morning as Clark Kent, busily preparing to move to a different lake location. It was obvious he knew his passion wouldn’t be scratched that morning. The question is...how did he know? Was it because of exceptional intuitiveness.... or was it because duty called and he didn’t have time to create one? My companion and I suspect the latter.
If you should happen to become one of those lost souls infected with a passion for Lake Powell striper fishing, and so be it learn to express your passion by indulging in pleasures of the night (fishing) and become real effective at it, and...if some dark night you hear the soft putt, putt of a slowly approaching boat, don’t be frightened and don’t make any sudden moves...you just might be the recipient of a catering from.....The Boil Master!
-------------------
Do those who know, really know...or is this just another campfire story?
-------------------
Many mysteries lie concealed deep in the bowels of consciousness, mysteries constantly shaping destiny yet seldom puncturing our awareness. For instance, how many of you, while brushing your teeth, eating, working, playing, praying, etc., are aware of the ongoing life and death struggle, great wars and battles constantly going on within your own body. Toxins, viruses, mutating cells, etc., bad guys trying to destroy you, are constantly invading your body. Fortunately the body has a defense system composed of good guys constantly waging war in defense. We're talking about millions maybe billions of good and bad guys constantly at war and the bad guys are trying to kill you. When bad guys begin winning we send reinforcements in the form of pills, shots or other remedies and continue on, blithely unaware of the blood being spilled and lives constantly being lost and replenished.
If this great ongoing battle can exist beyond our everyday scope of awareness, might not there be other hidden influences, other mysteries lying just out of sight of normal consciousness, other streams of "goings on" that protect, guide, and shelter?
I think so. Some refer to it as the mystical and you can call it that if you like, as long as it refers to the underlying current that manifests itself as balance.
The world we exist in is a world of duality, a world of opposites. Everything knowable and experienceable has to have an opposite in order to be known or experienced, no exceptions. Good is not knowable without its counterpart ..bad, and visa versa,...neither can big without small...sweet without sour etc. But there has to be balance between the opposites and sometimes the universe in its normal functioning gets out of whack, out of balance. That's when the mysterious arises and the Balancers appear. History records that Christ, Buddha, Allah, and other saints, sages and prophets all appeared but only in times of great necessity, when things were out of balance, not all at once,...and their legacy?...a restoration of balance between the opposites.
Even our myths reflect this on going struggle. Our most treasured myths are those of vanquished ogres, vampires and werewolves and we still flock in delight to see movies of fictitious Balancers such as Superman, Batman, Captain Kirk, and others.
So as I see it, there are balancing influences constantly at work though not all are commonly noticed. And, I suspect there are individuals with unusual abilities, quietly and secretly providing necessary balance, and, by both design and destiny, can only effectively function when cloaked in secrecy.
Is the Boil Master one of these? Maybe. But I've always been a doubting Thomas. On the one hand, those who know...don't lie....and, one has to gain their confidence before they even whisper. But maybe they've been deceived. My question is, what great balance has he brought forth? "Keeping the striper population in balance," one might say. But has he really? Maybe.
From his office he can be on the lake in 15 minutes, and sometimes he does his thing in Wahweap Bay. But more often than not he goes 10, 20 or 30 miles up the lake before he works his magic. That doesn't make sense. There are stripers everywhere. Seldom would it be necessary to travel more than a mile or two before he could perform his balancing act. Why waste all that time and effort? It certainly doesn't seem efficient. "Maybe", one might postulate, "it's to escape prying eyes." Maybe so.
But the critical factor for me has always been that other mystics and masters blessed with extraordinary abilities all, without exception, left another legacy in addition to the restoration of balance...a legacy of love. Where's the love? A striper slayer extraordinaire, undoubtedly. But where's the love?
That's been my problem and has kept me doubting something I'd really like to believe...that is until the Incident! The Incident that just happened a few days ago. The Incident that shattered my skepticism, answered all my questions, and opened my eyes to a side of reality I could not have imagined in my wildest of musings (and I get some wild ones) !
The Incident...It happened mid morning during one of my recent trips to the south end of the lake after morning fishing had slowed. Originally my love affair with Powell started on its south end which I came to know intimately. However, during the last 10 years the southern end has been neglected in deference to the north. With the lake so low nothing is now familiar, it's like a brand new lake. It won't stay that way forever and I wanted to photograph exposed areas that soon may never again be exposed in my lifetime.
Armed with a brand new digital camera and a powerful telephoto lens I slowly putted into a canyon, the name of which I choose not to reveal. The morning was bright, sunny and calm.
Putting around a sharp bend I came across something quite unusual. I was entering a fog bank about 100' high, so thick I could no longer even see the bow. Shutting down the motor I cautiously drifted into shore. Securing the boat I scrambled up a rocky slope trying to get above the fog. Once on top of the ridge I saw a break ahead and soon walked out of the pea soup.
And down below, there he was! Yes, his 5 loaded rods were there, but merely leaning peacefully against a boulder. What greeted my eyes was a spectacle so foreign to my assumptions it loosed waves of deep shame. I had been so quick to judge...
In the cove below, hanging just offshore, was a tremendous school of stripers, at least 100 yards in circumference, all at the surface, facing shore with noses sticking out of water, waiting, and one by one taking turns swimming to shore. Peacefully standing below at shore's edge was not the feared Boil Master of legend but...
The Fish Whisperer!
Inexplicably, he who was standing on shore did not appear to be the renown Scourge of the Striper Nation, preparing for battle, but rather more like a Holy Man ministering his subjects. Amazingly both stripers and the mystery man were addressing each other with both respect and affection. And then bells went off in this head hard as stone, I was witnessing the manifestation of a critical aspect I had previously sought in vain. What both parties were mutually exchanging was love! I saw the love! Alleluia!
But what was being said in the conversations they were having? Was he advising them about personal problems? Teaching them morals? A catechism class? Directing them to where the shad were hiding? Jokes? Bawdy stories? I could hear the back and forth whispers slicing thru the breeze but couldn't make out what was being said. Gosh I wish I'd learned how to speak fish. One by one they took their turns.
Then suddenly the fog returned, couldn't see a thing. I tried to move forward and break thru but some unseen force was preventing me. An inner awareness told me that for some reason I was being allowed to witness something special, but I could not interfere. I waited and soon the fog cleared.
A new scene appeared, the Fish Whisperer had suddenly morphed into...
The "School" Teacher
Now they came to shore in small groups of 4,5 or 6 and he'd give them short lessons. You could tell he was a tough disciplinarian, sometimes he'd scold causing them to cringe and turn pink. If they were too rowdy he'd make them sit on a rock. But overall he really seemed to be in his element, thoroughly enjoying himself.
And at times both he and his students laughed heartily. I suppose it was a good fish joke. Does this look like the dreaded striper exterminator?
This pastoral scene went on for some time but then the serenity began to dissipate. There was a disturbance of some sort in the middle of the cove and now there seemed to be more stripers assembled than before, a whole lot more. The School Teacher cast a furtive glance but kept on. Then out in the middle a boil erupted, at least it looked like a boil, a vicious boil. But something had changed, his students, devotees or whatever, the entire school, strangely no longer faced shore, they had turned to face the "boil." Mystery man began paying more attention to the commotion, which was intensifying, with more frequent glances that now seemed to express a certain degree of alarm.
What was going on? Then it finally dawned on me. The reason for more stripers was another school had arrived on the scene, an invading school, and the original school had turned to face them. It wasn't a boil going on out in the middle. The rumpus was the result of havoc, havoc created at the battle line between two opposing striper schools! There was a war going on! Then the obvious suddenly struck home! Bad stripers had arrived! Bad stripers were attacking good stripers!
It quickly became ugly! Striper bodies came hurtling out of the water, often landing back on the surface then remaining there finning feebly. It was like a boil from hell! The spray was like that of two tour boat wakes colliding head on at full speed. At first gulls began excitedly circling, but after assessing the situation they suddenly zoomed off in fright!
Then the Clark Kent switch happened, I don't know where the phone booth was, and the former "school" Teacher grabbed his five loaded rods and began his octopus routine. A heave, a strike, another heave and the striper would come flying out over his shoulder! He grabbed another rod, heave, strike, heave...then another rod and another. Stripers were popping out of the water like giant pieces of popcorn, scales fluttered down like falling snow.
For some reason the picture that came to mind was that of Don Quixote fighting the windmill. I don't think Don Quixote won his battle and this battle soon took on a similar cast. The good stripers had fled, the bad ones, like demons possessed, now beached themselves in murderous pursuit of their now abandoned arch enemy ! Meanwhile, our champion, now out of ammunition from broken rods, shredded line and straightened hooks, was in trouble!
He could have fled up the hill and escaped. But no, instead he stayed, and now it was hand to hand combat!
Amazingly, though no longer smiling, he displayed no fear and in fact seemed to be enjoying the battle! It soon became evident, that to him, this was sport! This is what the Boil Master was designed for, he was merely using the talents he had.
Though he's quite nimble footed that didn't phase the stripers much. They backed off, regrouped and came again with a rush! Then I saw fear in his eyes, he turned to run but it was too late. They launched themselves into the air, aiming for his throat!
I tried my best to come to his aid, but whatever force was there, kept me from moving. And then,.... the final realization hit, and flooded me with shame. The answer to the enigma haunting my soul, which had lain obscured by dark clouds of doubt, arose! It had been right in front of me all of the time.. He wasn't slaying stripers just to keep the population in balance, he loved the stripers, He was only slaying the bad ones and protecting the good!
GOOD STRIPERS
BAD STRIPERS
GOOD STRIPERS
That's why sometimes he works Wahweap Bay and at others travels 20 miles up lake. It just depends upon where the bad stripers happen to be. Unselfishly he is dutifully performing in the tradition of other mystical Balancers in the eternal battle between good and evil. And according to my just prior observations, also leaving a legacy of love, at least to the devotees who listened.
As soon as this realization came thru it fogged up again. Almost instantly I became aware my presence would no longer be allowed; my time was up. I knew I had seen what I was supposed to see, learned what I was supposed to learn, there was nothing I could do to help, destiny would take its course, and I was to leave. So I did, sadly and heavy hearted..
I fretted all night long, partially out of concern, partially from guilt of not believing, yet with hopeful suspicion that those with unusual abilities had ways to escape hopeless situations.
The next morning I motored to Wahweap, docked, drove up the hill, bounded into his office and to my great joy found him engrossed in pouring over some calculations, apparently none the worse for wear. I think I startled him, as for an instant a strange look crossed his face, like one of a recognition he dare not acknowledge, "Good morning!" he cheerfully quipped, "Been out fishing?"
We talked about the weather and...Did you know that if you live in Page and have a son that plays varsity football, basketball and baseball and you go to all the away games it's a total of 45 games and the closest one is 130 miles away?...and stuff like that.
LETS DO OUR SHARE, LETS ALL GO OUT AND CATCH A MESS OF BAD STRIPERS.
There are some who have a more active sense of humor than others might suspect. However, when he agreed to pose he had no idea of what was coming.
By Joel T