City Dad
06-27-2007, 12:22 AM
“When Alexander saw the breadth of his domain, he wept for there were no more worlds to conquer.�
A Very Wise, Ancient Guy , Possibly Greek.
A couple of months ago I received an email from a friend. In it he put forward a simple proposition which was, more or less, this; “Hey guys, it’s gonna be summer soon, so why don’t we take and haul our old, sedentary arses ten-thousand feet up into the Sierras and do some fly fishing?� It was a plan to which I couldn’t respond “Dude, I am so there!� fast enough.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I usually try to avoid pain and discomfort in any amount at all cost and the thought of lugging fifty pounds of gear on my back deep into the John Muir wilderness simply made my @#$@% pucker… but the beautiful idea of fishing “up there� where I had never been before, the beguiling notion of casting on a pristine mountain lake to a species, Golden Trout, which I had only seen in pictures – that dream was as irresistible to me as kitten meat to a coyote.
We pulled into Glacier Lodge Friday evening at about four pm. It’s a nice place http://www.sonic.net/~kwofford/glacier-lodge/index.htm. There is a stocked fishing pond at the center of the property and Big Pine creek rushes past just a few yards down hill. We met Kathy the owner operator. A nice gal, she cooked us an unspeakably good dinner of hamburgers and beans and advised us of the secret locations to which the DFG tankers made their visits.
After dinner, I rigged up my creek-sized two-weight with a Sierra Bright Dot, slipped on a pair of sandals and made for the creek. On every previous visit to these mountains my first evening of angling has been unwaveringly disastrous – altitude sickness, shredded waders, shattered rod tips - all manner of misfortune seemed to visit me in the opening acts of each adventure – this outing proved no different. Before a single cast had hit the water I’d lost two Bright Dots to the Big Pines, torn the soles off of both sandals and dropped a fly box into the drink.
After a stumbling sprint downstream to rescue my caddis imitations from a journey to the sea, I rested hands-on-knees, panting, dripping sweat and re-asessed. My Tevas flapped uselessly around my calves, Big Pine creek coursed by impervious to my designs and in a brief moment of clarity I glimpsed the future uncoiling before my eyes. In it a river of days and seasons and dreams of First Nights flowed over the rocks of the basement of time. I foresaw the sweet, endless anticipation of inaugural casts to undiscovered lies stretching out to the horizon and felt the undeniable, irresistible pull of new mysteries drawing me back into the shadowed canyons and towering peaks as the years churned by in a torrent of memories yet to be. I also felt a stabbing pain in my lower abdomen from gracelessly straddling a log jam and decided to quit while I could still shuffle.
The next morning we were up bright and early and at the trailhead before seven am. Our plan was to hike to Black Lake, set up a base camp and from there chose a few of the many surrounding waters to explore. As this is a fishing forum I will skip the details and simply say that the climb from the trailhead to Black Lake was unpleasant. Andrew and I are alike in that we both tend to react to unpleasantness with attempts at humor. However, we learned on this trek is that it is probably not possible to mitigate certain things in life which suck – like, for instance, a gain in altitude of five thousand feet over the span of five miles - with laughter. A sucky hike still sucks even though you are laughing and all that the laughter really does is rob your muscles of the oxygen they are screaming out for to finish the sucky hike that you started thus making the sucky hike suck more and suck longer.
Here is Andrew about a mile in. Did I mention the hike sucked?
http://i205.photobucket.com/albums/bb225/timmeinhart/02muir.jpg
The first falls. Impressive, but nowhere near the summit.
http://i205.photobucket.com/albums/bb225/timmeinhart/03muir.jpg
Hey, didn’t John Muir sing "Aspen Glow?"
http://i205.photobucket.com/albums/bb225/timmeinhart/01muir.jpg
Black Lake was a welcome sight. To fully appreciate it’s beauty, try doing nine-hundred thousand squats with your windpipe half blocked off, then look at the picture.
http://i205.photobucket.com/albums/bb225/timmeinhart/01black.jpg
We had the lake to ourselves which was nice because this spot seemed to be the only level patch of terrain in the whole of the Eastern Sierras. If you were to make up a description of the perfect camp sight, you wildest imagination could not conjure a more perfect spot than that which we pitched out tent upon – flat as a pool table, twelve paces from the shore and, as God is my witness, forty yards from a stacked-rock toilet (PM me for details on how they did it if you want!)
http://i205.photobucket.com/albums/bb225/timmeinhart/camp.jpg
Upon closer inspection we noticed rises everywhere. We could hear every single one.
http://i205.photobucket.com/albums/bb225/timmeinhart/day2blk.jpg
It was a bit windy, the bank somewhat brushy, but a decent roll cast got your fly into the zone and if you waited a few minutes the gusts would to calm and you could squeeze back-cast between the branches and cover most of the water near shore.
http://i205.photobucket.com/albums/bb225/timmeinhart/03black.jpg
But we found that getting a cast out was only half the battle. On the water floated a blanket of gnat-looking bugs the size of salt grains. Using my grade school logic, I tied on the smallest flies I had – size 20 Griffiths Gnat. My offerings were roughly five times the size of the naturals and thoroughly ignored.
Andy, being the beauty and the brains of our operation went the opposite direction. He tied on a size 12 black ant with an enormous hunter-orange tag… and then as they say, it was on.
http://i205.photobucket.com/albums/bb225/timmeinhart/03trout.jpg
Not leviathans, but easy on the eyes and they fight like hell.
http://i205.photobucket.com/albums/bb225/timmeinhart/05trout.jpg
It wasn’t long before my ant was shredded. I tied on one of these and skated it across the surface. That woke up a few rainbows in addition to countless dozens of brookies.
http://i205.photobucket.com/albums/bb225/timmeinhart/01fly.jpg
Hey, what’s wrong with that fishes tale? And why isn’t it’s skin grey? Stupid wild trout!
http://i205.photobucket.com/albums/bb225/timmeinhart/04trout.jpg
The fish where everywhere, but they seemed to be really concentrated around the fallen, water-logged trees.
http://i205.photobucket.com/albums/bb225/timmeinhart/02trout.jpg
Out of curiosity I tied on a yellow Humpy. The square tails liked that too - as did the foot-long brown trout which inhaled my fly nearly at my feet. At first I thought I’d hooked a big female brookie but when the fish came to hand I saw the white mouth and blue halos. At the time I was standing on the exposed half of a sunken stump. It was all I could do to grab the forceps and remove the hook, so no picture.
That night we swapped stories as we boiled water and gnawed Logan bread. The walk in had been forgotten. Andrew had landed brook trout, rainbow trout and two goldens. I had managed the brook trout and the rainbows and one brown. Andy pointed out that with the unlikely later catch I was one Salmo aguabonita shy of the hallowed "Sierra Slam," four species in twenty-four hours. The no-hitter of fly fishing. "Clearly," I thought to myself "I am now a man of destiny!"
The next morning we were up with the sun and climbing cross-country to Summit Lake. We had heard it was home to some whopper golden trout. The idea of completing my Slam with a trophy drove my still wobbling legs. In no more than an hour we had crested the ridge separating Black and Summit and were confronted with this vista.
http://i205.photobucket.com/albums/bb225/timmeinhart/01summ.jpg
It’s okay, I guess… if you like this sort of profound natural splendor.
We fished the lake an hour-and-a-half or so with nary a nibble. The sun was still climbing when I resolved to place one more cast atop the biggest sunken log I could find before calling it quits and heading out for other venues. The fly landed with a plop. I twitched the rod tip once and the yellow humpy disappeared in flash and a swirl. My rod doubled over as the drag squealed. A bolt of yellow and red shot somersaulting into the air. Then the fish then headed toward me, suddenly thought better of it and head back out to deep water, peeling off line as she went. When that didn’t free her she erupted again and landed with a splash that turned Andrews head.
http://i205.photobucket.com/albums/bb225/timmeinhart/GOLDEN.jpg
For some stange reason I will never comprehend the line didn't break, knots didn't slip, the hook remaind at the tip of the ever-so-kyping jaw and this specimen slid into my hand. “Beautiful� he said. “First golden� I said then added “First Slam.� “Well..� said Andy in tone reserved for TV doctor breaking bad news. “I think that’s a hybrid… you know, a cross between a rainbow and a golden. They do that a lot.�
If I am to award myself something of such gravity as a Sierra Slam, it has to be indisputable. I fished for another half hour with no luck. It gradually became obvious that if I was going to complete my mission I’d have to test other waters.
A short descent brought us to Lake Four, a gin-clear sparkling sister to Black and Summit. This was, in my opinion, the best of the three. The fish were bigger on average and just finicky enough to make things interesting. They were just as likely to paddle casually up to you fly, examine it for a moment, then slide back into the depths as they were to charge @#@#@s out and hammer the thing.
http://i205.photobucket.com/albums/bb225/timmeinhart/01trout.jpg
http://i205.photobucket.com/albums/bb225/timmeinhart/03trout.jpg
We fished Fourth hardest of all. I just knew that the next cast would fool one of those fire-bellied trout, but it never did, nor did the one after that or the one after that. I spent the last hours of that day watching the moon rise.
http://i205.photobucket.com/albums/bb225/timmeinhart/02black.jpg
In the morning, before packing up, I walked back to the shore. The goldens, brookies, rainbows and at least one brown were all feeding. It looked and sounded like a rain storm beginning.
http://i205.photobucket.com/albums/bb225/timmeinhart/rain.jpg
In a band of sunlit water near the bank I noticed a shape glide to the surface. A moth of some kind had fallen on the water. As the insect disappeared, I thought I saw golden flanks and a crimson belly swallow it up. My rod was still rigged up. I watched the shape as it lazily zigzagged and circled a mere yard from my feet. I stood looking as the fish moved down the bank and out of sight then I truned, walked back to camp and began loading my gear. Maybe that fish really was a Golden. Maybe it wasn’t. I’ll just have to come back again to find out, won't I?
A Very Wise, Ancient Guy , Possibly Greek.
A couple of months ago I received an email from a friend. In it he put forward a simple proposition which was, more or less, this; “Hey guys, it’s gonna be summer soon, so why don’t we take and haul our old, sedentary arses ten-thousand feet up into the Sierras and do some fly fishing?� It was a plan to which I couldn’t respond “Dude, I am so there!� fast enough.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I usually try to avoid pain and discomfort in any amount at all cost and the thought of lugging fifty pounds of gear on my back deep into the John Muir wilderness simply made my @#$@% pucker… but the beautiful idea of fishing “up there� where I had never been before, the beguiling notion of casting on a pristine mountain lake to a species, Golden Trout, which I had only seen in pictures – that dream was as irresistible to me as kitten meat to a coyote.
We pulled into Glacier Lodge Friday evening at about four pm. It’s a nice place http://www.sonic.net/~kwofford/glacier-lodge/index.htm. There is a stocked fishing pond at the center of the property and Big Pine creek rushes past just a few yards down hill. We met Kathy the owner operator. A nice gal, she cooked us an unspeakably good dinner of hamburgers and beans and advised us of the secret locations to which the DFG tankers made their visits.
After dinner, I rigged up my creek-sized two-weight with a Sierra Bright Dot, slipped on a pair of sandals and made for the creek. On every previous visit to these mountains my first evening of angling has been unwaveringly disastrous – altitude sickness, shredded waders, shattered rod tips - all manner of misfortune seemed to visit me in the opening acts of each adventure – this outing proved no different. Before a single cast had hit the water I’d lost two Bright Dots to the Big Pines, torn the soles off of both sandals and dropped a fly box into the drink.
After a stumbling sprint downstream to rescue my caddis imitations from a journey to the sea, I rested hands-on-knees, panting, dripping sweat and re-asessed. My Tevas flapped uselessly around my calves, Big Pine creek coursed by impervious to my designs and in a brief moment of clarity I glimpsed the future uncoiling before my eyes. In it a river of days and seasons and dreams of First Nights flowed over the rocks of the basement of time. I foresaw the sweet, endless anticipation of inaugural casts to undiscovered lies stretching out to the horizon and felt the undeniable, irresistible pull of new mysteries drawing me back into the shadowed canyons and towering peaks as the years churned by in a torrent of memories yet to be. I also felt a stabbing pain in my lower abdomen from gracelessly straddling a log jam and decided to quit while I could still shuffle.
The next morning we were up bright and early and at the trailhead before seven am. Our plan was to hike to Black Lake, set up a base camp and from there chose a few of the many surrounding waters to explore. As this is a fishing forum I will skip the details and simply say that the climb from the trailhead to Black Lake was unpleasant. Andrew and I are alike in that we both tend to react to unpleasantness with attempts at humor. However, we learned on this trek is that it is probably not possible to mitigate certain things in life which suck – like, for instance, a gain in altitude of five thousand feet over the span of five miles - with laughter. A sucky hike still sucks even though you are laughing and all that the laughter really does is rob your muscles of the oxygen they are screaming out for to finish the sucky hike that you started thus making the sucky hike suck more and suck longer.
Here is Andrew about a mile in. Did I mention the hike sucked?
http://i205.photobucket.com/albums/bb225/timmeinhart/02muir.jpg
The first falls. Impressive, but nowhere near the summit.
http://i205.photobucket.com/albums/bb225/timmeinhart/03muir.jpg
Hey, didn’t John Muir sing "Aspen Glow?"
http://i205.photobucket.com/albums/bb225/timmeinhart/01muir.jpg
Black Lake was a welcome sight. To fully appreciate it’s beauty, try doing nine-hundred thousand squats with your windpipe half blocked off, then look at the picture.
http://i205.photobucket.com/albums/bb225/timmeinhart/01black.jpg
We had the lake to ourselves which was nice because this spot seemed to be the only level patch of terrain in the whole of the Eastern Sierras. If you were to make up a description of the perfect camp sight, you wildest imagination could not conjure a more perfect spot than that which we pitched out tent upon – flat as a pool table, twelve paces from the shore and, as God is my witness, forty yards from a stacked-rock toilet (PM me for details on how they did it if you want!)
http://i205.photobucket.com/albums/bb225/timmeinhart/camp.jpg
Upon closer inspection we noticed rises everywhere. We could hear every single one.
http://i205.photobucket.com/albums/bb225/timmeinhart/day2blk.jpg
It was a bit windy, the bank somewhat brushy, but a decent roll cast got your fly into the zone and if you waited a few minutes the gusts would to calm and you could squeeze back-cast between the branches and cover most of the water near shore.
http://i205.photobucket.com/albums/bb225/timmeinhart/03black.jpg
But we found that getting a cast out was only half the battle. On the water floated a blanket of gnat-looking bugs the size of salt grains. Using my grade school logic, I tied on the smallest flies I had – size 20 Griffiths Gnat. My offerings were roughly five times the size of the naturals and thoroughly ignored.
Andy, being the beauty and the brains of our operation went the opposite direction. He tied on a size 12 black ant with an enormous hunter-orange tag… and then as they say, it was on.
http://i205.photobucket.com/albums/bb225/timmeinhart/03trout.jpg
Not leviathans, but easy on the eyes and they fight like hell.
http://i205.photobucket.com/albums/bb225/timmeinhart/05trout.jpg
It wasn’t long before my ant was shredded. I tied on one of these and skated it across the surface. That woke up a few rainbows in addition to countless dozens of brookies.
http://i205.photobucket.com/albums/bb225/timmeinhart/01fly.jpg
Hey, what’s wrong with that fishes tale? And why isn’t it’s skin grey? Stupid wild trout!
http://i205.photobucket.com/albums/bb225/timmeinhart/04trout.jpg
The fish where everywhere, but they seemed to be really concentrated around the fallen, water-logged trees.
http://i205.photobucket.com/albums/bb225/timmeinhart/02trout.jpg
Out of curiosity I tied on a yellow Humpy. The square tails liked that too - as did the foot-long brown trout which inhaled my fly nearly at my feet. At first I thought I’d hooked a big female brookie but when the fish came to hand I saw the white mouth and blue halos. At the time I was standing on the exposed half of a sunken stump. It was all I could do to grab the forceps and remove the hook, so no picture.
That night we swapped stories as we boiled water and gnawed Logan bread. The walk in had been forgotten. Andrew had landed brook trout, rainbow trout and two goldens. I had managed the brook trout and the rainbows and one brown. Andy pointed out that with the unlikely later catch I was one Salmo aguabonita shy of the hallowed "Sierra Slam," four species in twenty-four hours. The no-hitter of fly fishing. "Clearly," I thought to myself "I am now a man of destiny!"
The next morning we were up with the sun and climbing cross-country to Summit Lake. We had heard it was home to some whopper golden trout. The idea of completing my Slam with a trophy drove my still wobbling legs. In no more than an hour we had crested the ridge separating Black and Summit and were confronted with this vista.
http://i205.photobucket.com/albums/bb225/timmeinhart/01summ.jpg
It’s okay, I guess… if you like this sort of profound natural splendor.
We fished the lake an hour-and-a-half or so with nary a nibble. The sun was still climbing when I resolved to place one more cast atop the biggest sunken log I could find before calling it quits and heading out for other venues. The fly landed with a plop. I twitched the rod tip once and the yellow humpy disappeared in flash and a swirl. My rod doubled over as the drag squealed. A bolt of yellow and red shot somersaulting into the air. Then the fish then headed toward me, suddenly thought better of it and head back out to deep water, peeling off line as she went. When that didn’t free her she erupted again and landed with a splash that turned Andrews head.
http://i205.photobucket.com/albums/bb225/timmeinhart/GOLDEN.jpg
For some stange reason I will never comprehend the line didn't break, knots didn't slip, the hook remaind at the tip of the ever-so-kyping jaw and this specimen slid into my hand. “Beautiful� he said. “First golden� I said then added “First Slam.� “Well..� said Andy in tone reserved for TV doctor breaking bad news. “I think that’s a hybrid… you know, a cross between a rainbow and a golden. They do that a lot.�
If I am to award myself something of such gravity as a Sierra Slam, it has to be indisputable. I fished for another half hour with no luck. It gradually became obvious that if I was going to complete my mission I’d have to test other waters.
A short descent brought us to Lake Four, a gin-clear sparkling sister to Black and Summit. This was, in my opinion, the best of the three. The fish were bigger on average and just finicky enough to make things interesting. They were just as likely to paddle casually up to you fly, examine it for a moment, then slide back into the depths as they were to charge @#@#@s out and hammer the thing.
http://i205.photobucket.com/albums/bb225/timmeinhart/01trout.jpg
http://i205.photobucket.com/albums/bb225/timmeinhart/03trout.jpg
We fished Fourth hardest of all. I just knew that the next cast would fool one of those fire-bellied trout, but it never did, nor did the one after that or the one after that. I spent the last hours of that day watching the moon rise.
http://i205.photobucket.com/albums/bb225/timmeinhart/02black.jpg
In the morning, before packing up, I walked back to the shore. The goldens, brookies, rainbows and at least one brown were all feeding. It looked and sounded like a rain storm beginning.
http://i205.photobucket.com/albums/bb225/timmeinhart/rain.jpg
In a band of sunlit water near the bank I noticed a shape glide to the surface. A moth of some kind had fallen on the water. As the insect disappeared, I thought I saw golden flanks and a crimson belly swallow it up. My rod was still rigged up. I watched the shape as it lazily zigzagged and circled a mere yard from my feet. I stood looking as the fish moved down the bank and out of sight then I truned, walked back to camp and began loading my gear. Maybe that fish really was a Golden. Maybe it wasn’t. I’ll just have to come back again to find out, won't I?