Decades ago, when I was about 9 or 10 years old, I remember paging through one of the outdoor magazines and suddenly finding myself staring at the "coolest" looking trout I had ever seen. I had caught a fair number of trout, and of course in my mind at that time I was a "seasoned angler", but the sight of that Golden lit me on fire. So much so that I can still remember the moment. I wanted one, and I wanted one bad. They still hold some mystique for me that I can't explain. Later, learning that they are generally not that easy to get to only made me want to carve that notch even more. Yet, nearly twenty five years later, in 2012, I still hadn't caught one. And it wasn't for lack of trying. I trekked into more than one high mountain lake that was "supposed" to contain Goldens, but never found them. Learning that I would be spending that summer in Idaho rekindled my urge to chase them again, having learned that Idaho is host to several high mountain lakes where Goldens do well.
After trying several times, with my wife and ten-month-old (in a backpack), to venture up into the high country to find 'Gold', we were turned back each time - either by snow or fallen trees blocking national forest roads, ice-covered lakes, etc. No dice. In researching locations, I found one that seemed very promising based upon its as-of-late historical stocking record of 3 inch fingerlings every third year: Baker Lake. Checking online, we discovered around the Fourth of July that the road to, and the trail to, Baker Lake were both clear. Also noted was the fact that the lake itself was labeled as "mostly free of ice". Yee-haw!
I remember thinking, as I consulted the map, that it seemed like a relatively short hike to a lake that was supposed to contain Goldens. Ironic, considering we had, as the summer wore on, decided that toting Warren along on all these prolonged-hike adventures wasn't really the best idea. Thus the hike itself wasn't an issue anymore. The trouble now was my distance from Baker Lake. Due to my work schedule and other summer family plans, I got the bright idea that I would drive to Baker Lake myself, fish a bit, and drive right back. However - from Payette, where we were staying, to Baker Lake, outside Ketchum, amounted to four and a half hours each way. :) Sure...it'd be worth it. After all, we're talking about Golden Trout, here....
The plan unraveled with me leaving the house around 1:45 AM. The first portion of this pilgrimage, as stated, required a drive of a little over four hours to Ketchum. After that, it was another 15 miles of state road 75, squinting through the bug-covered windshield in the 6 AM half-light at all the various signs pointing off into the National Park. Finally, I spotted the Forest Service sign in that familiar brown and white combination that noted the Baker Creek road. From there, it was another 9 miles of gravel road to the trailhead. It was a great feeling, winding up that mountain road, knowing I was driving toward something I had chased for so long. To some, it would be just another fish.... but for me... all the mornings spent in pre-dawn darkness...all the miles hiked...all the hours spent...all the sleep lost...chasing trout of all kinds....and here I was, just a short hop away from my own personal Trout Holy Grail... for me, it was a drive beyond description.
And then, upon reaching the parking lot, I hurriedly grabbed all my gear and then checked and rechecked all the pockets in the small daypack, trying to be sure that I wouldn't forget anything...as my timeline for this trip wouldn't really lend itself to hiking the trail twice. Eventually, I satisfied my own doubts, and I was on my way up the trail. To a lake that had Goldens in it... at least, was supposed to...as I said, I'd heard that before. But this felt different. I actually felt like I was hiking toward this goal I had set for myself so long ago. Elation is probably the best word. The anticipation of most anything is generally the best part, or at least often more exciting than the actual thing turns out to be. That moment when anything and everything is still possible. That is the moment I was in as I made my way up the trail. I hardly wanted to stop to even snap a picture, but I did anyway, just because.
And off I was, up to the lake. A short while later (felt like an age) I was close enough to see it. It stopped me. There I was, about to close in to casting distance of personal conquest. More pictures were hurriedly snapped - whether to preserve the moment, or subconsciously prolong my approach to the lake and the hour of truth. Likely a bit of both...
About this time, though I was observing no actual 'hatch', I was now close enough to see that there were rings from rising fish...everywhere. It was precisely then that I entered that crazy time that flyfishermen undergo, such as when they perfectly time an encounter with an incredible, indescribable hatch and they struggle to do simple things in their frenzy to 'get fishing'. Things like tying a simple knot you have tied a few hundred - no, a few thousand times - can't do it. When you finally do get it tied after a half-dozen shaky, bumbling attempts, you snip the tag end too close and cut your knot...gotta start again. A horde of mosquitoes a quarter mile wide has seemingly descended upon you, blackening the skies, and yet you can't take the time to swat a single one - because the most important thing in your universe right then is to get that DANG knot tied so you can FISH already..... but you can't. Because you are looking out onto the lake surface that is rippling with rises, slurps, and plops from hungry trout. Feeding trout. You can HEAR them feeding. Your fly should be out there by now, floating in that maelstrom of gluttony........It was about at this point in my intense concentration that my tunnel-vision silence was shattered by a frightening, very loud, extremely close, animal-created noise. I nearly jumped out of my skin, sure at that moment that Sasquatch WAS indeed VERY real, and was about to claim me as a victim. But, it was merely just the barking of a pair of Bull Mastiffs, (yes, really) lurking in the darkness under the trees they were tied to, where their owners' tents had gone unnoticed by me in my trout-induced stupor. The tents were a mere twenty five or thirty feet away, and I had not even seen them (or, unfortunately, the dogs). ...But I am pretty sure I could tell you the eye color of that last trout rising about 60 feet out...if you know what I mean...
Finally, the moment I was waiting for...I stepped to the water's edge, rod in hand, and I cast out into the minefield of rising trout. Surely, I thought, there were just under a thousand hungry Goldens just waiting to smash into it. And not more than about five or six seconds into the retrieve, something DID smash it...and it felt like a good one for the size fish I had expected. I thought immediately that it must be a hefty Golden...and I fought it in a rush of adrenaline, beached the fish at the water's edge, and saw...
A cutthroat. At least in part. Kind of an odd variation looking more like a Coastal Cutthroat or a rainbow than a Westslope...maybe a cross with rainbows?... That's my suggestion, as later in the morning I would land a rainbow. However, after that first fish, the rest of them would swim right by and not even give my offerings the decency of spooking. For a while, they acted like I didn't even exist, nor did anything I flung at them. I was still seeing great numbers of fish rising, and even seeing them cruising more and more as the sun inched up over the peaks behind me. Working my way counter clockwise around the lake moving towards the inlet, I changed to the Purple Prince first. A look here, a pause there...but nothing. Went to the PMD. Same same. Tried mosquitoes, mosquito emergers (after all, they were 'emerging' all around ME...) and terrestrials. Nothing more than a turn-around inspection at best. Then it occurred to me. (well, duh...) If I was casting to cruising, slashing, rising trout that were clearly taking the real counterparts of the offerings I was giving them...it had to be the leader. So, that was it. Wanting to immediately go all the way to test my theory, I bypassed the 6x in my box and tied on a mighty slim 7x tippet. Reaching into the fly box, I grabbed a San Juan worm (I know, I know - "Cheater!") and thought, "Now we'll see what's up..." Little did I know, they were about to show me. Once getting out enough line to work with, I patiently waited for the next cruiser to go by. Moments later, he came. When I saw him, some random thoughts came into my head... "A nice, fat-looking.....Brown Trout..?!?!?!.... Up here, at almost 9000 feet?....Nahhh..." Regardless of my thinking, I, as casually as I could, (he was only five feet off the bank) flipped the line and leader over and it lightly touched down. I was thinking how nicely the cast had panned out (surprised me) - when the fish interrupted me. He immediately and simultaneously saw, and then accelerated directly to the worm....and SMASHED it. In my heightened state, I promptly set the hook. Too hard. Pop! went the 7x (2 lb. test) leader. Off swam the trout. With my worm - visible - outside his jaw. Who showed who. But, after the cursing at myself, I dove right into the fly box again, and with hope this time. I selected an Olive Prince Nymph this go around.
This proved to be a good decision. Moving along the shore, it wasn't long until a second cutthroat was landed. And then another. And then a rainbow. Things were heating up, but I still hadn't seen a fish cruising that I thought was a Golden. I was, however, getting close to where the loose shale would prevent me from getting any further around the lake. Suddenly, I saw another trout that very much looked like a brown. The water was too clear to second guess it. I flung out the prince, and I got a turn towards it, but nothing more. As the fish stayed in the immediate area, I got another chance quickly, but with the same result. Keeping one eye on him, I opened the fly box again and tied on a new wet fly I had not yet tried. Next time he passed through, I roll-casted out about 10 feet in front of him. With one flick of the tail, he closed the distance and engulfed the fly. Grinning to myself, I fought the fish, remembering this time to take it easy. The leader held accordingly, and I got a little bit of vindication: It WAS a brownie. I snapped a few pictures while I steered him in with the other hand:
Though far from my first brown trout, that fish can take his place as my first ever "Alpine" Brown Trout :)
Excited about landing the brownie, and nailing the hat trick, I next turned to the task still at hand. The task that led me to drive for nine hours in order to fish for 3. The task that had been bouncing around in my mind for 25 years. I needed to make this trip worth it. I moved farther along the shore after the brown had spooked the others in the vicinity for a bit. After spotting and landing several more cutthroats, I rounded the 'last corner' of the lake. I found the very last grass clump before the near-vertical shale bank which went about a third of the way around the lake, and I parked my gear above a rock up on the bank behind me, hoping it would stay put. And I just watched. And as my eyes drifted from one cruiser to the next, I eventually saw it. Or rather, THEM. Those reddish-looking fish down there in the gin clear water - those just HAD to be Goldens. Once again elated, I sent a roll cast out for their inspection. There were three or four, and they were circling, almost territorially, yet still feeding. Just not on my fly. After a few more refusals, I decided another change-up was in order. I felt sure it wasn't the leader anymore, due to the good run of other fish I had just experienced - it had to be the fly. I decided to go back to the mosquito emerger again. The next Golden came from my left, slowly wagging his tail as he approached. For fear of hanging up in the brush at my back, I roll-casted again, the fly landing lightly about 15 feet in front of him at his 2 O' clock. I held my breath. He saw it. Slowly adjusted his course to come take a closer look. I saw him slow almost to a complete stop as he descended down to where the fly had sunk to...and then, as I nearly choked on the tension...he twisted and grabbed the fly, starting off with it. I set the hook and was immediately greeted with two spectacular catapulting leaps as he burst through the surface, and then tried to bore down. By now, I had him onto the reel and fought the fish in a mixture of exhilaration and anxiety. Did I tie a good knot?...is he hooked well?....will the leader hold?.....Holy Crap, this is it!!! I then realized that the camera was well out of reach, up on the gravel behind me where the trail came out, and so I quickly pulled out my phone. I snapped one pic of him as SOON as he made it to my left hand:
Realizing the sun was not very favorable for that shot, I removed the fly and turned, so that the light would accent the vibrant colors on his side. I could not believe I was finally holding a Golden in my hand as I took a second picture:
I dropped the phone and just stared at him, for maybe 10 seconds, maybe fifteen...not sure. Every memory I had ever had of chasing these fish, of trying and failing, of the very point when I made the decision that this was something I just HAD to do...they all came back in a flood, and I was struck. And then the fish started to twitch, snapping me out of my reverie, reminding me that this was a wild fish whose well being I was presently responsible for, and he was no longer a mythical beast. Without thinking about how much I really wanted to hold on longer, I quickly turned and slid the nose of the fish into the lake, and gave him a gentle shove. His tail flicked against my hand with an audibly wet 'thwop', and then he was gone. Seemingly, so was every other fish in the area. Sitting back down, I picked up my phone and opened up the pictures I had taken and just stared. Reflected back on a whole heap of memories made in all of the places fishing rods have brought me, and I can say this. It was, up to that point, the greatest moment I can ever remember experiencing with a fishing rod in my hand. Above and beyond many others that I can remember, this is one fish I will never, ever forget. I grabbed my gear and started the walk back around the lake to intersect the trail, grinning ear to ear...and, for the moment...about 25 years younger...
***Adapted from a post one of my blogs, http://lofspecieslist.blogspot.com/
