Striking Gold, The Gallery

The gallery of pictures from the Golden Trout backcountry trip are posted to the gallery section. There's far too many pictures, but I guarantee hope you'll like at least a third of them.

Clicky the picture for the gallery link.

Most of them are not this good.

Striking Gold, All Good Things Must Come to an End

Seems like every time I looked, this was what I saw. It wasn’t without hesitation that we arose on day 3 of the trip, the sluggishness was caused, not by aching bones and muscles (the trip wasn’t grueling), but by the knowledge that today was our last real day. The last full day we would have in the wilderness. We stayed in our sleeping bags, awake, until the morning sun had risen high enough to bask our campsite in warmth (thankfully, the sky was free of peaks and ridges to the East, so this happened acceptably early). We fired up the Jetboil and made quick work of having breakfast, for we had decided this day to hike down to the lowest lake in the basin, with hopes of finding some larger specimens.

After a short hike we arrived at our destination to find the morning rise underway and made our way to the small portion of the shoreline where access is unrestricted by the marshland that surrounds the majority of the shoreline. Rob’s ever-growing skill set seemed to increase by leaps and bounds overnight – where he’d struggled to get hooksets, maintain tension, and land the fish the night prior, this day he skillfully landed fish after fish, and in fact, caught all of the largest fish of the trip.

A healthy specimen from the lower lake. Not the typical look of a Golden. Some will blame this on some genetic pollution from rainbows, I'm more incluned to believe its natural color variations. Fishing at the lowest lake that morning was everything it promised to be, good numbers of fish in the 8-10” range, with a few bonus specimens reaching 12-13”. Amazing, to me, has always been the variety of colors displayed by trout, within the same population and watershed. Some of the trout were reminiscent of “Silver Phase” Goldens, which I have only ever seen described in Ralph Cutter’s Book, while others were as vibrantly colored as the typical stream golden.

As the morning rise drew down, the fishing slowed in the easy access areas, they were on to us.  It seemed the cruising fish were now perpetually 10 feet outside of casting range, every damn time. So with few options at our disposal, Robert and I removed boots and socks, and allowed our feet to slip into the icy waters, wading the weed line in hopes of finding more gullible trout. And for a couple hours it worked. Thankfully, the icy chill of the water took the edge off the stabbing pain of sharp granite on bare feet, and we were able to entice a few more of our finned friends before the ache of the cold got the better of us.

Wading does have its benefits. Benefit.

As the fishing finally slowed further and our stomachs begged for lunch, we made the hike back to camp, with the intention of stopping at the creek for a quick shot at the big fish I had spotted in there the day prior. As I approached the lair of the fish, we caught a glimpse of a doe with two fawns, and attempts to get serviceable pictures of them resulted in the total loss of stealth on the creek fish. Trout fishermen always remark that it’s the places we go to catch trout, the surroundings, and the wildlife, which makes trout fishing so special - I couldn't agree more. The few minutes we spent observing the deer were an exciting distraction from the fish - even if I wouldn't ever get another shot at him. 

 We'll see you again later.

The original plan was to move camp to an adjacent drainage for the final evening, but the great success of the morning on the lowest lake left us clamoring for an evening session in the same location. We compromised and decided upon a day-hike to the adjacent basin. A couple miles of hiking through a granite boulderfield, punctuated by occasional ancient Foxtail Pines, and we arrived at a lake, roughly, in the middle of the drainage.

Foxtail pines are the "Clint Eastwood" of trees. Old, but tough as nails. They are closely related to Bristlecone Pines, and reach similar ages. Reeds lined the banks of this lake as well. It didn't take long to find more Golden Trout, each one a seemingly exact copy of the others in this lake. The outlet stream proved interesting, while challenging. At just about two and a half feet wide, lined with tall grass on both sides, the creek required a precise cast to just land the fly in the water, the wind added challenge, and the nearly imperceptible current meant the fish were more than just spooky, they were even more paranoid than the Goldens from the meadow creeks the day earlier. Nonetheless, we each captured a few, relishing the challenge with each hookset.

Golden trout seem so gaudy in coloration out of the water, but in their natural environment, their markings seem perfectly appropriate. The requisite Adipose fin, basking in the alpenglow. As the afternoon continued, we were never more aware that we had made the right call - leave camp where it is. The outlet stream we had been following disappeared under a boulderfield(which looked like no fun at all to reach the next lake down), following the inlet stream instead lead us to a beautiful lake, but despite looking fishy, it yielded only one small Golden between us. We can blame the harsh afternoon sun, the part of the lake we fished, or just the lake itself, but we were glad to be back on the trail heading to the basin around our campsite.

An interesting thing happens to the flyfisherman following success in one location. You can call it greed, confidence, addiction… call it what you want, but we always want to return… to skip the learning curve and head straight to the great success. And following dinner, our plan was to do exactly that.

For the most part, though we failed to capture the larger specimens we’d come to expect, the evening rise provided steady action to keep our attention until the Doe we’d spotted along the treeline earlier in the day with fawns, began grazing the meadow adjacent the lake. With the moon slipping through the alpenglow, we spent the last moments of light stalking the doe as she ate. I was able to get within 15 feet two flyrods of the creature, snapping flash photos until my SLR, again, feigned a dead battery.

That's a lot of Deer-Hair Caddis.

We would make one final stop at the lowest lake on the way out in the morning, but the morning rise was only a fraction of what we had seen the morning prior… and following a half-hearted attempt at some last captures, we resigned to the trail, covering the requisite 5 miles and arriving to the car in good enough time to make it home for dinner.

Pure Relaxation. It can't last forever.

 I find myself trying to include more pictures than the prose(or the formatting) can justify, as the Sierra is magnificent beyond words. As such, a photo gallery will be forthcoming.