black melancholy

Has a man ever caught fish on high mountains? And even though what I want and do up here be folly, it is still better than if I became solemn down below..
Bite, my fishing rod, into the belly of all black melancholy! 

- Nietzsche

Built up a new rod, found an old reel to go with it, and went fishing as recommended. 

The insect tracks on old wood always make me think of brook trout backs, and wonder in what language these are written and how to read them. 
Brook trout back for comparison. 

This first day was short, just 3 miles and 1500 feet climbing. I'd reserved a campsite in March for September by waiting at 7:59am with my finger on the mouse button.. and missed the site I wanted. I've bought a gaming mouse with faster response, for next year's campsite competition.  

Meantime there was an unexpected day off from work, took the Friday and this unpopular campsite was still available for the night.

Started up the creek which was a little small but these cutts get in everywhere. There was one in fact, a whole 6", still a good start.

Posed the rod above the creek of its first fish, always an important moment.
The ritual is done to put soul into the tool, called “Nyu-kon” in Japanese. The ritual of "nyu-kon" is written "入魂” in kanji.

Stopped at the cascade, being old and unwilling to clamber up the waterfall.

Took 15 minutes to get down to the river, hoped for a confluence pool, instead it was the same cascade down steep rocks into a tangle of boulders. The river isn't a lot bigger than the creek. Walked down for 30min and maybe half a mile, that's enough fishing time to get me back to camp for tea and contemplation.

This was the best-looking run, did yield up a fish.

Further up was the champion of pools, unlikely as it looks. There was a big trout holding at the bottom, maybe two feet down, all 11 inches of him. He was moving in the current so I believed him to be feeding and persuadable. Probably a nymph would have been better. He looked up at the #16 Royal Coachman while two other smaller fish took it. Switched to an ant, another two smaller fish. The greenback cutt population is absolutely thriving in here, lots of fish of all size classes up to the big ones at 11 to 12".

The cutthroat look so bright in the hand, then look at them in the water, perfectly adapted to the colors. 

The new rod is perfect, cast accurately with not much more than the leader out, and easily reached 30ft on the longer runs. The line is a 3wt Hardy from the 80s, used it only a little back then before switching to a 5wt. It has some dirty little cracks in the finish which don't seem to affect the impeccable handling and shooting.

About half the cost of this build went into an agate-style stripping guide. It was worth it, enjoy seeing it on the rod every time.

Back in camp tired, cup of tea blended seamlessly into dinner while listening to the music of the wind and creek. Stumble into the woods to hide the bear barrel, then the deep dreamless sleep of extreme fatigue.

Morning in camp, packed up ready for a quick 4 miles up to the next camp on a lake. 

There it turned out I should have gotten up before the sun, as the best campsite was being settled into already. The other choices were #3 campsite with a fine view of the privy, #2 a long way up just below treeline. It was also the worst designated campsite I've seen in a lifetime of camps. I've had worse campsites on hunting trips when you just drop from exhaustion onto the nearest penitential bed of roots stones and/or tussocks, never seen an official campsite quite like this. My one-man tent is tiny, about the size of a luxury coffin, and it barely fit into the site. 

Never mind, going fishing now. Up to the end of the trail we go. 

Last year I came up here and failed to catch a fish, though a couple did come to look and spurned my flies. Fished several hours with my usual Royal Wulff, ant, etc with no response to anything. I watched a grasshopper blow along the lake, in fact I was walking along the shore shadowing it as surely something would rise to a live struggling hopper ? no. The plan was to cast my artificial hopper immediately upwind of any seen rise, no go. 

That decided me to fall back to the spinning outfit, brought as insurance. The line was an expensive Japanese-market 4lb monofilament, brought for maximum casting distance. Testing my knots revealed the line had degenerated to about a 2.5lb line, a bit light for even small trout. No other options so fished it anyway. The telescopic rod has a broken tip which is my own fool fault. Somewhere along the way I'd picked up the backpack with rod in side pocket and the telescopic tip had slipped out, snapped it.  Still no better option.. 

At the first point after a miserable rock scramble over large jagged scree, the minnow got walloped by a fat 17". It took some time to play on the light drag. Very happy. 

These are the fabulous legendary blue-backed bastards that we had caught 18 years ago. I took a lot of pictures as this might well be my last trip for them. My friend Ken who was with me all those years ago, now has a variety of health issues and he'll never fish here again. That's also why I brought the spin gear. 

Day made, went on fishing to see what happened. At a second point just a little further on, another 18". I was amazed. The point had yielded nothing but a skunk to all my flies, also the live hopper had drifted by only 10 yards or so nearer shore than where the fish took. 

Went on to furthest end, shade starting to come over, a few rises happening far out. Went back to fly fishing with a sinking line but it was a terrible line and could not cast it reliably.  No response to a different variety of flies.

Went back to the spinning outfit, ten minutes and and two more fish, 16" and then a normal-colored 18". 

Clearly they are finding something to eat that agrees with them, keeping them plump and sleek. Scuds ? What else is in an alpine lake at 11 500ft, with a permanent little glacier at the north face ? the lake keeps its mystery. 

My sense of balance has deteriorated significantly since age 60. Scrambling back over the scree was terrifying in prospect. Part of that is the sense up here of being very far away from anything human. It was a lot easier with both rods stowed in the backpack, leaving two hands free for hanging desperately onto the crags. Next time should there be one I'll bring climbing gloves.  Slowly and painfully down the hill back to my luxury coffin-size tent, shadows descending with me. 

The trick to this lake is depth and distance I think. All the fish were hooked far away, 30-40 yards, and after a 10 or 20 count to let the lure go deep. The Ryuki is a tiny dense lure that sinks extremely fast. My sinking shooting head was an attempt to replicate this with fly but. The deep fishing is unique in my experience of alpine lakes, typically the fish will cruise the shorelines and dropoffs, alert for any terrestrial that might blow in from the anabatic winds. 

In camp the rangers had recommended not cooking at the tent site due to wandering bears looking for calories. All of us were lined up along the lower lakeshore, Jetboil stoves going. I looked around and thought well this is ridiculous, took my plastic flask of Johnny Walker Black along to each neighbor in turn to offer them a drink. Neighbor #1 had a huge bear barrel, he said he was just starting into backpacking and didn't realize quite how much trouble the big barrel would be. It made a nice stove stand though. He was not yet born when I first visited this lake. Neighbor #2 was a couple from Washington state newly moved to CO. She had planned to do the trip solo. After listening to the elk bugle she was spooked and asked her husband to come with her for protection.. 

Next morning relaxed with the low stress fishing here on the lower lake, teeming with willing greenback cutthroats, readily rising to a Royal Coachman. Also lots of people, with three in camps and more day hikers showing up by 11 or so. 

Eventually had caught too many to think about, went back to camp and packed up. Looked around and decided on a nap. That was the best half hour of the last couple of years, lying in the sun listening to wind in the pines and chickadees talking among themselves. 

I'd say bury me here, except it don't matter where you bury me.