| western watershed romance |
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Doin' it - realization of one of my
daydreams. An
odyssey to experience in
person those mysterious, intimate highlands of Arizona, to see if the
photos of
their sylvan lushness I've imbibed, which so contrast the typical view
of
Arizona as nothing more than desert land, prove true.
They've allured me for so long.
A quick stop in the Hualapais, many days in
the Whites, then a day, a morning, an evening on the Colorado Plateau
near
Flagstaff at a reservoir rumored to house two of my daydream fishes -
walleye
and, better, northern pike. And
then a
quick stop in the mountains of my youth, those cradling Arrowhead.
With
so much death of late - my blood mother, my foster-mother, one of my
best
friends, (a real brother), another brother's mother, a good buddy from
Arrowhead days - and my own failing health, time for attempting all
potential,
all desire, has to be now. Too,
with so
much wasted in my own bloodlines, fuck, I gotta try to elevate that
genetic
quagmire to something more than stagnation and resignation and tragedy. And that little fire I
have burning,
insatiable, seemingly unique in my bloodlines, that refuses to allow me
to genuflect
to life's disappointments and failures by drowning myself in booze and
pills or
losing myself in distractions, delusions, monotony, routine. I still don't know how
that flame's fueled. And,
of course, the chance of transcendence,
which I experience nearly exclusively by water in coniferous mountains. That I can never get
enough of.
I
felt a few moments of that something,
that expansion into another dimension, yesterday.
Got here, the Hualapais, later than planned,
late afternoon, little light left to bag the main peak, but if I hauled
ass,
I'd a chance to complete the loop before nightfall.
Go for
it. So I
quickly laced boots and
donned pack and blasted up-trail.
More
strenuous than I thought (and what the map showed), and the exertion, I
so
welcomed it, its quieting of my mind's cacophony.
Trail was steeper than expected because, a
too-common occurrence when my vertigo's bad, I took the wrong fuckin'
turn. Nevertheless,
I topped a peak, Hayden,
only 25 feet lower than the Main Girl, and given its distance from my
camp was
shorter than to the Main Girl, I had enough light left on my return to
slow my
pace, to better absorb. And
then a few
times - resonance. When
the wind played
the aspen leaves just so, when I stood still at the edge of a fecund
pond,
montane twilight settling, that ineffable stillness when dusk settles
on
coniferous mountains, and the place and I became one and then more.
Quite
the contrast to the campground. It
sure
is domesticated - $20 for my lone night here, plastic shitter right by
my slot,
burly picnic table I write this on, obnoxiously loud neighbor replete
with
barking dog - as Kristen Hersh sings, "...I
said a nightmare, complete with barking dogs and coke machines..."
Reminds me of the
last "camp"
with my old man, Chris, in the Mammoth area, over 20 years ago, right
before I
killed that relationship. Fuckin'
guy
brought the entire kitchen, big box of pancake mix and rolls of paper
towels
and just a silly amount of utensils, Isuzu Trooper stuffed to the
ceiling, and
that for only a few days. Typical
American camping, especially when a thunderstorm hit so we opted to
dine in -
at Carl's Jr, of all places, which Chris was ecstatic about. That easy-food travesty
had an ad campaign
touting that eating its fuckin' food was what real men did. Chris did, but wasn't.
The
old man and coniferous mountains.
He'd
an affinity for 'em, akin to my blood mother's affection for big
redwoods,
though certainly not to the extent that I have.
The old man wouldn't've lived by Arrowhead, which required
a long
commute to work, had he not dug 'em.
He
harbored some fire to explore by foot and wheel - to his credit, he
cajoled me
into bagging Mt. Whitney in a day, and he boldly rumbled down some
gnarly dirt mountain
roads in his low-slung '77 Honda Accord.
We went on several car-camping trips to coniferous
mountains - Whiney
Portal, Big Sur, the South Fork Kern, Mammoth, the Twenty Lakes Basin,
the latter
three my ideas. But
very domesticated
camping - he relished the "camping" at Big Sur, the showers at
Whitney Portal, the fuckin' Carl's Jr. in Mammoth.
Too, Gawd, the volume of shit we took with us
- streamline materials to their minimum for living he - and his second
hoarding
wife who stuffed the car - did not do.
No
fisher or hunter desire existed in his blood - he couldn't fathom fish
as food,
had zero talent for catching 'em, and so usually just sat on shore and
read a
book while I casted away. Although
I
feel that he might've felt a release by shedding the unnecessary, maybe
even an
awakening, he was so submissive and scared that he just genuflected to
his
second wife, so resigned and scared that he slaved most of his waking
life at his
dull, predictable market job from adolescence 'til the end of his
working life. He
had a little fire, an inherent desire, but
he seemed not to realize it or feed it - took self-awareness and
self-integration, and he was real deficient in both.
He
could've blazed so many more trails, bagged so many more peaks than the
popular
one, for sure. He
didn't, so I will.
One
- I'm not quite the fisher I once was.
A
major goal this trip has been Apache trout, another expression of the
cold-water
little bug-eater. With
good water at
hand and plenty of light left in day after my hike, I rigged the rod
and
tried. I caught
'em, getting to hand
about six fish. But
I was so sloppy - many
errant casts, many snags, and, my biggest bane, many lost fish, and
those that
hit my hand didn't stay pegged long enough to photo.
Poor precision, slow reaction time - it's mainly
because of my balance problems. If
ya
can't do something well, that's a sign - ain't for you.
But I'm a fisher, and I always will be, and
even through the self-frustrations of yesterday, that fact pushed me
'til dusk
with the desire for a fish that would stay hooked long enough for the
camera. So what to
do? Move more
towards open water where precision
is less important, and maybe more towards bait-fishing.
Bigger water.
Besides, my history shows I've performed so very well in
small
water. Maybe
replacing the slow hardbait
rods with faster ones - I didn't stick, let alone land, any stripers
that
thumped the little rattlebait during the last Suisun
session.
Not
so the upper portion that flows through a vast meadow ensconced in a
prairie,
losing tribs and thus water going upstream, losing width and depth,
thereby winnowing
from creek to brook. I
hightailed it to
that section quickly after landing four consecutive browns in the creek
downstream
of the dam - gratifying, but not who I came for.
The brook was advertised as being
Apache-only. And in
a continuation, an
exacerbation of Tuesday, a worsening - fuck, I fished so bad. Many errant casts. But worse - I had good
approaches, proved by
so many strikes, but only about five stuck, and only two came to hand. I frequently had no idea
where my jig was;
I'd a tough time discerning snag from bite, and therefore was tardy
when
setting the hook. The
barbless hook was
largely to blame for losing the stuck fish; the disgraceful hooking
percentage
- that was me.
Afternoon
aging and disappointment mounting, and, fuck, I felt such despair. I am a fisher, but I felt
I just couldn't
fish brooks well anymore - I felt hopeless.
Frustrated, and the desire to smash the rod into a million
pieces
certainly bubbled forth. The
old man so
quickly flung wrenches when so frequently frustrated by fiddling with
cars. But I rather
easily quelled it, in
part by recalling I have fished beautifully a few times this year, with
the
surfperches and at Berryessa with sunnies and green basses, big water,
mainly
with soft stuff. Too,
I've actually been
quite effective with stripers - again with soft stuff.
I
left the rod in my ride after the brook failures even though I
backpacked along
the creek and knew I'd be perched along sexy water.
I remembered my lesson - if it ain't
live-or-die, take a little time to assess and adapt.
With the desire for an Apache well-shot still
burning, I realized I had to go to braid - I'd been fishing straight
mono the
entire trip. Too, I
had to break the
rules and fish a single barbed hook 'til getting the One, legal
consequences be
damned.
With
the West Fork Black River being a zoo in the morning already yesterday,
I was
anxious that my creek would be likewise, and that I'd have to compete
for a
campsite and untouched water. My
anxiety
was quickly quelled, though, when finding only a few cars parked at the
trailhead, and the people I saw - none were fisherpeople, let alone
fishers. Absence of
fisherpeople really not a surprise
because they're, in general, a lazy lot: a trail between a waterway and
parking
lot scares so many away. So
I hoofed
upstream hopefully, found the campsites likewise empty, and scored the
best of
so many wonderful temporary outdoor homes: on a grassy floodplain, away
from
the trail, singing creek at my side, plentiful firewood, fire ring, and
a
perfect fallen log for a bench. Threw
up
camp, reduced my pack to the bone for a fish hunt, took a deep breath,
and
pined for the place's energy to add to the fire I'd need to catch well
a
surprisingly fussy fish, as well as putting into practice the changes I
felt
were needed to improve hook-ups and landings: braid and outlaw barbed
single
hook.
It
worked. I wasn't
perfect - often I had
to dig my lure out of snags, and I wasn't always weasel-like when
sifting
through the willows and deadfall.
But
most snags were acceptable in that they occurred from an accurate,
precise cast
to likely holding water that was opaque and so veiled from vision
obstructions
below. And though I
wavered here and
there, tottering like a toddler, not once did I fall - quite the
accomplishment
given my vertigo. And
I caught
fish. Five hit hard
enough to stick, and
four of those hit my hand, including the King Apache Trout, who
might've hit a
foot - huge for this barely-creek.
And
he was the best fish I've caught all year.
He was buried in a deep, teardrop pool ringed with willow
roots,
sine-curve shape to the bed with the trough at the little falls at
pool's
beginning and the crest near the tailout.
Much rubble grading to cobbles serving as little pockets
for fish and
fish-food bugs alike. I'd
a good
approach - slow, smooth, concealed by thicker willows.
Accurate, precise flips of the jig, and
though no strikes, I felt a good fish had to be there, so I dissected
the damn
thing. And I was
right - a good fish,
too good not to utilize every option, chased my jig, but wouldn't
commit to
connection - just a breath away, far too far away.
I varied the jig's action from jerky to
bouncy to smooth, but none would quite get him to breathe that last
breath. I needed
another option. I'd
blown off many grasshoppers, the typical
yellow-and-black, it was afternoon, and it was blowin' - concurrences
that render
such a trout morsel a reasonable occurrence to land on the creek. So I pulled out my
black-yellow spinner,
flipped it to the tail, and out of the depths rose my fish, closing,
closer and
closer to my lure, and finally - he took that last breath that included
my hook. And he
stuck, and he stayed stuck 'til his
icy body was in my hand for a photo shoot to celebrate both his glory -
like so
many fishes, virtually none exist of Apaches showing fully the beauty
of the
fish held by a respectful fisher - and documentation of my return.
So
fuck me - still, I am fisher.
He
swam vigorously out of my hands.
I
fished about three-quarters of a mile of creek, and then I was back at
my camp,
late afternoon, four fish in hand, and four - unlike my younger years -
were
enough. Stinky and
dirty after four wild
days, and with a high sun still streaming heat down, I pined for a
little
cleansing baptism, but the wind - eh, an icy gale.
But fuck it.
I stripped and submerged in the icicle water, scrubbed
down, then dashed
out, and laid as flat as I could in the grass and underneath the wind. It worked, and I dried and
warmed quickly,
and aside from my dunk rendering me more presentable for my brief pause
in
domesticity later this morning, I got closer to Apache trout - I'd been
in
their water. A real
bath relative to the
dislocation of Big Sur's and Whitney Portal's shower stalls.
I'm
here to experience this place's expression of coniferous mountains. Across the arc of such
places I've dived
into, this one differs the most because the ocean's so far away. The temperature swings are
far greater - ain't
been a morning that I've woken to not find frozen ground (or frozen
water-bottle cap). And
the aridity. Was a
wet year here, like in California, so
the waterways are comparatively big for themselves and yet still very
small. The Black
"River" is a
smallish creek. The
East Fork Little
Colorado is a brook. The
West Fork Little
Colorado is borderline between brook and creek.
And in dry years, they all shrinking to brook or rill -
very little
space for a fish, and that space cluttered with lots of wood - a maze. And shallow enough for
birds to hunt. I
shockingly blew off several Great Blue
Herons - never seen 'em in high-elevation coniferous mountains. And the Apache trout
reflected this. Deeper-bodied
than other trouts - 'bows,
browns, goldies - giving them a better ability to maneuver through the
maze of
deadfall and rootstock. And
damn, they,
more than any other trout I've fished, refused to leave the wood. And timing.
Twice I fished the mornings, and both times I had one
follow and no
strikes. Just as I
began fishing
yesterday, the water was so cold on my foot it pained within only 30
seconds. But near
the end of my session,
I mostly waded, the water still cold but bearable.
And during both sessions, it was mid-afternoon
when the water went from ice to cold that the Apache trout got frisky. That's generally not the
case in waters closer to the coast where morning can not only be good but the best time to wet a
line. Much value
exists in that contrast, and I'm a
better fisher because of it.
Some
day that was, the old man's day. Made
it
more my day.
Clambered
out of the Wild that'd been my home for the last five days, having nice
conversations with two cats on the march out - one a fisher about
trout, other
a birder about birds. My
departure
timing couldn't've been better - I'd largely had the little place to
myself,
but as I hiked out at mid-morning, a zoo had erupted.
All, though, as usual in the Wild, were warm,
friendly. And
having achieved,
experienced all I desired, I could only toast that giving little area
of Momma
Earth with a slug of good bourbon.
Good
morning, and goodbye.
After
shoveling in a gluttonous greasy-spoon slop of flapjacks and biscuits
and gravy
in Eager, stomach nearly bursting, I drove to my next goal - a peak. Two ways up - one real
easy, smaller
elevation change, purported to be popular, well-delineated, and the
other more
obscure, bigger elevation change.
Being
a Saturday and wanting the connection between Momma Earth and I
unadulterated,
I of course chose the tougher trail.
It
was tougher than tough, though, since the trail really wasn't one -
USFS map
was epically inaccurate (FUCK the
government!), with both mileage to trailhead and path of
trail. I diligently
followed their narrative yet
found myself nearing the northern foot of the peak - map showed trail
ascending
the southwest aspect. Desperately
wanting this peak, and with clear skies and relatively open country
(from a wildfire
a dozen years ago) and so landmarks and sky-marks prominent, I blew off
the
trail and headed cross country. I
barely
made it. The
deadfall maze I had to
navigate was the lesser obstacle - the incredibly dense thickets of
sucker
aspen I had to battle through was the biggest war.
Close in combat, though, was steep sections
of sun-exposed blasted lava rock.
I had
to scramble - and scramble, not
hike
- to hit the ridge and the popular trail.
Nearly felt my hammies were gonna snap, that I'd not
enough juice to top
the ridge then the peak, although that was now the easier way out than
retracing my steps. But
I imagined She, voluptuous,
so alive, beckoning me to the top with promise of lust to love realized. And I fuckin' made it,
ascending the peak, exulting,
and I thanked Her.
I
strode the popular trail back down, then hiked another three miles on
dirt roads
back to my ride. Surprisingly,
soothingly
for me, the place was nearly deserted save a fat woman and a younger,
slender
man - American Indian or Hispanic - that I passed on the trail. That kind of woman I love
seeing on such a
trail, and though she was near breathless, she was still cheerful even
though
she and the fella still had a ways to the peak.
I hope they made it, too.
Evening
when I reached my ride, dinner time and desirous of an epic camp, I
drove
upslope to a promontory, a little flat, that provided an expansive,
uninterrupted view of the White Mountains, and serendipitously by a
little pond
fit for dish-washing. As
evening flowed across
the threshold of sunset into dusk, I was bathed in a sky light I don't
think
I've ever experienced. Billowing
streams
of clouds from the southwest, canary then tangerine then lavender to
mauve, all
while the sky hued from a baby blue to a glowing violet. Magic, enrapturing,
eternal, and feelingly
something more than just a vibrantly colorful, dynamic sky.
I've
definitely shifted towards domesticity the last two days after leaving
the Wild. Struck
west to Flagstaff, and just outside of
Flag, Upper Mary Reservoir, arriving early Sunday afternoon. Mary certainly grades from
wild to domesticated,
wavering around cultivated - though surrounded by stately ponderosa
pines, wild
groundsel and Indian paintbrush, wild fish swimming within, she also
has fuckin'
developed campgrounds (with showers!), big parking lots, and a city
just down
the road, and, regrettably, the typical disrespectful trash all over -
fuckin'
discarded snarls of fishing line, Styrofoam worm containers, the slew
of
plastic bottles and aluminum cans. And packed.
Boaters, fisherpeople, dog-walkers, all over. Vexing in
that I'd have to
compete to get a clear run with my lure, but, as always, these people
are
better that they're out doing something - if only they'd clean up after
themselves. But
I've a feeling they
treat the Wild kinda like they treat themselves - use and abuse. Serenity like the White
Mountains I would not
find, but hopefully some growth of me as fisher.
But
I'd little time for lamenting or harmonizing with the people. Following
the pattern
of fish being most active at dawn and dusk, I'd two dawns and two dusks
to get
it on with fish that obviously get pummeled with baits and lures. But the timing of dawn and
dusk shifts with
light: the sun's angle (i.e., season),
aerial turbidity (cloudy, clear?), aquatic turbidity.
Mary - and I knew this going in - is one
muddy joint. Why? Very shallow, and, as I
discovered and fought
with, the nearly never-ending wind having access to roiling all that
sediment
into suspension. Nearly Suisun Marsh muddy.
So mid-afternoon, Mary's dusk, offered more promise than
in a typical clear-water
situation, although, with Suisun stripers as a template, water-column
presentations
were likely to be futile - it'd have to be swimbaits and rattlebaits on
the bottom,
and slow, noisy topwater at terrestrial dusk and dawn. And location -
shallow,
and by cover - pike are littoral fish.
So
I tied on a Big Hammer and focused on shallow rock and wood at points
and corners. And,
to my astonishment, quickly hooked up,
not with a pike but with the other: walleye. At
around a foot and a half, a Hell of a way
to pop that cherry. Ecstatic
with the
by-catch, laughing, I ripped off a few frames and kept fishing, hope
soaring
given that if walleye, a crepuscular critter, are on the eat in
afternoon, then
the more-visual pike definitely should be.
Snaked
up-reservoir as afternoon shifted to evening, and more promise, albeit
with a
tinge of deflation - I got popped twice but didn't recognize 'til too
late -
once on a point, once by a jumble of rock and wood in a cove. By now, another obstacle
than the wind
surfaced - fuckin' hair algae, which coated the 1/2-oz Big Hammer
nearly every
cast. (Would switch
to a 3/8-oz head to
mitigate that, and it helped though didn't fish as enticingly as the
1/2.) I switched to
a jointed weedless swimbait, the
Sebile, which so often excels in clean up, given it's erratic and can
be worked
so slow, plus its shape allows it to move cleanly through vegetation. Amazingly, though, in
re-fishing the spots
where I'd strikes, nothing on the Sebile.
Evening
now, and I found myself at the dam, a typical earth-fill, riprap-faced
dam -
prime crawdad habitat. Pike,
like so
many other fishes (lake trout and stripers especially applicable), will
eat
'dads, so I pulled out a craw rattlebait and began banging that rock. 'Bout a third down the dam
face, and contact,
the contact I'd pined for - a two-and-a-half-foot pike, which swayed
and
slashed and splashed and then - gone.
Another lost fish, the fuckin' monkey on my back. But a sign that I was
reading the environment
right. Greater hope.
Yet
another obstacle - throw in with the wind and algae some of the
nastiest
pumice-faced rock, all over, and then top off with the toxic brew of my
fading
sensitivity - snag, snag, snag. I
lost
that precious rattlebait just a few casts after losing the fish of
daydreams. Then,
just wanting to verify a
water-column presentation being pointless, I tied on a Pointer and lost
that
lure after only a few casts. More
disappointment, but with dusk approaching and the green light for
topwater, the
risk of lost lures declined dramatically.
With
shadows on water now, I retraced my steps with the topwater, and, once
again at
the point - alignment. Big
boil on the
lure, but the fish didn't take or stick - couldn't tell either way. Cast again, and alignment
again - a
two-footish pike cartwheeled on the lure, back-set dorsal and spotted
caudal
fins clearly visible, yet, again - no stick.
Threw a few more casts, but she wouldn't return, so I ran
the swimbait
back out there, the perfect clean up for a topwater miss - but nothing.
Kept
walking the topwater, returning to the dam, light nearly gone - was
having
trouble noting where the lure was, and the wind, though abated from
gale force
it'd been blowing, was still fuckin' windy, chopping the water and
hiding my
lure. But I coaxed
another boil, and,
once again, no stick. Cast
again, the
fish took interest again, and, like stripers will do, motorboated
behind the
lure. I just kept
my lure at the same
pace, and the big fish - I could discern her torpedo shape - ate,
stuck, and I
landed her - but not a pike, a giant walleye!
Had to rip off a few frames of that surprise, and, while
the snags,
wind, and lost fish sucked, the walleye soothed.
The
next day, and my one full day as fisher.
My eyes cracked just as dawn cracked open, and the wind -
just a murmur,
and an invitation to get on the water immediately.
I fished topwater beautifully through dawn -
nothing. Then
switched to the swimbait
once sun hit the water, and though another fine walleye came to hand -
no pike,
and, worse, I lost two more Big Hammers, leaving me only one, and the
wind -
fuck, back to gale.
Given
the attention I'd received the day before - 2-for-5 - the 1-for-1 in
the
morning - perplexing. And
the wind beat
me down, so much so that I retreated to Flag domesticity for shelter
and a
greasy-spoon breakfast and reassessment.
And to soften my disappointment - still no pike in hand. But some understanding
surfaced about why I
didn't get a fish 'til the sun and wind had risen: oxygen. With loss of sun to spurn
algae
photosynthesis, and calming of wind and decrease in water turbulence,
I'd little
doubt the oxygen concentration fell to its nadir about dawn, slowing
the fish
to slumber.
Felt
noonish fishing all through 'til night worthwhile, so I mustered myself
again -
this time, though, to the river-left side of the reservoir where I'd
have to
hoof several miles to hit two provocative points.
It was recurrence of my embarrassing
afternoon on the Black - a travesty.
I
had maybe one soft strike, I lost my last Big Hammer, and I lost a
Sebile. For the
Sebile, I needed less weight; the Big
Hammer, fuck, that was with the lighter head.
After I lost the Hammer, my frustration erupted, and I
wailed, in
despair, throwing a few rocks to diffuse my rage.
I was failing miserably again.
And
once again, I cowered to domesticity, to a bar shielding me from the
wind and giving
me a very welcome beer, the idea of abandoning my hope and just fucking
renting
a motel room brewing in my head. But
I
knew I couldn't - She would've been disgusted.
So I rolled back to the dam, gales galing, ran the
rattlebait in
evening, Gunfish at dusk, and caught nothing.
Failure. But
I did fish well, not
losing a lure, and, dusk nearly gone to night, did at least get a boil
on the
Gunny.
And
with that, the last segment of my relationship with Arizona Wild,
completion
and lessons. I
still got it, but it
ain't what it once was. I
lost a ton of
lures, lesson of which: main tackle bags need to be stuffed, with the
wallets remaining
sparse for shore-fishing - still gotta keep the stuff on my back as
light as
possible for my aging back and hips.
Gotta
go to faster rods for hardbaits. Gotta
increase the proportion of time I use braid. Using
bigger line whenever I can. Can't
dismiss oxygen ever again. And
while true that the gain in Apache trout
and walleye exceeded the loss in lures and the maladroit fishing, the
goal is
to maximize those catches while minimizing the loss of stuff and the
period of
ineffectual fishing - elegance is the ideal, not implacably rolling
through the
same ol' fuckin' tracks when they muddy and then rut some more.
In
Arrowhead, a logical layover from Arizona back to Davis,
geographically,
socially, wildly. The
old, weathered,
weighed-on San Bernardinos as the last highlands.
Saw two of my tribe - a few beers, dinner,
chit-chat, then goodbye. I
worry about
'em, us, with all that's occurred recently.
One less so - he's very sociable, and as long as he's an
ear to bend and
moderates boozin', he's okay. Wish
he
had his own bar where he could hold court.
The other - more. He's
led such a
restricted life, always with his parents, same job as forever. I'd hope that his mother's
death would free
him, and he does seem to be opening - a little.
But his plans seemed to be working the same job and living
in the same
house, the only change being his assuming ownership when his old man
dies. Seems such a
waste, so familiar. When
his old man dies.
Dead
mothers; dead brothers; surviving, permanently damaged fathers; and
still some
living sons, potential alive. Don't
do
it, my brother.
I'm back in lowly Davis, my daydream odyssey
into the peculiar highlands of Arizona, the physical aspect, complete. Much to my surprise given
the upheaval of the
last year - my poor failing cars, my failing health, and so much death. And actually, it was an
odyssey with Arizona
as a focus, but not the complete story.
The ol' San Bernardinos, my old San Bernardinos, they were
part of it,
too. And the
vestiges of my old man, he
always a vestige, me as he.
Yesterday
I woke in my bro's cozy little mountain apartment - man, if I could
score one
like that in my nearby mountains for a reasonable price, an
increasingly
unlikely scenario, I'd grab it. Weather
still cool in this strangely cool year, and I chilled when I stepped
outside to
my ride and the final leg of this long journey.
After snagging the needed cup of coffee, I weaved west
down the
mountain, circled little Lake Gregory, rolled through the town - most
buildings
still there but few playing the same role or donning the same name -
and aimed
for a wilder place than the little lake, the little creek that
contained only wild
rainbows, sleek and golden and so spooky.
When still living in southern California, and with the
arid Lancaster as
the foundation of my life and me being a fisher, any rill, any arroyo,
any
cleavage that could possibly hold water swayed me with the hope that
fish would
be there, promise given by magazine pictures that'd mesmerized me. But nearly all those
images were from wetter
places that cradled real, big, actual rivers, not the maximum waterway
size the
arid native southern California could yield, which was a creek. Thus so many of those
cleavages and rills,
when I'd get down to 'em, they'd house nothing with fins save the
occasional
temporary tenant of the truck trout who'd be gleaned and cleaned by the
fisherpeople after only a few days of freedom, if water was even
flowing. But this
little creek was an exception, and
more - water always flowed, the tanker truck never dumped its load into
her, few
visited her, and even in the early days after the birthing of the
relationship
between Momma Earth and I, I'd go down there without the rod, straining
for a
connection beyond fishes to the rocks and water and trees and birds.
My
old man, in a rare broaching of his innate drive to explore, dragged me
to hike
the creek upstream from a dirt-road crossing to its headwaters and
beyond when
I was around 14 years old. A
long
haul. Definitely
was a summer day, hot,
sticky, but lush, verdant, given the nestled canyon the creek flowed
through,
the luxurious pines and firs just above floodplain level and the alders
on the
floodplain. I
stopped at a few pools, sleuthing
up to 'em cougar-style with, I believe, a fly rod and a hopper pattern,
and I
actually caught a few trout, big for the creek - about eight inches. They were beautiful, so
golden and tan, much resembling
the Apache trout I connected with only a few days ago.
I only fished briefly, with the goal of
completing the hike primary, so up the creek we quickly continued, and
then
onto the asphalt road, and, though tired, sore, to my old man's credit
- we'd
done it. That may
have been the best day
we'd ever had together, and so it was one of his best days. If, for us, he'd only
realized it.