Alarm. Damn. Two snoozes too many. Out of bed, throw on clothes, grab the bags, slam some coffee. In the car, run a yellow, dodge the slow ones, find the gaps. Park the car, bags again, drop them off, through security. Moving walkway, at the gate, on the plane, find a seat, buckle up, earbuds in… breathe.
BY HENRY HOOKS – www.instagram.com/talltails_media/
Every trip starts the same. Exuberance mixed with anticipation and a dash of anxiety. What if I forgot my stove, what if the water filters are shot, what if I miss my flight. So many variables that they begin to run together, and I resort to my last option: letting go. Luckily, seat 35A at 6:30 in the morning is the perfect place to let go.
Two and a half hours and 872 miles later, we touched down in Denver under the watchful gaze of the red-eyed horse they call Bluecifer. From the plane to a car in a matter of minutes and within the hour we were surrounded by the jagged lines of the front range of the Rocky Mountains. The miles crawled by as we pressed deeper into the wilderness, stopping at the occasional stream to cast at the fleeting shadow of a skittish trout. After a night spent by the trailhead, the orange hues of morning dancing across the empty parking lot brought with them the promise of solitude and the hope of unpressured fish high in the backcountry.
Four hours into our first day on trail, I was struck with the thought that the entirety of my travel day had been accomplished in a roughly equal amount of time, yet we were a mere seven miles from the trailhead. In many of my fly fishing excursions of late, I have relied on means of transportation which manpower alone can only dream of duplicating. What would have taken five minutes by car had taken an entire morning on foot, and yet with every step, speed felt like more a burden than a blessing.
That afternoon, after climbing a few thousand feet, we arrived at a small alpine lake still dotted with remnants of the winter ice cover. Even in early July, we knew there was a real threat of being turned away from the pass we needed to cross, but that threat loomed greater in our minds after seeing the ravines above the lake still shrouded in snowpack. As we wound our way through boulder-strewn switchbacks, we found ourselves on the edge of an angled wall of snow. It lay in the shade of the peak above and its dirty white slope plunged steeply into the deep blue water of the lake below. Had it not been impeding the trail, it would have been frighteningly beautiful. With a shrug and a small rock in hand (to halt the slide should our feet give way), we started trepidatiously across the incline.
My first step slid out from under me. Not a great start. I drove the rock into the snow above me and stood up, trusting my entire weight on the small shard in my hand. Every move from there on was calculated and intentional. I kicked snow into flat steps before making any progress, and the rock in my hand held my balance upslope. What was a mere sixty yards felt like miles until finally, we stood on loose scree once again. Twice more, we repeated the same process to cross snowy pitches leading to the bottomless blue below. Finally, with the pass in sight, there was only one slope remaining. It was the steepest, easily topping 45 degrees, and to say it was daunting after our past experiences was an understatement. We opted for the long circumnavigation, scrambling up the crumbling rocky slope well around the trail’s intended route, at last peeking over the pass we had been seeking all day.
“We woke up to the lake frozen over. Completely. In July”.
The remainder of the day was uneventful as the trail carried us down into the next valley, eventually meeting with the creek that flowed from our destination. Climbing back up in elevation, we found ourselves at the tailout of a stunning alpine lake. It was framed by jagged peaks and towering trees, and in the fading light, it took on a cool green hue. In a relieved exhaustion, we made camp, started water for dinner, and rid ourselves of the shoes that carried us there.
This trip was unique for me, especially in terms of backpacking. I have done more multi-day backpacking trips than I can count. I have done the John Muir Trail, more sections of the AT than I can remember, and plenty of smaller weekend loops in state parks all over the country. All of these shared a common theme: sleeping in a different place every night. Our plan was relatively simple. All we wanted to do was fish this lake, and because of that, we had nowhere to be but there. There was no pressure to pack up quickly in the morning nor a destination to reach the next night. I slept better that night than I had in years on trail.
We woke up to the lake frozen over. Completely. In July. So we built a fire and drank coffee and sat in silence, both enjoying the morning in our own way. When the sun crested the eastern peaks at last, the ice slowly began to melt away. Jackets and wool socks were traded for shorts and Chacos, and the day spent chasing cutthroat had begun.
In the same way that this trip was unique in terms of schedule, the lake itself behaved differently than any alpine lake I had fished before. Instead of cruising fish on the hunt for any dry fly that disturbed the surface, they were cowered under fallen limbs and behind boulders. The morning was spent in frustration, our efforts consistently failing to reveal even the smallest fish willing to eat. After a brief lunch, I changed my approach. I tied on a small white streamer, hoping to elicit some sort of reaction strike when plopped near structure. First cast- wham. Immediately and without hesitation, a healthy cutthroat came blitzing out from underneath the log I was standing on and swallowed the fly whole. The day had finally turned a new leaf and the optimism that had waned with every fishless hour came roaring back in full force.
The rest of the day was spent pulling streamers through every logjam and rock garden. Success was an understatement as we brought fish after fish to the net, the largest of which cleared the coveted twenty-inch mark. At last tired of removing hooks from the mouths of hungry trout, we sat down for the evening and prepared dinner.
As I lay in the tent that night, scenes from the day’s easy fishing replayed in my head. I have fished for unpressured trout before, but this seemed to be another level. The thought of what pressure means for fisheries is powerful. When these fish are unbothered, most of their daily life is spent happily feeding on whatever their heart desires. In the same way, when I spend time in the backcountry, away from people and violence and pain, I operate at a different wavelength. My movements are more free, my mind is clear, my lungs are full of pure air. I feel the same pressure of society that I assume a fish must feel in a famous river. Lack of pressure whether for a fishery or from the turmoil of modern life leads to the freedom to roam and wander and breathe. In contrast to the way I had rushed to the airport only two days prior, not one step of that day on the lake had felt hurried.
“Every stint in the wilderness only just begins to satiate the constant draw I feel towards escape”.
The next day saw the same frigid morning and an ice-covered lake. Another slow morning met by the rising sun signaled the day of our departure from that unspoiled wilderness and back towards the world. Two days later, we were back in the city, the memories of traversing snowy banks of steeply angled ice and bright red fins already starting to fade.
Every stint in the wilderness only just begins to satiate the constant draw I feel towards escape. I feel the freedom that comes with carrying my life on my back and being solely responsible for my health and wellbeing. I yearn for the air, the stars, the rhythm that comes with hiking for days on end. On a trip like ours to an alpine lake where that lifestyle is forced to slow even more, the pressure of performance and responsibility begins to sluff off exponentially. Like those native cutthroat cruising the clear waters of their home having never been targeted by anglers seeking a thrill, sharing a habitat with them seems to exude peace.
By sleeping on the banks and drinking from the same waters they reside in, the lack of pressure they experience is imparted to me. The power of the mountains and the slow movement of the trees feels more like a life lesson to absorb than beauty to imbibe. What appears on the surface as unadulterated beauty is so much more. It communicates peace and wisdom and a life to emulate. It proves that one factor reigns above others as the way of the wilderness, the way to approach life, the freedom of native trout: unpressured.
