A long time ago, in a land far, far away . . . cue the Star Wars theme music…I found a lake full of cutthroat trout. It’s a story worth revisiting before my memory gives way.
Almost fifty years ago, I had a cushy job at a Colorado camp leading guests on hikes through the mountains. It paid $110 a month and they threw in room and board. And I never complained about either.
The camp sat at about 9000 feet above sea level and only 2000 feet below timberline. The two summers I was there, we had our first snow flurries in August. And in ten minutes you could walk from the camp to beaver ponds with brook trout in them.
The camp had brook trout ponds within walking distance.
Families usually stayed for the full week, so if they were hikers, one of our hikemasters might be taking them out for multiple days and would get to know them. My first summer, a Midwestern family signed up for my hikes three days in a row. By Thursday, I could see that Dad and kids were fit and able to go on longer hikes.
The teenage son had been spending some time in a shop in town that catered to hikers and had learned about a remote lake that he wanted to hike to. When they asked me to take them, I agreed. The trail was well marked and an employee at the hiking shop in town had told them it was seven miles each way. That’s when the wheels fell off the proverbial cart.
When we set out the next morning, I noticed Mom had joined the family for her first hike of the week. She had been resting in camp all week, but the family assured me she was in good shape. They lied.
Once we started walking, the trail somehow grew. Perhaps it was all the switchbacks when we started our steep ascent, but I figured out later it was ten miles each way. And the last three miles were up.
By then, the dad was pushing his wife up the trail and she was simply lifting her feet. Finally, we arrived at the lake mid-afternoon, a couple hours later than I had hoped. Afternoon thunderstorms were always a possibility. While the family lunched and rested, I looked around.
The lake would have made any travel brochure. It had a steep rock wall on the far side, snow covered the mountain top, and the forest ran to the lower edge. Snowbanks in the shade offered refrigeration for food and a fire ring showed signs of limited use.
It was when I followed the creek leaving the lake that things really got interesting. Just below, a smaller pond sat back in the trees. It couldn’t have been more than twenty yards long and ten yards wide. From my high vantage point, I could see cutthroat trout cruising. Not just a couple, but dozens.
I could see dozens of cutties cruising in the shallow lake.
After looking around, I went back to the family and nudged them from their resting places to begin the hike out. The only saving grace was that it was downhill. Dad was still pushing Mom down the trail while the kids bounced along ahead. I brought up the rear in case anyone collapsed.
By the time we got back to camp, it was nearly dark. I quickly rounded up a couple of fishing buddies and told them about the trout. We outfitted our backpacks with plans to set out the next morning for the lake. But by the time we reached the trailhead, it was noon. Our stops for provisions and a quick trip to the fly shop used up the morning. We got to the lake an hour before dark.
The others wanted to try fishing the bigger lake, so I had the smaller one for myself. I was quickly into fish as they had no preferences among my offerings. I found out later that the ice had only recently melted and my flies might have been the first they had seen that season. As soon as I had caught our dinner, I had the fish filleted and sizzling in butter.
Cutthroats like this one fed us for breakfast and dinner.
The next morning went the same way. I caught breakfast and had the fish frying before the others had rolled out of their tents. After we ate, we returned to fishing and released the remainder of our catch. By noon, we were walking back down the mountain to start working the following day. There’s nothing like walking forty miles in a weekend, half with a forty-pound backpack, to make you want to start leading hikes again on Monday.
For the next few years, I returned to this lake each summer for a weekend when I was confident the ice had melted. Our dinners got more sophisticated over time, though they always included trout. The lakes never let us down, but the smaller one was the more dependable of the two. It always seemed to have a few too many fish, something we tried to remedy.
I’ve since learned the name of this lake, but with social media being what it is, I’ll give it the name it deserves, Serendipity Lake. Who knows? I might want to go back someday.
Jim Mize believes secret fishing spots should remain secret. You can purchase Jim’s award-winning book, The Jon Boat Years, at https://uscpress.com/The-Jon-Boat-Years or buy autographed copies at www.acreektricklesthroughit.com.
