please remember you can click on a photo to see a larger version
Ghosts Under
the Ice
"Well,
we can't fish here," I said as we rounded the corner and got a view of the
northern lobe of Anna Lake.
"Look
at that! It's still frozen this late in the morning!" The Lady said,
excited with the discovery. On our walk the evening before we found that a
quarter of the ice and snow had gone from the lake here during the day, Saturday,
our first full day at Anna. This is why we climbed over into this area to fly
fish today. But overnight all the open water had frozen into a clear layer of
ice along with all the melt water in ponds on the surface snow. It was still
frozen.
"What
do you want to do?" The Lady asked.
"Let's
wait it out," I suggested. "We can have a snack and relax. Maybe even
take a nap in the warm sun, here out of the wind. We have all day."
The Lady
nodded in agreement. Her eyes were focused on the ten feet or so of clear ice
along the lake's edge at our feet before the white layer of ice and snow took over,
extending across the lake's remaining surface. Her gaze was intense and
practiced.
"Look,
I can see trout! Two are coming at us!" She exclaimed. I followed her gaze
and saw the grayish green backs along with a flash of movement; two nice trout
approaching, unhurried, unaffected by our presence.
"Look!"
she whispered. "They look like ghosts! Ghosts under the ice!"
I had heard a
story a few years back. The kind of story that piqued my interest, got me
thinking..................
But, it was
also the kind of tale I took with more than a grain of salt, figuring, in
reality, it was an exaggeration to just make a good story, something I might
do. Or maybe even an outright lie to get me to take the bait and make a hard
journey on a wild goose chase. I did not rush on the idea of a visit, but it
was a good story that I enjoyed bringing back from memory from time to time. It was a
story about large, smart, hard to catch Golden Trout. The kind you travel to
Wyoming's Wind River Range to fly fish for. But these Golden Trout, the story told,
were in a high mountain lake in the eastern Sierra Nevada mountains, fairly close
to our home. What if it was true?
A couple of
weeks back the Lady asked what we could do over the 4th of July holiday
weekend. My answer just popped out. It even surprised me. "Let's go to
Anna Lake," I said.
We added an
extra day to the weekend and left home late Thursday afternoon. After a quick
supper and picking up our overnight permit for the Hoover Wilderness, we
settled in for the night in our camper. It was quiet, cool, and the sound of
the flowing water of the Little Walker River carried us away into easy sleep.
We were on
our way by 8:30 am Friday morning, saddled up with our backpacks, eight miles
of beautiful spring time Sierra Nevada terrain ahead of us.
We have been
backpacking together for 34 years, 34 wonderful years. I've always helped the
Lady with her pack, lifting it, holding it up so she can easily slip into the
shoulder harness and hip belt. It became a ritual that was announced with the question,
"Ready to saddle up, Little Mule?"
Joining us on a backpack trip, after hearing this repeatedly, my oldest
brother, Fastshot, penned a limerick -
Monte calls
her his "Little Mule"
She burns
trail mix and freeze dried for fuel
No matter a
hike
Or her fast
mountain bike
She always
prances and sashays so cool
The prancing
and sashaying little mule led the way and "kept us found" on the map.
Around the
three mile mark a crossing of the Little Walker River is required.
That red parachute
cord was left by a father and son team from Nevada. It was not strong enough
nor properly tied off for use as a safety line but, perhaps it gave them the
courage to wade across and would help them find the way home.
After Burt
Canyon, the Little Walker River, and the trail, swings back to the south and
opens into its wonderful headwater valley.
We continued
up the valley.
The trail
comes and goes as it works its way the valley. This area is not heavily used
and does not get much trail maintenance. We like it this way as it requires
attention to both your surroundings and your map. High mountain meadow
complexes are critical for clean water and habitat. They are also
breathtakingly beautiful.
The Lady said this was the darkest purple she had ever seen on an iris.
The old trail
sign pointing the way toward Anna Lake that we found in 2013 is now gone. We took a break at the intersection and refilled our water bottles.
We
started up.
An old,
non-maintained trail leads up to Anna. It is steep, overgrown, crosses
cascading creeks, and disappears in a few places. In a couple of spots the
route went straight up the fall line, and, especially with our heavy backpacks,
it reminded us of mountaineering and we dreamed of a fixed rope for us to jumar
up. The hike was marvelous.
In its high
cirque sat incredible Anna Lake.
We were
alone. The father and son team had headed back for home after spending one
night in the valley along Little Walker River after giving up in their attempt
to reach Anna.
There are
very few campsite opportunities in this rugged terrain at 10,600 feet. This was
compounded by the remaining large snowfields. We settled in to a high spot that
would serve us well for three nights.
We explored
the area as the sun set and night came.
We slept
well this night.
Our
breakfast spot - and cooking spot - was on the opposite side of a small ridge
from our tent.
This was our
view.
Up here,
surrounded by this awe inspiring landscape, up in the air the angels breathe,
nestled in this piece of heaven on earth, what did it matter if that story I
had heard about Golden Trout was true or not? But what an incredible place to
wet a fly line! The Lady carried the new ghost net she insisted we buy last summer and I
put my fly rod together. We studied the open water, insects, and cruising
trout. The water was calm and crystal clear; demanding conditions. A trout
moved from under the ice and cruised to our left. I placed my cast gently and carefully
well ahead of it. The tiny nymph sank in the water as the trout approached. It
was on.
What a way
to start the morning with a heavy thirteen inch Golden Trout carefully brought
to net and released!
The part
about them being smart and hard to catch was also true. Just the way I like it.
The trout were not keying in on the terrestrials on the surface, blown up on
the wind from below. I fished nymph pattern after nymph pattern under my PNW
strike indicator. Very little interest. I switched back to dries. I tied on the
most realistic bug fly I had in my box - a beautiful delicate creature on a size 16
hook with filmy wings over a black body - six delicate legs artfully tied on.
My 6x mirage tippet was six feet long. The wind was still, not a ripple on the
water as I placed the fly well ahead of a sixteen inch Golden, a spectacular
trout. We waited. The trout deliberately but slowly rose to the fly. Time
stopped. It touched the fly with its nose and hung there in the water. It
looked over at me and said, "You need to try harder, boy." This was a
highlight of the trip.
Distant
rumblings of thunder started early afternoon. Storm was coming.
We watched
the clouds boil and swirl overhead. We retreated to the shelter of our tent.
The Lady read. I went over and over fly fishing tactics in my head. We both
drifted off to sleep. Voices woke us. Voices. Our solitude was gone. We got up.
Four people,
two couples, were dropping over the rise into Anna's basin. The ensemble was
complete with two matching Boston Terriers; dogs, off leash, that completely
ignored direction from their owners and this fact, in no way, stifled the owner's
constant and louder verbal dialogue directed at these animals. I knew what was
coming next. Yes, wet dogs were going to jump on us.
You know, I
am not sorry that I may sound intolerant. This is my background. I have worked
with search dogs, avalanche dogs, and cadaver dogs. I know how well trained a
dog can be. We had a dog of our own. We know how a dog thrives and lives for
time spent on training and how they love to do their best for you.
We met the
new neighbors. It took them a couple of hours to find a campsite and get
settled. They were loud. Not rudely loud, but loud, and we had grown so accustomed to
quiet. We'd have to adjust. We returned to fishing.
It was time
for a scud pattern under the indicator. A roll cast works best for this set up.
Put this stuff up into the air with fore and back casts and it is amazing the
mess you can end up with. I can show you. I laid the line and indicator where I
wanted on the lake and I watched. The indicator never made the slightest
movement. I watched intently when the water was calm. Trout approached and I
noticed a small turn. The take was almost imperceptible and the fly was quickly
refused. I had to see the take, not an easy task. I felt eight takes and hooked
and lost one. The largest of the trip put up a good tussle but came off before
coming to the net.
One
beautiful Golden Trout had been brought to the net today. This was a great day
of fly fishing. Lessons were learned. Would these lessons pay off tomorrow?
The evening
was glorious. It was quiet again. One couple was down at the lake's edge, each
with a fly rod. These had to be good people. We continued our exploration of the area.
We returned
to Anna Lake. Earlier in the day an Osprey dove for fish at Anna. Now a large
bird came into the basin and we thought the Osprey was returning. But the wings
were different, so we watched. It was an adult Bald Eagle. It landed on a
high rocky cliff and joined us in watching the lake.
A few trout
were taking emerging insects right below the surface.
The storm
had past. Night was descending upon us.
Sunday
morning was a bit colder. The new overnight ice was thicker.
We moved
over to the east side of Anna to begin fly fishing.
The water
was choppy with a wind that constantly shifted in direction. This is good
conditions for a scud pattern under my floating indicator. The rocking motion
of the bobbing indicator imparts seductive, irresistible movement to the scud
dangling below. At least I hoped so. The
indicator dove under the surface, a solid take! A beautiful heavy fourteen inch
Golden Trout was soon in the net.
I moved down
the shore line. A large block of surface ice and snow had moved off shore. I
wondered if the trout were still there in the deep water taking refuge. The
wind had died. The water was calm. I made my cast and tried hard to see deep
into the water. A ghost moved out from under the ice. I watched. The indicator
never moved but I saw the trout's gentle take. I lifted my rod. It was on. The
Lady was above, as always, on a highpoint watching for trout, bird dogging. She
saw as soon as I lifted the rod. She was beside me with the net. We both, at
the same time, saw we had a problem. Clear ice still hugged the lake edge out
about four feet at the spot we could bring the Golden to shore. We started
breaking ice and cleared a path. The 15 inch Golden slid into the net.
I am so
pleased the Lady insisted on getting this net. The net material is so gentle on
the fish, the fish stays calm in the net without being held, and makes for an easy release.
Highly recommended.
It was time
to climb over to the north lobe of Anna and meet up with the beginning of
this story - Ghosts Under the Ice.
No fish
visible in this short video, but here's the ice, surroundings, and the Lady
looking for trout.
Around noon
the ice was gone and I began fishing.
Little fish
were aggressively taking terrestrials off the surface. I tried ants and
beetles. No luck. I had a batch of tiny midge patterns in my vest but just
didn't feel like changing over to 7x tippet for smaller fish. I went searching
with my scud pattern. No interest in it over here and we did not spot any
larger trout. We were also getting lazy. That nap in the sun had done us in.
We returned
to near camp. The older couple had left in the morning. The younger couple was
spending a lot of time at their camp. A woman, Laura, hiked up cross country
from her camp near the base of Flatiron Butte and spent a couple of hours at
Anna. She was delightful, happy, and darn tough. We could see how she earned
her nickname, Moose. A Bald Eagle flew over twice during her time at Anna.
Laura told us that two men hiked in and were doing a route up Flatiron Butte
(5.10 A2) and providing her with entertainment and photo opportunities. We said
goodbye to Laura. We relaxed and enjoyed our surroundings.
Late in the
afternoon the Bald Eagle returned and landed on a rocky highpoint overlooking
the lake. We were surprised how vocal it was for several minutes. It then stayed on its perch for over two hours, silent.
The young
couple came down from their camp. We pointed out the eagle to them and let them observe
with the Lady's see mores.
Cooking
supper, we continued watching from our dining area. The sun dipped below the
crest and it grew cold. We changed into night clothes, still keeping an eye on
the eagle. It made one dive toward the water and pulled up short. It did not
return to the highpoint but landed on the steep snowfield.
We were curious
how this hunt would go. We wanted to see success. The eagle launched again.
But it did
not go for a fish. It flew down and landed on the snow at lake level, right on
the edge of the water. The Lady was delighted watching through her see mores. This
was quite a show. It went in the water, the eagle just hopped off the edge. It
climbed back out and resumed watching the water. It hopped back in and this
time, we were amazed, it had a trout. It started eating and the vocalization
resumed. A juvenile joined the parent and demanded food. Prior to this we had never seen the youngster
but perhaps this explained the earlier vocalizations. The parent resisted,
apparently wanting its offspring to fight for its food, to learn to be an
eagle. The battle continued until the parent moved off and the juvenile fed. We
then witnessed a most remarkable event. They both took to the air. They played,
vocalized, flew in formation, and danced in the sky. They touched each other
and cried out. It was impossible not to impart human emotions to this display.
Our hearts cheered. We wanted to cry out with them, let our voices join in the
celebration.
They
returned to the snow. The juvenile was on the lake's edge, eyes focused on the
water. Was this a lesson? It was now almost dark. We climbed into the tent and
into our sleeping bag. We fell into sleep with the voices of eagles still in
the air.
We lingered
over coffee Monday morning. It would be hard to pull ourselves away from this
special place.
But it was
time to go. We saddled up the little mule and she led the steep descent down to
the valley below.
I couldn't
catch up because I was given instructions in cheerful tones. The Lady was
happy. "Did you get a picture of the Mariposa Lily?"
"How
'bout the Water Bog Lily?"
"And
the Indian Paintbrush?"
The Lady pulled further ahead.
I caught up
at the big bend before Burt Canyon. We took a break.
The
wildflowers were incredible in the sage as we hiked to the trailhead and our
waiting truck and camper.
Want a great
tip on how to end a backpack trip with style? The Lady climbed in the camper and
pulled a gallon ziplock bag full of cut up chucks of ice cold watermelon out of
the chest refrigerator. And she didn't play "Tease a Geezer", she let
me have all I wanted and we both gobbled up watermelon with reckless abandon.
Our trip to
Anna Lake far exceeded any expectations we may have had beforehand. Every so
often a story you hear can be true.
Some of you
out there will be angered that I am even making any mention of this area, Anna Lake, and the remarkable fishery that
exists there. It takes effort and determination to get to Anna Lake with a
backpack. Visitation will remain low. The Golden Trout? They are smart. They
can take care of themselves.
