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"How
old are you Dexter?" the Lady asked the English Lab alongside the table in
Walker Burger's garden dining area. Dexter's tail was in full wag mode.
"Tap
your forefoot on the ground," the Lady explained. "Once for each
year."
The people
at the next table eyes were instantly on Dexter.
Dexter
tapped the ground five times.
"He'll
be six in November," GroovyDad (aka Shane) added as he approached after
ordering his meal.
"I've
already found what he likes," the Lady added. "He likes his butt
scratched right above his tail."
Dexter had
backed up against the Lady with an expression approaching ecstasy.
And so it
was that we met GroovyDad and his camping partner Dexter.
"Why
don't you text the Teds?" I suggested to the Lady.
She
retrieved her phone from the truck - in her eyes the phone is a nuisance to be
avoided as much as possible - and turned
it on. It instantly buzzed an announcement.
"Oh, it
says there's a text message from the Ted's! Now how do I read the
message?" Her fingers fussed with buttons.
"It
doesn't matter," I said to the Lady. "They just pulled up."
Now we had
to get through security at the USMC Mountain Warfare Training Center.
Wolf Creek
is a tiny tributary to the West Fork Walker River. A long glacial valley cut
into the crest of the Sierra Nevada Range, its watershed is part of the Great
Basin. In most places it is a high mountain meadow and with the absence of
cattle and sheep grazing, it is lush with grasses. It is a place you can feel
you are stepping back in time.
Our camp was
set up at the bottom of the glacial U, where the creek began its tumble down to
meet the West Walker.
Mark Twain
brought me here.
One of my
favorite sections of Twain's classic, "Roughing It" is the story of his walk to
Lake Tahoe from the Carson Valley. He ends up lounging on a small boat, gazing
into the depths of Tahoe's legendary clear water, and watching huge trout glide
under him. Mention of huge trout get my attention and pique my curiousity.
Ten thousand years ago most of western Nevada was
under water. The ancient pluvial lake that was once there is now referred to as
Lake Lahontan. A massive predatory trout evolved and thrived there. It gobbled
up smaller fish and traveled up the rivers and streams feeding the lake to
spawn. The rivers coming out of the Sierra were the Truckee, Carson, and
Walker. This trout is called the Lahontan Cutthroat.
Move forward
a few thousand years. The climate has warmed. Much of ancient Lake Lahontan has
dried up leaving vast playas that were
once lake bottom. Two large remnant lakes remained, Pyramid Lake and Walker
Lake. And, the large trout remained as well. Fremont and Carson first named
what is now the Truckee River, Salmon Trout River because it was filled with
Lahontan Cutthroat. Antidotal stories tell of 30 to 40 pound trout moving up
the Walker River. And ole Mark Twain, in that small boat, couldn't miss those
huge trout swimming in Tahoe's clear waters.
I think of
the Lahontan Cutthroat Trout as the Great Basin's equivalent of the Great Plains'
American Bison. The population was so huge it was thought uncountable. They
covered the plains just like the Lahontan Cutthroat Trout filled the water. And
in a few decades after the influx of European man, they were both driven to the
brink of extinction.
Dams and
water diversions that cut off trout from their spawning waters killed the trout
of Pyramid Lake and Walker Lake. A trout fishery in Pyramid lake is now artificially
maintained with a hatchery. Walker Lake's
shrinking waters have become so alkaline that trout cannot survive. Lake
Tahoe's Lahontans were decimated by commercial fishing with the final nail in
their coffin the introduction of non native fish.
The
execution of Lahontan Cutthroat in the small streams and rivers in the high
country of its ancestral home came in the form of planting non-native trout
species, especially Brook Trout. Other impacts like grazing and mining were a
coup de grace.
Where it was
once as widespread as the bison, there are now only a handful of places
remaining where Lahontan Cutthroat can be found in its ancestral home waters. Wolf
Creek is one of those places. This is the second year the creek is open for a
short time period for catch & release fishing with an artificial fly on a
barbless hook. We were here last year with the Teds. This year GroovyDad joined us.
We enjoyed a
leisurely breakfast Saturday morning. I was anxious to hit the water. My
interest in fly fishing has been seriously rekindled this summer. The Teds were
going on a hike. GroovyDad was going fishing using his Japanese styled Tenkara
gear, The Lady saw high ridges all around us; she was off. I mentioned the
abundance of grasshoppers to both Groovy and Ted and chose a caddis
pattern with rubber legs from my fly box.
This is
extremely difficult fishing. This defines difficult fishing. The water is low
and crystal clear. The trout are sharp eyed and hide at any movement. The
stream is lined with willows. Casts are short and difficult. Compounding the
difficulty is any wisp of wind. And the wind blows. Difficult and challenging
just bolsters my determination. Approaching the water, the first thing you
should notice - if you haven't already spooked everything into hiding - is that
the larger trout are hanging motionless in the still water at the tail end of
the small pools and riffles. It is amazing how far away they can see movement
of perceived danger. If these scoot away upon your approach, fishing success here
is ended.
I had a
great morning. Fish darted every which way with my approach. Willows and
streamside vegetation continuously snagged my errant fly. The wind slammed my
fly down on the water and spooked fish. But every once in awhile patience, sheath, and a good
cast was rewarded. I brought to hand 8 of these small beautiful survivors and
then carefully "returned them to their watery fold." I do not have photographic evidence. My camera sherpa was on ridge tops.
I was transported
back in time. I could hear the pounding of bison on the prairie and saw herds
that went on for miles. I could cross rivers by walking on the backs of trout
moving upstream. I was in a land of unspoiled bounty.
I fought
back thoughts of the realities of our impact on the land and its creatures; of things that are gone forever. It
is a fight I often loose.
We all
joined up back at camp in the afternoon. GroovyDad had battled Ranger Buttons
and Dragonflies with his Tenkara. The Teds were pleased with their walk. Ted
celebrated with a excellent stout and then took a nap. I found the Lady
searching for me along Wolf Creek as she returned from her hike. She had a
great time on her cross country journey along the ridge tops, as evidenced by new
scratches, bruises, and wet boots. She likes to become one with wild places.
Ted is
always great fun. He put together a veggie and cheese plate of appetizers with
balsamic dressing. Excellent! It had more fresh vegetables from the Teds'
garden then Dexter could shake a stick at.
GroovyDad
shared gourmet green chili jerky. "Every once in awhile you'll get a hot
bite," he cautioned. It was delicious and his warning was not unfounded.
Storytelling
and relaxation commenced.
Dexter had had a full day.
Our campsite
was looking like home.
The Teds
joined us for an evening walk. We were rewarded with spectacular sunset colors.
We relaxed
Sunday morning. Just the right thing to do on a quick getaway weekend. I
coached Ted on fishing clear water along our campsite.
He came
close. The little cutthroats teased him. They darted after his fly but refused
to take. It was a great show and unlocked the primal angler deep inside Ted.
Dexter got
more butt scratching.
And the
women folk relaxed by the water.
Goodbyes
were said along with hugs and handshakes and we all headed for our homes. We pulled
off the road so we could deposit my "angler survey" in the box. A
little further on, at an intersection, the Lady asked, "Where's this road
go?" We sought out the answer and explored up Silver Creek, another tiny
home water refuge for the Lahontan Cutthroat. This area remains closed to fishing.
This is a
larger watershed than Wolf Creek and Silver Creek flows in another long glacial
valley, a beautiful place.
We all hoped
for a thunderstorm this weekend; a show of thunder and lightning with big splats
of rain to wash the sky and make everything smell new. Today it was building.
Thunder rumbled in the distance.
We got a bit
of rain on the drive home. Big drops hit the windshield, just enough to smell
like summer rain in the mountains.
Thank you to
the Teds and GroovyDad for a very nice weekend.
I should note that the Marines use the area around and above their base for training and maneuvers. Although it was quiet this weekend, most of the time I would expect vehicles on the road, aircraft support, and operations taking place. As I recall the MP telling me one time as we passed through the base, "Sir, you need to know we do have Marines on the mountain today." I took that information seriously.