Robert Ruark, Horn of the Hunter, 1952
My quest for the golden trout began when I first laid eyes on one. I don’t know if it was love at first sight, but the first time I ever saw one, I knew that one day I would do whatever it took to get to where they lived and catch one.
I guess the biggest obstacle to overcome in catching a golden trout was the geographical separation between me and the nearest population of goldens. They are native to one watershed in the high Sierra mountains of California. In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, numbers of golden trout were taken from the Sierras and transplanted into high mountain lakes in a few western states. Most of these transplantings failed, but today, there are a handful of alpine lakes in the Rockies that hold self sustaining populations of the golden trout.
My challenge was to find one of these places and get to it. The prime characteristic that all of these lakes share is the difficulty in reaching them. If there’s a golden trout lake that you can drive to, I haven’t heard of it. And frankly, if you could drive to one, I’m not sure that’s the one I would want to fish. Most lakes are above the treeline and several miles from the nearest road. That’s the kind of place golden trout live and I think that’s one of the things that make them so special.
So after multiple trips out west chasing other fish like cutthroats, rainbows, browns and brookies, I decided to turn my attention to that mythical trout that had always occupied a place in the back of my mind. Few people here in the East even know about them. There’s a version of rainbow, a genetic mutation called a Palomino trout that gets stocked in streams and lakes around here and people mistakenly call them golden trout, but it’s not a true golden. Few people in the West that know of them are willing to share their location. Appalachian fishermen are rather tight-lipped about their favorite speck streams. But the location of golden trout might be one of the most closely guarded secrets in the fishing world. The lakes that do happen to be widely known, are protected by daunting terrain. Three days hiking and thousands of feet elevation change are enough to keep all but the most determined fishermen away.
But I was undaunted. I unleashed the power of the internet. I searched and I researched, I followed clues, I studied maps, I compared pictures, I reached out to people and I came up with a game plan. Wyoming is known for big golden trout. The Wind River range is home to several lakes that contain golden trout and I believe that most people chasing Wyoming golden trout do so in the Winds. But much lesser known than the Wind River range for golden trout, was the Bighorn Mountains. And it was here in the Bighorns, 1,400 miles from Georgia, that I would focus my efforts.
I devised a plan and I shared it with a few of my buddies that I knew would be interested in going along. We had already explored other corners of Wyoming, Montana and Colorado together and they are good travel companions. We settled on a date and began to make plans. But life and careers often put up stumbling blocks and as they say, the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry. Two of the three guys I planned on taking with me had to politely bow out. I told my wife, if the third man had to cancel, I was taking my dog and we would be going on our own.
As good fortune would have it, my friend Mike didn’t cancel. Mike had never done a trip like this, so I spent a lot of time helping him gather gear and make preparations. I had never done a multiple day hike-in trip like this outside of the Smokies, so I too would be breaking new ground on this trip. We knew that every single ounce would count against us in our packs, so we used a kitchen scale to weigh every single item down to the ounce. I created a spreadsheet listing the weights of everything in and including my pack. Our goal was to keep our pack weights under 45 pounds. When we left Georgia, we were both under our goal. When we left the truck at the trailhead, our packs had grown by over 5 pounds each.
With me as captain and Mike serving as my navigator, we made the 1,700 mile journey in two days of driving. When we reached the Bighorn town of Buffalo, we made our last minute stop at a local sporting goods store and purchased our licenses and some creature comforts for the long hike. We then stopped by the nearest office of the US Forest Service to fill out our backcountry camping permits and maybe score some intel on our destination. In as indirect a manner as I could, I inquired about the area we were camping. When I casually mentioned the basin that we were headed to, everybody in the room looked at each other in a knowing manner. No words were said, but the sideways glances they gave each other told me all I needed to know. This Georgia boy had in fact, broken the code and discovered their golden secret. Mike and I left the ranger station smiling and high fiving. Now, we knew for sure what awaited us at trek’s end. There would in fact be gold at the end of the rainbow.
And what a trek it would be. The trailhead was at an elevation of about 9,200 ft above sea level. To put that in perspective, most of our hometown lies around 1,800 ft elevation. The highest peak in Georgia is only 4,784 and even if we had wanted to go there and train, we still would not have been acclimated to the thinner air found in high elevations in the West.
I had spent months planning this trip. I had spent countless hours studying maps and Google Earth imagery. From ten states away, I had already familiarized myself with peaks, creek crossings, landmarks, lakes and trails. I had done all the brain work, now it was time for the leg work.
The first half of our journey took us over a well-used horse trail that led up a long, steadily climbing ascent then dropped sharply down into a gorgeous mountain lake choked with lily pads. I fully expected to see a moose feeding in the shallows but instead, was treated to a show of huge, black-mouthed brook trout feeding on electric blue dragonflies. Normally, the opportunity to fish such a picturesque setting and likely land the largest native brook trout I had ever seen would have me stringing up my rod and wetting a hook. But our destination lay beyond yet another climb and another lake, so we topped off our water bottles and left the brook trout to themselves.
The next leg of our journey gave us our first glimpses of what awaited us on the second day. We knew that on Day 2, we would leave the horse trail and make our way up a waterfall into the basin containing the golden trout lakes. After about five miles on the trail, we first spotted the waterfall at the head of a long, narrow lake. With shoulders already complaining under a heavy load and the effects of the thin air beginning to show, the sight of the rushing white water and steep grade did nothing to boost our spirits.
You can just see in the distance beyond the lake is the waterfall that we would be climbing the next day. Quite the intimidating scene.
In fact, the glimpse I got of what would be our path the next day weighed heavily on my mind that night. Altitude sickness manifests itself in various forms; headaches, nausea, lack of appetite, muscle fatigue and more. By the time we had our tents set up that evening, I was feeling all of these. When you are literally miles away from any remnants of civilization, with no cell phone service and no contact with the outside world, there’s no one that can come rescue you. We both felt so miserable after the first day, I honestly began to have doubts about completing our quest. I spent a lot of time that night in prayer, asking God to send me the strength and fortitude to continue.
The next morning brought a little relief. My shoulders at least, weren’t screaming for relief. I had no appetite, which is highly unusual for me. The thought of a warm breakfast burrito had no appeal to me. I forced myself to eat a little trail mix to give me energy, and then we broke camp and began the hike on Day 2. Only a few yards from camp, we forded a creek that was breathtakingly cold. It brought us a bit of excitement to realize that this frigid water had only hours before been in a lake almost a thousand feet higher and at the top of the waterfall that we were about to climb.
When we reached the waterfall, it was time to leave the horse trail and begin finding our own path. There was no marked trail, only periodic rock cairns placed by other adventurous souls who had sought out the lakes. The cairns probably saved us from following false leads and having to backtrack, but the only direction to go was up. And up. And up some more.
Picking out a safe path through boulder fields and scree with a 50 lb pack on your shoulders can be tricky. I was already thinking ahead a few days to coming back down this on tired legs with a heavy pack. It’s not a good place to twist a knee or break an ankle.
As much as I had dreaded it the day before, we had taken our time, we took frequent breaks, and before we knew it, we had reached the first lake. I had studied maps and already had a good idea for where we would find some level ground to set up camp. These lakes are in a chain, fed by melting snows on the western slopes of some 12,000 ft peaks. Each lake spills into a creek which feeds the next lake. I had chosen a spot on the shores of the fourth lake that would serve as base camp.
They say trout don’t live in ugly places. I tend to agree. This valley had been carved by glaciers very recently on the geologic scale. We were very near the treeline. As a matter of fact, we erected our tents between a small group of the very last trees available. Above camp, there were very few trees to be seen. Standing like silent sentinels, boulders, rounded by glacial forces dotted the landscape where they had been deposited when the last glaciers retreated at the end of the last ice age. It was a landscape unlike any I had ever seen, and it was awe inspiring in its rugged beauty.
As soon as we had established camp, we strung up our rods and got down to business. I had seen enough pictures of golden trout over the last 6 months to last a lifetime. Now I was ready to finally hold one in my hand.
I had tied us an assortment of flies for this trip. Conventional wisdom on golden trout that live in alpine lakes says they can be very finicky eaters and matching the hatch could be vital to success. I had tied an assortment of scuds, hoping to match the tiny freshwater shrimp that grow so prolifically in the hard granite bottoms of these crystal clear glacial lakes. But I never tied one on. I didn’t need to. The fish we were catching were positioned in the flowing current found at the inlets and outlets of the lakes where the current picks up, letting the flowing water bring their food to them.
Elk hair caddis and stimulators sufficed for dry flies, and beadhead pheasant tails and hare’s ear nymphs worked just fine under the surface.
We spent the first afternoon fishing within sight of camp. We caught dozens of brilliantly colored, hard fighting golden trout. They are colored so spectacularly, it boggles the mind. I had long thought that a spawning brook trout was the most beautiful of the cold water species, but it takes a back seat to Oncorhynchus Aguabonita.
Fishing only a few yards from camp was fantastic. Fish came every few casts on both nymphs and dries, whatever we felt like throwing. As the afternoon turned to evening, the raging waterfall behind camp began to look more and more inviting. Like all good fishermen, we wondered what the fishing was like above the falls. So around dinner that evening, we made plans to get an early start and explore above the falls the next day.
The next morning, temps were in the 40s. Despite the cool air, the mosquitoes were like something out of the Bible. We both had run out of Deet by the time we got back to the truck at the end of the trip. We packed lunch and our fishing gear, and scaled the smooth granite face of the falls to the outlet of lake number 5.
Mosquitoes or not, this place will put a smile on your face!
What we found was what we had dreamed of. Bigger water and bigger fish. Mike caught the first “big” fish of the trip, a hook jawed male about 14 inches in length. But I didn’t give him time to let it go to his head, a few casts later a brilliantly colored 18 inch golden torpedo inhaled my beadhead pheasant tail and the fight was on.
We fished at the outlet until the fishing slowed and then made our way up the lake. The scenery was something to behold. The jagged, black peaks in the distance reached skyward, beckoning us closer.
At the inlet of of the fifth lake, we came across three fishermen camping on the shore of the lake. Figuring they had to be as dedicated as we were to be up this far, we stopped to introduce ourselves and swap some stories. Like us, they were teachers, one from Texas, one Colorado, and the third from Alaska. They had learned of the lakes from a Wyoming fisheries biologist. They had struggled to catch fish down at the outlet of the lake and questioned us about Lake 4. We asked they minded if we fished below camp, and of course, they didn’t.
I’m sure glad they didn’t. The outlet of Lake 6 provided us with one of the most epic days flyfishing I’ve ever had the pleasure experiencing.
The water was thick with fish. After seeing what looked like a few gray caddis gulped from the surface, I tied on my trusty Elk hair caddis and began casting to the glowing forms gliding in the current.
There were times when I was standing on a rock in the middle of the outlet when I was within casting distance to at least 200 fish. If, after a few casts to a particular area, the fish got spooky and stopped taking my offering, I would simply turn and cast to another area, and by doing this, never ran out of rising fish. We were wet wading, and in the ice cold water, our feet were numb in seconds, but we didn’t care. I know I stood in one spot with my feet and ankles submerged for two hours in water that wasn't yet 50 degrees. I didn’t care, the fishing was that good. I had waited 20 years to catch these fish, and I wasn’t going to let frozen feet stop me.
It wasn’t like the proverbial fish in a barrel. In fact, the fish were rather picky. I think that for every fish I caught, I had 20 fish come up and inspect the fly in the crystal clear water, often following it downstream for several feet, only to turn away and refuse. Some of these fish could be enticed to strike by skating the fly away from them. Like predatory brown trout, I think it triggered some primordial urge to attack prey before it has a chance to escape.
We didn’t keep count. Not saying I don’t sometimes keep tally of fish caught, but I don’t let numbers determine the success of the day. But I’m confident that we both caught near a hundred fish apiece.
Regardless of how cosmic the fishing is, that great golden disc in the sky doesn’t care. It continues on its path from east to west without concern for the men fishing under its gaze. As the sun began to sink behind the peaks to our west, we returned to camp with a tired satisfaction after a day we knew we could never duplicate. After dinner, we discussed what to do the next day. Would we go back above the falls and try it again? Ultimately, we decided that no day could top the one we just had. We would break camp early in the morning, my birthday, and try to make it back to the truck.
The morning light on the mountains on our last morning was stunning in the mirror reflections of the lake.
Mike taking one last look at this alpine paradise
I had figured we could hike the 11 miles back to the truck in nine hours with a few rest breaks. The hike back to the lily pad lake wasn’t bad and we caught a little nap under the pines on its shore. But the next leg of the journey, the one we had been dreading ever since we came down it, was just brutal. Every single step for the next two hours was uphill and often steep. There was no wind and the mosquitoes were relentless. This is where a stubborn will and a stern constitution can overcome heaving shoulders and burning lungs. One step, then another. Repeat. Once we finally crested out in the meadow on top, we knew that almost every step for the next two miles would be downhill and that put a little boost in our weary legs.
We made it back to the truck four minutes shy of my nine hour prediction. We drove back to civilization, dreaming of hot showers and soft beds, only to find that the internet in most of eastern Wyoming was down and reserving a hotel room wasn’t going to happen. We drove east until we found a hotel that would give us a room, slept for about seven hours and then loaded the truck and pointed it towards Georgia. Less than 24 hours later, I was walking in my front door, bringing breakfast to my family.
As time passes, the pleasant memories of this trip are the easiest ones to recall. I don’t seem to remember the pain of the heavy pack and the sickness brought on by altitude near as well as when it was recent. But it was real. I know that. Maybe in a few years, my brain will have forgotten enough of the misery to think it’s a good idea to go back. Until then, this golden trip of a lifetime is just a fond memory.
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