Season's End

I know we will have a few more good days before actual winter hits, but today is a reminder that it isn't far off.

Season's End

First snow, down to seven-thousand feet.

Blue-nosed trout feed,

fattening for the lethargic lean

winter months to come.

Last trip, spoiled by wind 

and falling leaves,

trick the trout to rise, 

then nothing,

as gray clouds and river water merge.

Another Backcountry Adventure. Hiking into the Brighton Lakes (Mary, Martha, and Catherine).

Lake Blanche in Big Cottonwood Canyon

I admit, we did this hike all wrong! Hiking at noon in 95+ degree heat on a bright sunny day was not the most comfortable of circumstances. I've been outdoors enough to know to plan for the unexpected--to a degree, so before we left home I threw in another large water bottle and made sure we had a water purifying straw just in case. I also mentioned something about sunscreen but didn't grab it. We could have used it. We used every drop of water and even drank warm water on the way back to the trailhead. This hike was all uphill. Several places on the trail had areas that felt like we were walking up stairs.

 

I've struggled with staying in prime shape this year, and have had a hard time finding the energy that I normally have in the summer. It's starting to play with my brain. I want to blame it on getting old, but I have a feeling it might be more than that. I have a lot of aches and pains this year and it is mentally effecting my motivation. I have a couple of mountain bike rides planned this fall, more hikes, as well as a 50 mile ride around Bear Lake. I better get with it!

My wife had suffered an injury to her left leg (possibly knee area) in a soccer game, and was in no condition to be hiking, but she wanted to go. I know she was in some pain. For a couple of old wounded people we made it and had fun too.

 

I heard there could possibly be brook trout in Lake Blanche so I carried my fly rod and some flies in. I wasn't disappointed. I caught eleven of them in about an hours time. They were all between eight and twelve inches but the colors were splendid.

Lake Blanche is a beautiful place. It is a popular destination. I found a measure of solitude, as I was the only one fishing while we were there.

Off to the west of Lake Blanche is Lake Lillian and another small lake. We hiked over to the area of the man-made rock dam and looked over the hill and down upon the two lakes. I thought about hiking down to the lakes and seeing if they also held brook trout, but to be honest, I was pretty tired and still needed to hike back out.

The lake surface was calm and reflections of Sundial Peak and the surrounding pine trees reminded me of a beautiful landscape painting. Every once in a while a very slight gentle breeze would ripple the lakes surface and push small cumulus clouds above the ridgeline.

The trail signs and the hiking book said that the mileage to the lake is 2.6. It seemed longer than that. I don't know if it was the constant up hill steepness of the trail or the heat, but it just seemed longer. It's a beautiful hike and the Lake Blanche, Sundial Peak, and the brook trout made it all worth it for me.

 

When we reached the car, we drove immediately into town and bought a couple of ice cold Gatorade drinks and thankfully drank them as we drove home.

Blacksmith Fork River Browns Have Butter-Yellow Bellies

Small water has intrigued me from my youth. I did go through a phase where I wanted to fish the big water for big trout (you know the sophisticated trout of the Henry's Fork), but my real love is the small stuff. Trout in the 10 to 14 inch range are real treasures for me. They are most times skittish, often hungry and willing, and always handsome--and I guess cute and pretty if they are females.

 

 

I was talking today with a gentleman that asked me if I was getting out. I told him that I try to get out when I have a day off from work, and that my wife and me have been using it as a "date." He thought that was funny. I explained to him that as we drive to the destination we get a chance to talk. We get to share in the beauty of the outdoors, and that both of us have always had an affinity for creeks, streams, and rivers. Our outing sometimes involve a lunch or dinner together.

 

I have to admit to some selfishness, however, as I'm the one who is fly fishing. We do talk a little while I'm fishing, and we even hold hands, sometimes, while we walk the trails to and from the water. It really is like a date.

 

My wife has taken on the responsibility of documenting our adventures with a camera--I do have to have evidence that I actually catch fish (even if they are little ones). She likes to have me in the pictures, and I like to have close-ups of the trout. So there is a little mix of both.

 

 

WET WADING ON A HOT SUMMER DAY

The bandito stealing a small brown from the water.

I was able to sneak off on July 4th for a little fly fishing adventure on a local water. The week long 100 degree temperatures sent me to the water for some wet-wading. I expected the river water temperature to be warmer than usual, but it felt too warm. I've been to the river in mid to late August on hot years and witnessed brown trout acting very lethargic, and also finding a few that had died. I think this may be another one of those years where we will lose some trout to warm, less oxygenated water. I saw several fish that already looked to be stressed. I decided to stop fishing sooner than I wanted to hopefully not stress the fish anymore than they already seemed to be.

 

I managed a couple of fish and had a few that took a peek at my offering, but for the most part, the fish just didn't want to play.

 

I did enjoy the wet-wading even though I expected cooler water. All of the typical places that snow melt runoff enters the river were pretty low. The lower water and large exposed rocks sure heat up quick and add to the waters warmness. This particular river has a lot of brown trout and the brown trout seem to handle the warmer water temps a little better than other species of trout. This river also runs through a canyon with a good gradient. The riffles and cascades keep the water churned and oxygenated. Hopefully, this will help keep the majority of the trout alive until some cooler weather comes our way. The Wasatch Front is entering the hottest time of the year. This makes me a little nervous for my fishy friends.

Wet-wading on a hot day is the only way to fish.

Typical brown trout for this river--although, bigger ones can be found.

Fly fishing always puts a smile on my face!

I might have to start fishing some of the higher elevation streams where the nighttime and daytime temperatures are about 10 to 15 degrees cooler. No reason to add to the stress of the fish by chasing them up and down the river.

Monday Evening with my Wife and the Stonefly Family

Average brown trout for this water.

Colorful brown caught with large dry stonefly.

A little hungry and willing rainbow.

Low, clear water and skittish trout.

Caught right behind the large rock.

After the recent rains, I wasn't too sure the river would be in fishable condition. I expected it to look like weak chocolate milk. But it was low and clear. When the water is this low and clear, most anglers find the trout a little too difficult to approach, but with a little care, it is possible to tease a few takers.

This is the time of year the large stoneflies (Pteronarcy californica) are hatching on this particular stream. I found numerous dry, split nymph shucks on exposed rocks and willow stems. I searched for any adults and could not find any. This told me that the hatch had already occurred.

I've always had good fishing with large dry adult patterns even a couple of weeks after the hatch, so, I tied on a number six Twisted Foam Stone and began to cast it into likely spots. It wasn't long before a brown jumped completely out of the water trying to take my offering. A couple of drifts after that, and I had a sweet looking brown in my hands.

And so the evening went. I missed hooking more than I caught, But I caught several browns and one small rainbow.

The highlight of the evening was watching the only real adult stonefly drop out of the far side brush and onto the water. It fluttered around in a seam and I watched as a 12-inch brown rose up to eat it. The brown missed on its first attempt and then circled around and ate it on the second attempt. I looked back at my wife and said, "Watch this, I'm going to catch one right here!" I cast into the seam and a trout immediately rose to the offering. Just as had happened with the natural stonefly, the trout missed. I sent the fly right back into the seam and hooked the trout on the second try. I don't think I've never had this type of perfect set-up with a stonefly before. I don't think it could have been scripted any better.

FREMONT'S SECRET

Steve Alexander slid his kayak into the water of Great Salt Lake where Ogden Bay adds fresh water to the brine. He held his paddle across the body of the kayak and nestled his own body into the kayak seat. With a few quick and powerful strokes, he left the shore and was headed for his destination--Fremont Island.

He dipped the left paddle into the water and stroked it backwards spinning the front of the kayak toward his entry point. He sat motionless. The water was smooth. He could see the Wasatch mountains. To the left was Ben Lomond peak still dressed with the last remaining winter snow. Across the divide and to the right, Lewis peak, then, farther right, Mount Ogden.

In his mind, he remembered hiking to each of these summits. The wildflowers on the Ben Lomond trail had been exceptional the year he hiked the summit. Deep winter snow had provided blooms late into August and large patches of snow were still hiding in the shadows of south facing slopes. He hiked the trail from the trail head on the divide. It was eight or nine miles to the peak. The sixteen plus mile round trip was tiring, but the adventure was worth it. The white mountain goats he saw, like small cumulus clouds, seemed to float along the rock ledges. Only those who are willing to hike get a chance to see such sights.

Today is a different adventure, he thought, as he took one last glance at the narrow strip of land where most of Utah's civilization is found. A quick twist of his body, a few paddle strokes on the left side of his kayak and Steve was gliding toward Fremont Island. Folklore and rumors from the past had long been dispelled. Giant whirlpools and subterranean rivers leading to the Pacific Ocean had been scientifically proven to not exist, and spotting's of a large lake monster had died away.

As Steve paddled toward the Island, he thought back to the history lessons he was taught in secondary school as well as college. He knew that the island is named for the famed United States government explorer John C. Fremont. He had learned that Fremont was more of a pathmarker, than pathfinder, as many of the trails and routes that Fremont took had been traveled for years by well known trappers and mountain men. Still, his explorations did lead him into unknown regions and Fremont and the four men who accompanied him in an eighteen foot long "India-Rubber" boat are possibly the first white men to set foot on this island on September 9, 1843. In 1826, James Clyman, Moses Harris and two other men had made a trip around Great Salt Lake in a bullboat: a frame of lashed willow branches covered with stretched animal hide. There is no documentation suggesting that these mountain men visited any of the islands of Great Salt Lake, so Fremont gets credit for being the first white man on Fremont and Antelope.

Steve chuckled to himself as he thought of Fremont's situation. The boat Fremont and his partners used was an air-filled vessel made of waterproof linen configured in eighteen inch diameter cylinders. The waterproofing of the linen and seams provided by the rubber. It was filled by means of a bellows.
Steve remembered being taught that the five men placed their scientific gear in the boat, waded out through the shallows and then climbed aboard. Approximately half way to the island a couple of the chambers began to lose air and the men kept the frail boat floating by frequent use of the bellows. Steve smiled as he thought of the ease with which he now traveled to the island in his modern polyethylene kayak.

When Fremont and his party reached the island, they were disappointed with what they found. The island did not abound in game, trees, or flowing springs. It was quite barren and dry. They named the island Disappointment Island. In 1850 Captain Howard Stansbury renamed the island in honor of Fremont. The men hiked to the highest point and Fremont and Charles Preuss surveyed the lake and its islands with a captain's spy glass and drew a map. While the men were at the summit of the island a cross was carved in the rock. It was cut by a member of the Fremont party. In fact, many believe it was Kit Carson who carved it because of his journal entry: "We ascended the mountain and under a shelving rock, cut a large cross which is there to this day." Why the seven inch cross was carved in the rock remains a mystery. Steve often wondered if it was for a religious reason or some other purpose.

Steve remembered hearing a story about Fremont leaving the end cap of the spy glass near the top butte of the island, and that other visitors to the island have searched for it in vain. In college, he took a course on Utah's history and learned that the lens cap was actually found sometime in the 1860s by Jacob Miller a member of a family that ran livestock on the island. The lens was misplaced and it's not known whether it was misplaced on the island or off the island.

Steve looked forward and thought the island looked like a submarine sitting in an inland sea. As he got closer to the island he began to see details come into focus. The sagebrush and outcroppings of rock began to take on color. As Steve viewed the shoreline he suddenly noticed the distant figure of a man. Who could it be? he thought. The island is only visited by a handful of people each year. Steve quickly scanned the visible shoreline for a boat but saw nothing.

Steve quickly paddled the kayak into the shallow water near the rocky shore of the island, turned along the shore and paddled toward the man. The man was motionless. Steve had the feeling the man was waiting for him.

"How ya doing?" Steve shouted. The man tipped his head back, raising his chin in the air and then dropped it back down. Steve paddled the kayak as close to the rocks as he could so he could get a better look at the man. The man was dressed in jeans with a khaki long sleeve shirt. His modern, light-weight hiking boots looked to be worn, but fairly new. His face was hidden in shadows cast from the bill of his ball cap, but Steve could make out facial hair and a long overgrown mustache.

"How'd ya get out here?" Steve asked, where's your boat?"
"It's on the other side of the island, the man said. "I hiked over the butte to this side. You know, getting my exercise."
"Yeah, I've given my arms a workout paddling this kayak out here. I think I'll do a little hiking myself," Steve said.  He tossed his paddle on shore and climbed out of the kayak. He grabbed the end of the kayak and pulled it up on the rocks picked it up and carried it a few yards to a sandy washed out area near some sagebrush. Steve stretched his arms toward the sky, yawned with an opened mouth and then twisted his torso from side to side.

(To be continued...)