I looked down at my mangled hopper in disbelief. A fresh fly I had tied on only twenty minutes ago now looked more like a lawnmower fatality than a convincing terrestrial. What caused the damage wasn’t a trophy trout or any kind of toothy predator. Rather, an army of fish barely able to fit this Chubby Chernobyl in their mouths had repeatedly delivered the damage. Normally, I’d be annoyed and looking for larger specimens. But these weren’t regular small fish, they were one of the rarest trout in the world.
***
A few weeks ago, on short notice and little sleep, my dad and I ventured into a drainage harboring one of the prettiest fish species you can find in freshwater: the California golden trout. For a trout nerd like me, venturing into the Golden Trout Wilderness has repeatedly stayed atop my monthly outdoor to-do list. Since moving into the general proximity of this secluded, 300,000+ acre fish haven, I simply haven’t made it up there. In early August, I decided that had to change.
After a quick rendezvous at LAX, we were on the road and heading northeast, ahead of the gnarly Friday afternoon traffic. A few hundred desert miles and one hell of a winding mountain road later, we found ourselves nearly 10,000 feet up in the Sierra Nevada. As dusk set in, we pulled into our campground and organized our gear, a task that is mostly muscle memory at this point. By the time darkness had fallen, our kits were dialed in and we settled down in the cool air of a late summer evening.
At first light, we were out of our tents and quickly on trail. I wanted to get to camp as early as possible so that we could spend the bulk of the day fishing. We kicked things off by climbing up and over a pass and crossing the PCT. Mt. Whitney stood just to our north, obscured by a nearby ridge. By late morning, we had covered around 10 miles and had arrived at the headwaters of Golden Trout Creek, a tributary of the mighty Kern River. After ditching our gear and wolfing down a quick lunch, we were on the water casting.
There’s an old adage in trout fishing that goes something like this: the easier the access, the tougher the fishing. The harder the access, the easier the fishing. Here, in a windy meadow amidst a stark landscape devoid of people, this proved to be true. Each pool held at least 6 small fish that were eager for protein. Within a few minutes, we had each netted our first golden.
Unlike some rare species – like Apache and Gila trout – which are only subtlety different than their distant rainbow cousins, these trout look strikingly unique. Their bellies are a bright red-orange and their sides are painted with a spectacular gold stripe.
We spent the rest of the afternoon picking our way through the meadows, catching endless fish. In this area, or at least on this day, any dry fly would do. The fish were hungry, aggressive, and almost all less than 8 inches. After a long afternoon of more dry fly eats than you could count, we headed back and set up camp.
***
On day two, we decided to keep exploring and headed up to a string of high alpine lakes. This was a risky gamble – we had read nothing about the lakes and didn’t know whether they would be a backcountry angler’s paradise or completely barren. Most isolated lakes in the Sierra (and in many Western mountain ranges) are naturally sterile. They are landlocked and don’t have enough nutrients to support fish year-round. Nowadays, many of these lakes have large populations of fish, but only due to stocking efforts in the early twentieth century. Willing to risk the odds, we loaded our packs and headed up.
This string of four lakes lies hidden behind a ridge on the border between the Golden Trout Wilderness and Sequoia National Park. When we arrived, the evidence of human use was minimal. There were no social trails around the lakes, and we were hard pressed to find a single footprint. Unfortunately, after several hours of exploring, we saw no evidence of trout. We didn’t spot a single rise or splash, nor did we catch a glimpse of anything swimming in the crystal-clear waters.
We regrouped for lunch, took a look at the map, and decided that we would camp on the lake, but spend the afternoon trekking over a nearby ridge and into the next drainage to see if there were any fish in another promising lake. There were no trails to this area, so the adventure would be done across steep terrain. Luckily, the Sierra underbrush is pretty nonexistent, making off-trail travel not only feasible but even enjoyable. On our route to the lake, we were treated to spectacular views of some of the highest peaks in the lower 48 and a sweeping vista of Sequoia and King’s Canyon national parks. By the time we hit the mystery lake, I was itching to fish.
The lake was large and the wind was howling. With sight fishing off the table, I tied on a deep indicator rig and started drifting it just over a drop-off. The waves on the surface were plenty strong to give the flies some action down below. Just when I started to worry that this lake might also be empty, my bobber went down hard. I reeled in a nice-looking golden hybrid – a beautiful fish, but not nearly as colorful as the native goldens from the day before.
We spent most of that afternoon fishing this isolated and lonely lake. As best we can tell, there are no trails that go to this area so any trip to this water requires a real off-trail adventure. The wind continued to pick up, and after another trout in the net and a few more missed fish, we decided to head back for dinner.
That night, the wind finally died down and we were greeted with an eerie silence. The sight of a pristine alpine lake, perfectly calm in the twilight, without a single rise or splash is a bizarre scene for someone so keyed in on identifying fish. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a lake with such a glassy surface. During dinner, I kept my eyes and ears open for the slightest rise but observed nothing. That night, there was a hard freeze – the first sign of fall at nearly 11,000 feet.
The next morning, we knocked out a quick 15 miles and were back to the car by lunch. It was an extremely quick trip into the Sierra and we barely scratched the surface of these watersheds. Upon return, I confirmed that those lakes had, in fact, been rid of fish. They were gill-netted in the early 2000s to prevent any genetic crossover with the pure strain goldens in Golden Trout Creek. As we drove back into the triple-digit temperatures of the desert, I had the same thought I almost always do after a successful outing: there will be a return trip soon.