‘Aside from a small backpack, the hike up is a familiar routine. On arrival, the lake is mirror still, with my first disturbance sending a ripple that slowly radiates to the opposite bank. My tackle is minimal; a 4-piece, 4-weight rod, small box of assorted flies.’
In mid-September the summer crowds in our Colorado town have thinned and familiar faces now outnumber tourists. As the days shorten, the yellows, browns and orange tones of autumn creep across the valley floors and adjacent slopes. I am woken by the sound of rain, and as the sky lightens, low clouds hang just above town. Nothing suggests an imminent improvement, so after pulling on a rain jacket we set out for our regular morning walk; me and Willow, our one year-old border terrier. Fifteen minutes later, heading up-valley on a single-track trail, I clear the cloud and get a view of the ridge and peaks to the north. They are white, the precipitation having fallen as snow two thousand feet higher. As it is every year, this first snow is the sudden and stark reminder that winter is coming and that I still have many “summer” activities on my to-do list. Trails to hike or ride; scenic roads to drive; streams to fish; and more mundane but necessary domestic tasks. The relaxed pace of recent days assumes a new urgency.
Two days later, after a warm and sunny day, all traces of snow have gone. Leaving the house before daylight, it is a short 8 mile drive to a nearby trailhead. Still only half light, I set out to hike a circular 15 mile route of “Jeep” and single track trails, topping out at our nearest thirteen thousand foot peak. Teocalli Mountain, 13,208 feet. The first four or five miles are a gentle climb, with the view ahead opening occasionally to reveal Teocalli with the sun moving lower down the flanks. The final three thousand feet of altitude are gained in as many miles. With no respite and now in the sun, I am sweating hard, but above the treeline a steady breeze chills me and I pull out the jacket I had shed an hour earlier. The final half mile is across bare rock; loose stones and boulders ranging in size from a fist to a fridge. Caution is warranted. The summit view includes the valley I ascended, and several peaks of 13 and 14,000 feet five or ten miles to the north. Spectacular, but the bare and exposed summit never encourages a lengthy stay. The descent of course is much easier and faster, mostly a twisting single track but with plenty of loose rock and roots to demand your focus.
This hike is an annual ritual for me. For many years my partner was our dearly departed old weimaraner. Today Willow is making her debut. She finishes tired, but not as tired as her owner. The only help she needed was the water I carried and a lift up the bigger boulders near the summit. Her reward on our descent was to flush several small groups of blue grouse from among the pines. Solitude and space may be the greatest gift of these mountains. Today we saw more grouse than people. On the five hour trip, we passed one hunter and two fellow hikers, and several campsites close to the trail in the first and last miles.
The following day-warm and bright again-my “summer” reward was to ride my 1963 Triumph motorcycle. 60 to 70 miles on quiet two-lane roads at the bike’s ideal cruising speed of around 50 mph. Patriotism cannot blind me to the reality that this machine has not been the epitome of reliability, but today she was on her best behavior.
Where I live we are spoiled for backcountry access, with several trails starting directly in town. One such, Green Lake Trail, climbs 1,700 feet in four-and-a-half miles, ending at a small lake sitting beneath a 12,000 foot ridge.
It can be linked with other trails to access countless miles of remote backcountry, but most users treat it as an out and back. By local standards, a stiff rather than severe climb, a round trip of two hours for a fit runner, three or four hours for a typical hiker. In summer it is popular with both locals and visitors, although “busy” may still only be 50 visitors a day.
At the end of the trail, Green Lake sits in a glaciated bowl, near circular and about 200 yards in diameter. Fed by considerable snowmelt in spring and early summer, springs supplement this so that a modest stream outflows all year round. The downstream side of the lake has been reinforced by beaver dams and subsequent willow growth, and the lake maintains a very constant level. Two or three feet of ice will cap the lake in winter, with many more feet of snow settled atop.
Sparse though vegetation and insect-life appears, the lake hosts a healthy population of cutthroat trout. They wear the black spots and red slash typical of the species, but carry a lot more red than a typical stream cutthroat. Whether this reflects some cross breeding of the original stock, or an adaptation to decades in this unique and isolated environment, I cannot say. But a beautiful and distinctive fish they certainly are. In the clear, weed-free water, it takes only a moment to spot fish cruising ten or twenty feet from the bank. A typical fish is 8-9 inches. Bigger specimens may hold in the deeper water, perhaps sustained by a cannibalistic instinct, but more likely is that harsh conditions impose a modest, natural limit.
The trail is wooded for most of its length. Willow and I hike it ten or a dozen times a year, and with an early morning start we’ll have birds and squirrels as ubiquitous company, deer regularly, and occasionally a bear or a moose. Though I never fail to spend a few minutes watching the trout, in two decades I have only fished the lake a handful of times, and only once seen another angler. No proper explanation for this, other than that this is a “dog walking” trail for me, and I am spoiled for local streams to fish. Flowing water is always my preference. But a fishing visit is on my to-do list this year, and has now become a priority.
No need for an early start today. An hour or two of warming sun on the lake will be welcomed by fish and fisherman. Aside from a small backpack, the hike up is a familiar routine. On arrival, the lake is mirror still, with my first disturbance sending a ripple that slowly radiates to the opposite bank. My tackle is minimal; a 4-piece, 4-weight rod, small box of assorted flies and a shirt with pockets holding the familiar ancillaries. I fish in my running shoes and quick-dry trousers, the water temperature a biting contrast to the warm air. I wade thigh deep and adjust my back cast to avoid the willows.
There is no sophistication to this fishing. Casts are made in the general vicinity of fish, nothing more targeted. Flies are small, dry or at least unweighted, loosely imitating ants, beatles or nymphs. The fish move quickly to the fly but exhibit a natural caution. In the clear, still water, this is in full view. Several fish approach to inspect the fly, but stop inches short. The smallest twitch of the fly may elicit a strike, but regardless, soon enough a fish will succumb to curiosity or competition. Strike, a splashy but brief fight, and within a few seconds the fish has been unhooked and darts back to safety. A minute to let the disturbance subside, and the process is repeated, casting to a different quadrant.
Willow patrols the bank, occasionally wading but not minded to swim. The chipmunks and other small rodents hold more appeal to her than the fish. Although I have the day to spare, I only fish for 30 minutes, with five or six fish unhooked. A couple more were missed, my strike made in early anticipation as I watched the fish approach the fly. Fellow anglers may view this limited fishing as strange, a lack of commitment perhaps. In these wild, remote locations, the setting is my primary reward, and the knowledge that wild trout thrive is more important than a headcount of conquest.
Late September will mark the peak for foliage colours at this altitude. Hopefully there are several more weeks of autumn to enjoy, with many warm and blue days, but the wintery reminders will also become more regular and severe. I need, and intend, to make the most of this window.
Writing & Images Paul Adams Colorado – September 2022
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