The finale to the Bighorn Crags series has to end with a story, so, to really whet your appetite to go check out this sliver of heaven, I give you a true fisherman’s tale:
“Golden trout, eh? Never heard!” I responded when Ben first suggested the allure of the Bighorn Crags. Then continued, “What on earth do they look like (meanwhile Googling)? Ummmmmm, yeah, we’re going for those bad boys first!!”
I didn’t sleep as well as I normally do in the days leading up the trip. I read damn near every site and forum about golden trout. Thing is, there really isn’t much information out there; rightfully so since most deem them the most elusive of the trout species you can catch – reasoning why I wanted to hook into one in the worst way.
I psyched myself up. I can’t imagine how many times I brought it up – especially on the 20 hour drive out. Seriously, it’s kind of ridiculous I can get at times. Thankfully the boys were patient with me. I suppose we all were psyched in our own ways for what was in store.
We learned quickly why those goldens get the “elusive” title. Shoot me sideways for how grueling it is to get to the lakes and streams they’re in. I thought I was in shape, but, man, the elevation change was a bastard and a half! By the third day of the trip I already had a sweat stain on the brim and crown of my hat; I don’t sweat much, so despite all the baseball, softball, and fishing I’ve done over the years, this was the first time I ever had a stain come through from the noggin. Which is why getting to the lake and setting up camp was so rewarding.
Sapphire waters never felt so inviting on feet that burdened this beast and pack over two mountain passes; they were steaming hot, mired from dust and debris that finagled their way between sock and skin. As I peeled off my socks, the once compressed feet of mine got a blast of blood rush; though they were throbbing, the calming, cool air emanating from the immaculate, alpine lake wisped between my toes. This sensation subsided as soon as I inched my feet in the pristine water.
“Ahhhhh…”
It was mesmerizing – to the point that Matt had to nudge me from the spell I was put under.
“Let’s get after them!” he proceeded.
“Oh, uhhh, yeah…let’s do it. What are you working with?”
“White, floater.”
“That should do the trick. I’ll see what this ant has up its sleeve.”
“Correct.”
“Correct…Where you thinkin’?”
“Probably work my way up this southern shore. Let’s tag team it.”
“Correct.”
“Correct.”
We sloshed our way meticulously along the shore with little to show for it except for a couple cutthroats that Matt wooed from the depths. I’d be lying to tell you I wasn’t discouraged from all the effort. I wanted gold, dammit!
Impatience gave way to frustration, so I nipped that in the bud by taking my mind off of fishing and suggested to Matt that we head back to camp and have dinner before the night bite began. Wisdom illuminated a light bulb of encouragement after uttering those words. Why get so down from not being able to catch gold when we were fishing during the afternoon doldrums?
We got back to camp with the other boys (Ben and Soberg) boiling water for our freeze dried dinners. While in devour mode, we ruminated fly patterns, tactics, and the like. Since the southern side was dull, Matt, Soberg, and I elected to go left along the northern shore.
In typical fashion, Matt went well out in front of us but hung up on a spot that gave him a hit. I lead the charge with my fly rod and spincast rod in hand. It took all of 40 yards further along shore where I came around a slight bend and…
Boom!! – I was electrified by an adrenaline rush that bolted through my veins and fittingly froze me in stride at the sight of gold trolling around a fallen whitebark pine.
With zero room to back cast using a fly, I slowly and quietly put down the fly rod (to avoid spooking him) and elected to use my ultralight spincast setup still in hand. With a subtle flick of the wrist, my lure plopped five yards ahead along his swimming path – a perfect cast. Giving it a four count to sink to be at the ideal depth for him to see my lure, I began the retrieve. I reeled and gave a slight jig to invoke a tease. Nothing. I continued to reel. Not even a sniff.
What the F!
I was puzzled; he gave no acknowledgement of the lure by giving it even a slight chase. The bait shop back in the closest town said the trout out here will take anything; a crock I say! While shaking my head, I’ll gave it another cast. This time, though, I was just going to change the presentation of a slow retrieve with no jigging…Nothing! Okay, third time is the charm, right? I plopped it out perfectly again and “Sonofabi**! Where’s he going!” (he darted off to right with his gills flared).
Looking out ahead of him were two other Goldens swimming his way. In an instant he darted right at one of them and nipped it in the side, then zipped around to ready himself for the other. Making haste, that second one got smart and bugged out of this fight – so much for a wingman! The original, seeing as how he now had no backup in the fight, dipped out in a hurry.
It was a Mortal Kombat Flawless Victory; the feisty fella I had been trying to catch didn’t even lose a scale. To the victor go the spoils, and, with that, he swaggly swam back to the fallen log while spouting back at them over his shoulders, “BRING A SCHOOL NEXT TIME!”
Clearly, this Gold is the King of North! on his Whitebark Pine throne and I’d be damned if I didn’t catch him!
While he returned to investigate that no other intruders tried to sit on his throne, I sent out another cast in vain. Again, he paid absolutely no attention to it. He clearly had other things on his mind: his territory. Like the king of beasts (the lion), he, being the dominant male, has to monitor his territory. And monitor he did, for no longer than the time it took for me to make my last couple draws from my fishing reel, he swam off into the deep abyss.
Was I discouraged? Of course. Was I still determined? You bet your britches! Recalling memories of sightfishing for trout through the ice back home, I figured he would return to his throne – they have a tendency to patrol areas in lakes. It was a matter of when, than if.
The time spent waiting for his return was designated to assessing my surroundings better as well as his throne. I realized that just two steps behind me was a slight opening between two trees that clung to shore where I could sneak a back cast through. Because of this, I decided to give my fly rig the next opportunity. Instead of the ant that produced zero results earlier on the southern shore, I elected to tie on an olive, number 16 elk hair caddis with a dab of floatant in order to avoid any chance of snagging his submersed throne and, consequently, potentially spooking him.
While I was tying up, Soberg made his way by.
“Any luck?”
“No, but there’s a King Gold that just dipped out of here…I’m going to wait it out here, so go ahead and work up the shore.”
“Sounds good…”
A half hour passed. Soberg was up eighty yards dialing into some cutthroats. Matt still maintained his original position equally the same distance away down shore. Rises were beginning to grow more frequent as each minute passed. Surely, the king would return home for a bite to eat before turning in for the night…
Amongst the deep, sapphire-blue water, a familiar vibrant gold and red stripe slowly lurked along the bottom in the depths. It was vastly more colorful that the two intruders that had come through before. It was The King.
Go time!
My heart began to throb. Taking a deep breath, to calm the nerves, I flipped my fly out in hopes of putting it in between him and the log. I failed miserably – duffing the cast way off the mark. The horrendous gaffe brewed curses, but never bubbled out to deter the king’s triumphant return; fortunately, it was so off the mark that he didn’t spook and sustained his slow prowl along the bottom.
There was still time.
I made a quick inspection of the fly to make sure it was clear of any debris and quickly gave it a blow of air to dry off any water. Then had a quick mental check, “Let’s do this!” This time I paid more attention to the back cast as the fly seemed to have hung up on a limb behind me. That’s all it took as the line finessed between the two trees and rod flipped the caddis right on the X – (mental chime of Napoleon Dynamite’s “Yesss” while owning it on the tetherball court).
A circle of ripples began to emanate from the fly at the epicenter – forming a bullseye above King Gold. His proud swim back was stunned at the sight; it was exactly what he was looking for. I gave my line a subtle tug to put a little tease of life to the fly. In blink of an eye, he rocketed up from 10 feet below and crashed the surface where the fly was. I went bug eyed at the sight, for I knew what was coming next.
_______________________
For a split second he gingerly made his way back down into the water like he’d done the thousands of times he’s made a meal of a bug. This fly, though, was different – it fought back by jerking him in the opposite direction and sunk its razor tooth in the side of his mouth. With all his power, the King took to the depths – the problem, though, is every foot he plummeted down, the fly maintained it’s tension in the opposite direction. It made no difference when he tried rubbing the side of his mouth, where the hook was embedded, along the rocky bottom. He had to resort to taking evasive maneuvers.
In a sudden turn of events, King Gold propelled upwards. It was encouraging to him, for the fly had slightly let off tension – so much so that he leaped out from the water and took to the air. The gold markings along his sides reflected brilliantly from the slowly, setting sun. Such a display was this that the three shakes he made while airborne gave off the impression of a strobing, gold beacon. It was unmistakable sight on the lake; the royal, luminescence spectacle drew two wise men (Matt and Soberg) from afar to the scene he made.
His airness was fruitless, for the fly maintained its cling on the side of his mouth as he dove back down to the rocky depths. Another run along the bottom to loosen the fly’s firm grip was for naught. He took to the air again – nothing. Fatigue was beginning to take over.
Just as in any fight, King Gold made his last stand in his keep where his throne proudly resided. Back and forth he made his runs until he succumbed to the fly’s deceptive strength that slowly swam him into a net.
_______________________
“WOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!” I belted out with fly rod held aloft like a champion with his sword. I began shaking with excitement at the sight of this treasure I lured, hooked, fought, and landed. A grin the size of Montana moved like a ping pong volley between Matt and Soberg – now standing next to me.
“I couldn’t help but not come check out what you were working with after seeing how bright he was when he jumped,” Soberg chimed.
“Yeah, that was an unreal sight,” Matt affirmed.
“Wshhhhheeeeeew,” I exhaled. “Man, what a fight! I thought for sure I was going to lose him each time he jumped; I’m not used to how quick these guys move from the bottom to surface in the blink of an eye – definitely no lumbering largemouth! Must have been quite a spastic show seeing me move my rod from high to low (pulling him off the bottom to dragging him back in the water respectively). This definitely wasn’t his first rodeo.”
It wasn’t mine either.
