Cutthroat Lake Report: Another Magical Time in Another Magical Place

I was up near Cutthroat Lake the other day, so I stopped by, took the rod out of the truck, and fished from the bank for awhile. The lake was calm, and I saw a cruising fish, but it was already too far past me for a cast. Then, a few minutes later, it came back. I had just cast out a light colored streamer, so I stripped it in quick and got it in front of the fish--and it came over and took it. I was feeling pretty proud of myself when it turned on the jets and ran right off the hook.

Time to get back to Cutthroat Lake and give it a real try.

On the way up, this doe and her fawn crossed the road in front of me, then stopped. I stopped too and looked over where they had come out of the trees and saw this fawn's twin still waiting to cross. I got out of its way and headed on to the lake.

It was another hot August day. I started with the muddler I still had on and worked over to the east shore. There I looped on a sinking tip, tied a red Matuka streamer on the tippet, and started to troll along the drop off.

The line slowly tightened on my finger and put the brakes on the float tube. Really, I thought for a second that I had snagged something. Sometimes that's a metaphor, and sometimes it's a fact. I set the hook hard and finally felt life at the end of the line. This big hen, heavy with eggs, did a lot of head shaking, and took one long deep run, but mostly it was like reeling in a bag of cement. But she sure was pretty.

As she swam away she reminded me, with her big belly, of a marine iguana.

As I was getting reorganized I managed to get the matuka hooked to my wading boot where I couldn't reach it, so I broke it off and tied on a woolly bugger. I proceeded to troll around the lake, and tried two or three different flies.

It was a lovely time out on the water.

I didn't find any more fish, but I found solitude, beauty, and peace.

I got back to the truck as the evening was deepening into dusk. I wasn't ready to go yet. I was hoping for an evening rise. I've been there on other August evenings when the wind dies, the lake becomes like a mirror, and one or two, then three and more big fish begin sipping bugs off the top. Now I saw some caddis fluttering around, and callibaetis began to dance over the water.

I took off the sink tip and tied on a little caddis dry. I drifted around and waited to see what would happen. The callibaetis were thick. Dragonflies, and, later, many, many bats, sliced and diced their way through them. And the sky put on a show.

But the wind didn't die. And the fish didn't come up. But when I finally kicked over to the takeout I wasn't disappointed in the least. And when the big old moon rose up over the mountain it just confirmed what I already knew: it had been another magical time in another magical place.

Reflections on June, Blogging, and The Slam

June was a busy month. It was busy with work and family activities, and it was busy with fishing trips. I fished a lot. Fourteen times over the month I was at one lake or another for an average, I suppose, of five hours each time. That's more than usual. At least by a little bit.

The event that increased my number of trips in June was the Brown Drake hatch. (I've been calling them "Hex," a bow to the local common name. But they're Brown Drakes. Big, beautiful Brown Drakes.) This year we hit the high end of the cycle, and the hatch was, as I've noted on this blog several times, spectacular.

Some people don't understand this, but in the same way I wouldn't think of missing an important event like Christmas, for example, I also wouldn't think of missing a natural event like this hatch. It's the same reason I want to go outside when there's a thunderstorm, or a full moon, or a flight of Sandhills passing by high overhead. These are special moments in life, and I am enriched when I can observe and celebrate them. I would go further to say that with man-made events like holidays it can be a struggle to escape their commercialization and cheapening, and to discover and experience their true meaning. But the natural events all around us come to us pure and unadulterated. Our spirits hunger for what they provide so abundantly: reality and authenticity.

So I went several days in a row, not just to be there for the hatch, but to be a part of the hatch. That was awesome in itself, but the hatch also coincided with another awesome natural phenomenon, the lengthening of days leading up to the summer solstice. For me, that was a life-changing experience. I lost myself in an endless hatch on an eternal evening. It was wonderful.

It also meant I got home late after those trips, and got behind in my posts. And, with the other things I was busy with, I failed to respond to many of your comments. I really appreciate your comments, and I apologize for my lack of response. I'll try to do better.

Mark has raised a good question several times. He wonders how I manage to fish all those lakes all alone. First, I avoid the lakes that are really crowded. Second, the truth is that I am seldom the only one at the lakes I fish, although that does happen occasionally. When Trout Lake is "crowded," for example, there may be seven or eight other boats and watercraft out. But it's a big lake, and there's plenty of room for everybody. And, I confess, when I frame my photos I leave out the other boats, and the RV's stacked up in the campgrounds. At Cutthroat Lake there are three homes along the waterside, but you'll seldom if ever see them in my shots. I prefer--the photographer's prerogative--to focus on the wild and scenic aspects of the places I fish. That is the true essence of those places, and that's what I seek when I go there.

I'm fortunate to be where I am with the fishing opportunities I have. When we moved here I knew there would be good fishing, but it has turned out even better than I expected. I'm also fortunate that I have been able to make fishing not just a hobby or a pastime but a way of life. It wasn't always that way, especially during my sojourn in Chicago before we came here. I was lucky to fish five or six times a year. I remember sitting in the apartment surfing the web looking at all the beautiful places I wished I could fish, and all the beautiful trout I wished I could catch. And now I'm here, and I'm catching them.

That is what I want to show on this blog. I don't want to sell anything, or compete with anybody. I simply want to celebrate fly fishing, the natural world, the beauty of trout, and the joy of connecting with them through skill and experience. I hope this blog depicts in a simple and straightforward way what I was hungering for back in my Chicago days, and what I am so grateful for now.

Finally, June provided me with the opportunity to try for that Grand Slam again: four species of trout caught in a month. I missed it in May, but this time I got it done. It says little about me or my skills, but it speaks volumes about my wonderful home waters.

Cutthroat Lake Report: The Key

It's warm again. It's been awhile since you've been there. Time to see how the cutthroat are doing.

The lake is June beautiful. A fitful wind comes and goes.  You hope for some risers, but none are to be seen. So you begin a long troll. Down the flower-bedecked shoreline...

Past the islands...

Across to the cliffs...

And past the gnarled remnants of a long ago fire.

You've tried a variety of flies, and found nothing. Back at the west end you look for risers again, throw a muddler along the snags and deadfalls--just in case--but move nothing.

Some people come to swim. One young guy asks you how you're doing. He says, "I hear woolly buggers are doing well." Woolly buggers. You haven't tried a woolly bugger. You tie on a black one with a clear glass bead head and grizzly hackle. You start up the shoreline again.

Halfway up, the lake opens, and the wooly bugger is the key. A big cutthroat pulses at the end of the line. He's beautiful. You let yourself go with the camera.

That feels good. The wind calms and you tie on a dry and bob at the west end hoping for risers, thinking about the colors of that fish. Some callibaetis, some caddis. A few fish rise once or twice, then disappear. Your hopes rise, too.

Then the sky darkens and a rain squall blows through. The rain quits, the wind stays. Dusk settles in early.

So you tie that bugger back on and go back for more. It comes through for you again. You have to buck the wind to get back to the truck. But that's alright with you.

Cutthroat Lake Report: Inscrutable

When my niece Emily was two years old, her father, a religion and philosophy major, taught her a trick. He would ask, "Emily, what is the nature of reality?" And she would answer, "It's inscrutable!"

So is Cutthroat Lake and its trout. I gave it another good shot on Monday. It was a rainy day, and I thought a change of weather might make a difference.

There were plenty of bugs, including Callibaetis. I even slapped a bug off my neck and discovered it was a damselfly nymph. In just days this lake will be crawling with damselflies.

So where were the good fish? It's inscrutable.


I tried everything you can do with a floating line, which is the way I'd prefer to catch them. I trolled, using some flies I cadged out of my steelhead box, big meaty flies, purples and blacks and lots of flash. I trolled beadheads. I trolled nymphs. Yes, including a damselfly nymph. I trolled bead head nymphs. I trolled a muddler.

I trolled, and had plenty of time to enjoy the scenery. Which was exceptional.

The breeze was intermittent, and when the lake calmed a bit I fished dries. There were no rises to cast to, and my offerings apparently held no interest for the fish. The swallows, on the other hand, loved everything I laid out. They were swarming the bug swarm, and the air was full of the sound of their clicking beaks. Later, nighthawks joined them, all swirling around my head. It was wonderful.

When the breeze would pick back up, I'd hit the trolling trail again.

At dusk I settled on a little muddler and worked the shorelines. I had a splashy take that must have been a teenager at least, but it came off. I finally caught another baby.

So I didn't break through the inscrutability this time. But, as I'm sure you know, I had a great time trying.

Imagine if the nature of reality--and trout lakes--was scrutable. That would take all the fun out of it.

Cutthroat Lake Report: Going for the Grand Slam

I slipped away to Cutthroat Lake before the month of May could slip away. I was hoping to catch a fine Lahontan Cutthroat, thus completing the Grand Slam in May: Brook, Rainbow, Brown, and Cutthroat. I was planning a big beautiful photo set for the blog.

So I gave it a good shot. I trolled a lot. A lot. In the wind, and usually against it--if there's any lake where the wind is even more contrary than at Trout Lake, it's this one. And I waited for the chance that the lake would calm at dusk, and some good fish would come into the west end and start sipping mayflies. They've done it before, and I've caught them.

Everything fell into place. The lake calmed.

Midges swarmed, and there were even a good number of Callibaetis on the water.

But the good fish stayed down. Oh, they'd come up way out somewhere else and eagerly suck in a bug, but that was just so you'd know they were there, but were ignoring you and your petty dreams.

So I'd wait at the west end, then troll awhile, then come back and wait some more.

Vanity. All is vanity.

I did catch a fish. Just one. He and some other kids were chowing down on the bugs at the west end, with no fear of competition from the big folks.

I checked his throat, and there was no sign of red. I did a little research on the internet to see if I could find out whether juvenile cutthroats have a red slash, or whether it develops later, but I couldn't find anything conclusive. So I compared it to a juvenile Rainbow caught at Trout Lake, and on the basis of that scientific method I believe it's a cutthroat. Those are Lahontan spots.

So, if I'm right, I did meet my goal of catching four species of trout in May. But this little guy simply doesn't fit my concept of that big beautiful photo set.

Guess I'll just have to try again in June.