I got a late start on Saturday morning. Waking at 8AM, head aching from a late night of impromptu beer pong just seven hours earlier, I was slow to get out of bed and even slower to get the coffee started, even opting to take a “hare’s pace”, napping out another hour and a half before waking shocked and focused to at least get out of the apartment. I have had this trip planned for more than a year now - after attempting June 6th in 2019 but having unfavorable hiking conditions for a harsh winter before - I was eager to get it started. Everything was packed, I donned my ranger shirt and vidda trousers and headed out the door.
Winding down the highways and canyons of Central Utah, one begins to build anticipation on what’s to come. It’ll take me 3 hours of hiking to get to the lake, which gives me 4ish hours of fishing before sundown. What should I fish? I’ll have to check the rocks… Will I need my snowshoes? God, I hope I don’t need my snowshoes. The mind was racing faster than my car, never passing more than 5 over the speed limit - a cautious habit built from one too many accidents in my life - completely ignoring the podcast, Dan Carlin’s Hardcore History, thinking only about the mileage I’ll make, if I will be alone, and what to do when I got there.
As I set out on the trail, a dark omen approached not 5 minutes away from my car; one of the worst damn dogs I’ve ever come across in my life. I’m pretty good with animals too, but this old boy - some kind of mutt mix of a blue heeler and lab - thought my ankles looked more like chew toys than human appendages, strafing in and out of my vision and gnawing at my legs. A few choice words with the owner were enough to calm the situation and get the dog tethered, then I continued along the winding path towards the first switchbacks, marking the steepest accent of my 6 mile hike.
The trail wrapped up into the mountain range above Moon Lake, moving into one of the thickest lodgepole pine forests I’ve ever seen - despite obvious efforts of clearing troublesome trunks, there were mere inches between trees that stretched up to 20 feet towards the clouds. Even further down the trail, aspen colonies and Ponderosas towered more than twice the height of the aforementioned growth, looking more like city buildings scraping desperately to escape the shadows of their brothers and gain access to prime photosynthesis real estate. Following what felt like an eternity, I was finally met with a flattening of the trail almost exactly halfway to my destination - an overlook along the ridge saddle looking back towards the mighty Moon Lake, now appearing no larger than a blueberry held at arms distance. Working down a steeply gradient hill, I found it; a true gateway to the High Uintas Wilderness. I have long felt that the Uinta mountain range - and more specifically, the Wilderness designated area within it - is one of the few magical places left of this now-gentrified planet. As I opened the gate and sealed the public chain-link lock behind me, I felt the madness of the world leave me. All the talk of plagues, politics, work, homework, other work… Everything left my consciousness, and the weight rendered me elated, all I could do in reverence was remove my sunglasses to gaze upon the clear water river rapids crashing below me, letting out an audible murmur: “Wow.”
The feeling of a childhood fairytale continued for about a mile, the scenery becoming more and more intriguing right up until I realized the trail turned from a well-traveled dirt road into a rock-laden and dry dredge upward. Two miles passed with great disdain, thinking to myself why people may call this trail “Difficult”. Most describe the beginning as the worst part, but I couldn’t disagree more: All but the last 2.5 miles are an incredible trip, but as I approached the more rugged point of the trail, all I could think of was the youthful nagging of stereotypical road trip children in the back seat every 2 minutes, “Are we there yet?”
I was beginning to reach exhaustion, my pack probably a bit too heavy coming in just shy of what I’d guess to be 40lbs when I finally saw the familiar glitter of liquid reflection sunlight. I had finally made it, and a route sign sealed the deal. First, I dropped my pack; sitting on the rocky shoreline to breathe a heavy sigh of relief. Taking the last gulps of the liter of water I packed up with me, I looked forward to getting freshly filtered replenishment directly from the pristine alpine lake. Melting snow-crested the tops of the marigold and honey-colored rocks of the mountains surrounding basin, like icing on a carrot cake, myself being swallowed into the middle of it all.
Once I finished catching my breath and taking in the views I set out to find a camp, set up, and get to what I came for: fly fishing. The site itself was a beautifully maintained primitive site, with a large rock seat acting as both couch space and a good place to start cooking grub. A firepit large enough for a small group or a single individual wasn’t far from the table rock, with several trees spaced just perfectly for hammocks and tenters alike. I set my system up quickly and with precision. Many times committing to this exercise has left me knowledgeable about where things go wrong, how to make a lay more enjoyable, and to just get the most out of my hammock and tarp. Not too tight, not too loose, my little outpost was set; So I headed towards the lake with the water filter in one hand, fly rod in the other, and pockets stuffed with a box of lures, gink floatant, and a bottle of quick-dry.
Just as I arrived to the shore, a gale took force against me directly opposing my position on the shore and forcing me to cast nowhere but into it. Being an absolute rookie in the affair - and to fly fishing in general - I did the best I could just to get the rig out there - my first was a nymph and dry fly combo - finally landing a good cast but having excess fly line tangled around my leg and boot gaiter. I was distracted for just a moment until I looked up to see a fantastic Cutthroat Trout nearly leap vertically out of the water engulfing my dry fly! I tried to set, but there was too much line tangled around me to get it in time, and I instead whipped the lures off my tippet and into oblivion. 2 flies down already… The rest of the night was filled with myself fighting against the wind, losing yet another dry to a poor cast, and a streamer on a bad strip straight into a submerged log. Four flies down and the wind taunting my foolhardy ambition, I gave mother Gaea the win and began to make dinner.
As my water finished boiling, I poured it into my Next Mile Meal’s “beef tacos”, and headed towards the lakeside again, this time to watch the sunset as I ate my Mexican cuisine. Of course, right as I sat atop the rock, the wind died down, and fish began surfacing all over the lake erupting into a feeding frenzy that lasted some 30 minutes as twilight came into full swing. I gazed not in envy or jealousy, but bliss. Losing lures, flies, streamers, and nymphs, all that is irrelevant when you remember what part you serve here in the wild. The trout and I dined together, nibbling away on our favored fare; I believe they were having as good of a time as I was.
I headed back towards my camp, our dearest Sol now-departed below the trees and emanating eerie rays of golden butterscotch and azure lapis hues onto the landscape, refusing to relinquish light to darkness until long after she had departed my view. I lit a cigar and reflected on my day; transforming from a dreary hangover to canyons and badlands and oil fields, traversing tall hills and muddy, rough soil. Never have I wished more for a cigar to last longer, and as the Deadwood “Sweet Jane” gave me it’s last kiss of smoke, my fire died down to embers. A quick and cold jaunt down to the now-still water of the lake left me speechless. Stars glittered across the surface of the immaculate Lake, like a glass reflection looking back up at the vast empty abyss above. I like to imagine that somewhere out there, on the dark side of a planet floating around one of the billions of stars I see above me, some other being is gazing back up through a crystalline mirror lake thinking to themselves the same thing about me.
After surveying long enough for my eyes to fully adjust to the darkness I was able to see everything around me with no peripheral light source. I glanced left, right, up and down, and listened; I am here alone. By my estimate, the closest hikers - if there are any - would be at least 3 miles away from me. I tore into the ink, whose rocks and mossy soil below I could still see with only starlight above, filling two containers full of water to completely extinguish the embers inside the fire pit, falling deeper into darkness and isolation, breathing deeply and feeling truly a part of the phenomena we call life.
I wish I could say I slept pleasantly, but an upset stomach - no doubt remnants from the night before - kept me awake for hours after I attempted to depart into slumber. I awoke several times through the night, despite having the most comfortable hammock setup I’ve ever put together. Once day finally broke, it seemed i had been asleep for ages, rising from my hanging coffin at 8am again. Fetching my bear bag from the tree some 200ft away from my quarters, I began to fix up some coffee and a keto-friendly poptart. I spent as little time as I could sitting in the hammock, taking to writing a journal entry - a favorite habit ever since adopting the use of cursive and fountain pens - reflecting particularly on whether it was worth it or not to spend a tank of gas, 6 hours of driving and 6 hours of hiking just to find isolation in the woods. “Of course”, I thought to myself. At the very least, I know now that the way is clear of ice and snow, and I can bring my friends back with me. And, I was able to practice my fly fishing with some privacy to cover up mistakes!
Packing everything as quickly as I set it up with the efficiency of a Tetris pro-player, laying every piece and filling every bit of volume I could to effectively distribute the weight in my pack gave me time to give my mental goodbyes to the site I had just become acquainted to. I set back towards the trail out, but stopped again. It’s only 10:30AM now, I can start fishing, wrap up by noon and be back home around 6 all things considered. “Worth it”, and so I started casting out a Wooly Bugger streamer. I was working a small shoal, focusing on slow movements and good casting, waiting for breaks in the wind or sending out side casts to work it in my favor. I had checked the rocks before tying the lure, but I wasn’t able to find any insect life, and thought the bugger could imitate a leech or catch some aggression.
I had cast out maybe 5 times, bringing the line back in with spaced, short and quick strips, until I was just about ready to begin my upcast to send the presentation out again. As I pulled my arm up, I set the hook right into something, and upon feeling familiar tugs and dribbles, my heart blasted off into the heavens. I yelled out, stripping the fighting trout back in, keeping my rod high in the sky as the fish leaped from the water, it’s tuscan sheen glimmering in the sun with bright, nearly neon elements of crimson decorating it’s side, gills and throat. Finally bringing the Cutthroat into my grasp, the lure dropped from its mouth as I fumbled frantically and ecstatically to get a few good photos while ensuring the critter’s well-being.
This trout, a Colorado River Cutthroat, is what I believe to be one of the most beautiful fish I have ever caught. It’s impeccable coloring coupled with the environment, and being my first ever fish on a fly rod, left me in a state of pure euphoria and elation in what I can only describe as the purest sense of accomplishment I have ever felt. It has been a dream of mine to catch a Cutthroat Trout in the High Uintas Wilderness - specifically on a flyrod - in a remote lake, alone and totally in my element. I released the small fry, coming in just around 9 inches, and thought that there was just one thing missing now - grilling a fish on the shore line. I decided to stay some extra time and began fishing again, watching several fish approach the streamer but keeling away at the last second. Trying an elk hair caddis yielded the same results, close but not cigar. Finally I switched to another dryfly, the closest imitation I had of the mayflies the stocked fish were feeding on, and on my first cast I was able to drop the fly right in the fish’s feeding path, watching in slither up to my lure and take it in full earnest. I set the hook, pulled it ashore, and gazed upon my trophy. A bit smaller than the first, I still thanked the fish and began to process it and the wood I needed for my Firebox stove.
The second Colorado Cutt turned out to be the best-tasting fish I’ve ever had, lightly seasoned and grilled skin on until the meat was tender enough to pull straight off the bone. I finished the meal, what I would consider being a top-3 in terms of lunch-time memories, and again set out to write in my journal, detailing my success as the stove cooled. I didn’t hit the trail until 2PM, the whole time all I could think of was how achieved and grateful I felt, for everything that I’ve been able to work towards and be apart of in these great woods. I emanated happiness and I'm still feeling waves of appreciation, adventure, and all the other good words. I was thinking about the feeling on my way back down the mountain, and all I could think of was that - despite not being a religious man - I felt blessed. These mountains are truly magic, and a 9ft 5wt fly rod is a wand to channel that essence into your body, solidifying a connection to the weave of life in all of us. I didn’t depart the lake until 2PM, and arrived back at my apartment around 7:30, just about 34 hours after I had departed. Was it worth it?
In every possible sense of the expression.
