Not Yellowstone

I am more than eagerly awaiting long walks in the Wyoming alpine!  We had been in the van a little over two weeks now and had endured countless challenges and frustrations as we adapted to life in a GMC Savana, but now, here on the other side of Yellowstone National Park and away from the selfie nabbing, wildlife harassing tourists, it finally felt the way I had longed for this whole time.  We met a congenial older man and his Border Collie, camping adjacent to us.  He was friendly and affable, a perfect combination of inviting and minding his own business.  We chatted with him awhile and learned that he came to this campground every year for the past 20 years or so and stayed the maximum allowable days, which was 21.  He had long passed his prime, but relayed he had hiked most if not all of the trails in the area, and though he couldn't put as many miles on his arthritic legs and back as he used to, he still made a point to feel the dirt under his feet and get figuratively lost in an area he knew better than most.  

A strong, positive night before omen

Rousing early from our cozy nest in the van, we pulled on our hiking clothes and boots, loaded up our backpacks, and set out just after blue hour as the sun began its ascent from obscurity, the mosquitoes starting to stir as plentiful, though undersized, brook trout leapt enthusiastically from the lake near our campground to feast on early morning mayflies.  The starting elevation for our hike this day was somewhere in the neighborhood of 9,000’.   We followed an official trail for about 4.5 miles, then used GPS and our own senses for the final mile to a seldomly visited lake rumored to be brimming with Yellowstone Cutthroat trout. Along the way we waded through frigid alpine inlets, scrambled up and around small faces, and even saw some grizzly prints while making plenty of noise to ensure all we saw were prints.  Once at the lake we were mobbed by the largest, most aggressive blood-thirsty mosquitoes outside of Alaska. We fished for a couple of hours, battling the wind and the constant mosquito bites while landing several beautiful fish, which we released for another ambitious angler to enjoy one day.  Polishing off our snacks of beef jerky and trail mix, we decided it was time to make our return to camp and the traditional and glorious post-hike feast- steaks over the fire and s'mores.  

Picturesque early morning views

Wildflower framing

Still on the maintained trail, we passed several tarns and smaller lakes

Ready to go up and over, I think

We saw one person camped at a high point near this lake.  I don't know how he withstood the mosquitoes, but I am sure the night sky was worth it.  

The formal trail ended at this lake for us

We traversed around the lake, hopping boulders and pausing to take in the scenery (aka to catch our breath)

Some of the boulders we negotiated

The wildflowers were in full force

After one of two outlet crossings

At this point, we switched to a low profile water shoe since we likely had more crossings to negotiate and also because we were getting closer to the final push

Finally!  Almost around the lake

Reflection game was strong

Part of the final push, just after we saw grizzly prints

Overlooking one of the larger lakes, where we saw the lone backpacker

Finally fishing, but you can never let your guard down- bear spray always at the ready

So many flowers

Looking for trout among the boulder structure

This is what we came for

Yellowstone Cutthroat

One last glance before descent

Rather than return via our original path, we instead opted to follow the lake drainage down a couple of miles before intersecting with another trail that would return us to our campground.  Passing a few groups as the weekend commenced, everyone was friendly and polite.  We also found a man’s wallet on the trail and were lucky enough to find him patrolling our campground trying to retrace his steps in hopes of finding it. He was immensely grateful, and I remember thinking it was just a great ending to a great day as I inhaled some peanut butter pretzels which I chased with some Milk Duds.

When in doubt, just follow the drainage.  It's bound to lead to a trail

It was a more direct route that was probably slightly faster, but definitely drier... or was it?  More on that to come

Not quite cliffed out, but it did require a sporty scramble

Where you see the trail is where our route intersected with the established path

Sometimes it's easier just to get your feet wet rather than spend extra time trying to find a dry route

We ended up making a nice lollipop loop and enjoyed the new to us scenery

Marshmallows and milk duds, a winning post-hike combo

Places I take myself when I don't want to be here...

 There are places I can go anytime I like.  They're not just any ordinary places.  They're places where the world's headaches cannot inflict their pain, places where the voices of doubt, chaos, and inadequacy that whisper and sometimes scream in my head are replaced by the sound of a harmless late summer breeze carried across a high alpine lake, breaking the glassy surface and replacing it with clever ripples, ripples that will disguise my presence from the wary, wild trout that patrol these pristine waters.  

  One of these places lies high in the mountains of Wyoming, off the beaten path.  After hiking over six miles into the backcountry, the last obstacle involves scaling a steep pitch while skirting a multi-tired waterfall. There, you reach an altitude of just over 11,000 feet where an expanse of alpine lakes greets you, connected by small channels covering a seemingly infinite distance toward the horizon, the only sounds the rustling of the high country shrubs, the babbling of the inlet and outlet streams, and the ever present, ever threatening buzz of alpine mosquitoes.  Despite the warm weather, long sleeves are a must, and the shorts I convinced myself to wear instead of pants now seem like a terrible idea.  After countless bites, you figure the mosquitoes have sampled every inch of exposed skin, so you start to ignore them.  They continue to feast anyhow.  

  I stop to survey the landscape, learning over the years that it behooves me to pause.  This is true in fishing and in life, though one remains a work in progress.  Watch the water, look for areas of cover, watch for rising noses to break the uninterrupted surface and sip an unsuspecting insect.  In a rebuke of a what's good for the goose is good for the gander moment, the pause does not benefit the insect.  Slurp, and then it's back to the cool depths of the shimmering, emerald lake.  Watching the behavior of these trout, it is evident they have not seen many people, as any clumsy movement I make (likely swatting mosquitoes), they retreat from the prospect of a meal to ensure their safety.  Another pause.  

  Moving away from the water to set up my gear, I can still see the shadows darting along the bottom for this lake is much more shallow than the ones to follow.  Fishing the outlet streams is typically more productive but after striking out there or only seeing very tiny fish who need time to grow, I resign to the idea of sight fishing for spooky Golden Trout.  Truthfully, coming up empty would not have been a disappointment, the 7+ mile walk in and up would have felt just like the gift it was, but it sure would be nice to land a few Goldens.  As fate would have it, I was fortunate enough to land one fairly quickly despite the less than ideal conditions as the breeze was long gone, leaving a still, polished surface once again.  

  The brilliance of the gold is almost unfathomable, matched in grandeur by the punch colored stripe along the lateral belly and the underside of the trout from mouth to tail.  Not huge in size, but serviceable considering the conditions these fish inhabit- long, harsh winters with food scarcity due to brief yet unpredictable summers.  

  Satisfied with a few fish from the first spot, I move over the ridge, across another inlet to a much more expansive, much deeper lake, cupped within a cirque of peaks reaching well over 12,000 feet, some climbing over 13k.  As the water is much deeper, the lake bottom concealed many feet below, I am able to wade in and cool my mosquito bites in the frigid alpine water.  The fish here are bigger but equally if not more crafty.  I land a few here as well but cannot get "the big one" to hand.  As quickly as it was on, it was off, but I remember the much more robust tug.  

  Late summer in the alpine is always unpredictable in terms of weather, so as the once harmless clouds begin to turn more ominous and the threat of adverse weather becomes more likely, it is time to pack up and head back down to camp.  Nature decided I wasn't to see the remainder of the chain of lakes that day, but what I did see was enough to sustain me, now more than two years later in times of distress and despair but also to ignite that flicker in me to want, to need to get back there one day, to see what I, for now, can only dream.