A Hike to the Upper Wheatgrass

The following was written on August 16, 2006

Yesterday I started the day at 6:00AM feeling like a 30 year-old.

I took the day off for a fishing excursion with a friend. We drove for 40 minutes then parked and walked up Wheatgrass Canyon above Huntsville, for two hours. With each step, I began to feel my true age but I the anticipation of catching some wild Cutthroat trout kept me going on... and on... and on.

On the track or the treadmill, I can do three miles in 40 minutes. When my friend told me it was only a three mile hike in, I was not bothered...

The three miles were marked by a narrow horse trail that rose from its head near the north end of the Reservoir Causey (called the Wheatgrass area after the creek that feeds it) to our destination; a two mile stretch of the Wheatgrass Creek three miles up the canyon. This was not a stroll for the weak.

I packed light for the trek, carrying my flyrod, a canvas creel with a box with an assortment of flies, some extra tippet, forceps and a bottle of water. I had decided to wade in the same shoes I was hiking in rather than attempt to haul my waders up the trail. It was a wise choice.

The weather was perfect when we hit the trail at about 8 AM, with clear skies and the temperature at 68. It wasn't long, because of my excess weight and the vertical slant of the trail, that my hat was soaked with sweat.

The trail was relentless. Three miles seemed more like ten and I was tempted to ask on several occasions, "Are we almost there?"; but my pride prevented it.

Before the trip some of the people who work for me were teasing me about being up to the hike and jokingly accusing my partner trying to kill me and taking bets as to whether I would make it all the way. There was no way I was going to fail... even if it killed me.

The landmark used to determine the most prolific stretch of the creek was an old, rusted, Model A Ford. I have no idea how it got there to begin with. There are no roads and nothing passable except on foot or horseback. There is no way to explain how it got there but it was there and I was happy to see it.

I took a break while I rigged the rod and drank half my water. I would save the second half for the walk back... I thought.

These kinds of wild creeks are no place for amateur anglers. With every cast there is the chance of hooking a tree or the brush that lines the sides of the creek. The best fish are always resting under limbs in the shade and only the best at casting are rewarded.

I moved to the middle of the section I was fishing and cast upstream trying as best I could to avoid hanging up in something. On the third cast I hooked a 14" Cutthroat; a rather large fish for such a small stream. He was beautiful as wild fish almost always are. I landed him and took a photo, then released him back into the cold water. Then I eased up stream. I saw another spot that I thought would hold a fish and made my cast; but the wind took the line about two feet to the left of my target into a very shallow ripple. I was ready to make the backcast to correct the placement when another large cutthroat inhaled the hopper. Rather than running up stream, as most do, this one came right at me and I had to reel like crazy to hold him. When he saw me he changed direction causing me to use the palm drag technique so he wouldn't snap the 2X tippet. I landed him too and like the first, he was a beautiful, wild fish.

And so it went, me catching a fish and moving up to the next prospective spot.
I lost count of the number of fish I landed although my friend kept an accurate count of his. He landed 13. We waded for only two hours.

I would have stayed a little longer but I got hung up in a pine tree and lost my leader. That made the tippet I had packed worthless so my fishing was done for the day and my friend was ready to return as well.

One would think that the return trip would have been easier since it was almost all down hill; but it wasn't. At least it wasn't for me.

I felt all of my 55 years and then some with every step. Less than half way down, I ran out of water which made things exponentially worse. I had remembered seeing a spring on the trip in and I began searching almost desperately for it on the descent; willing, even eager to risk consuming a few thousand giardia to ease my parched throat (the risk was very low as there was no grazing in the area out side of some elk, moose and deer). A little over halfway down, I saw the spring and filled my bottle, emptied it and filled it again. The water was so cold it hurt my teeth.

We made it back to my truck at 4:30 PM and headed home. Everything I had, hurt and it was all I could do to stay awake at the wheel. I turned my thoughts then, to the trip and the beauty of the hike, the excitement of landing wild Cutthroat trout, the commune with nature and the glory of God's handiwork.

When I got home I took a long, hot shower, several Ibuprofen and I applied some Ben Gay to my legs and hips. Deb fed me and I went to bed. I slept well even though it hurt every time I turned over and woke this morning refreshed and happy I was able to complete the trip the day before and vowing to get myself into better shape for another hike on another day in pursuit of wild trout.