For the Love of Fishing
For the Love of Fishing
I do not love hiking for hiking's sake alone. I only use it as a means to an end. This is to bring me to unspoiled waters where I meet my lifetime lover: trout fishing. One of my best friends growing up in California was Roger. He shared my passion for the sport and made a great companion for my endeavor. Both of us hailing from the Bay Area metropolis, we were forced to travel to pursue our outdoor activities. We both had free time available and began planning our first trip of this particular summer. Rodger told me of a lake that a friend told him about. If I knew then, what I know now about the hardships of his route I might have questioned his classification as "friend".
We loaded our provisions into the truck and headed East towards the great Sierra Mountains. We were filled with a sense of levity and anticipation of the adventure before us. What seemed like thirty minutes was actually three hours until we reached the turn-out which we were told to park. Jumping out of the truck we rushed over to the edge of the road to peer down a great river canyon of which there seemed to be no bottom. There in the distance was a bright blue jewel of a reservoir almost too far to see. We had only the word of a man I had never met, and that Rodger knew only for a short time, to go on. Nonetheless, we overcame our qualms to load our gear on our backs and make our way to the "trailhead" for lack of a better term.
You see, our phantom guide had explained to my companion that he had marked the route we were to take with nylon tape in the tree limbs as this lake was serviced by no definitive trail. We were relieved to spot the first piece of tape which prescribed the launching point from the road. "See Daniel, I don't know what you were worried about." Bellowed Rodger as if he had never shared the misgivings I was experiencing.
As we searched for the next orange piece of tape our nostrils were filled with the piney aroma of the mountains. The big city which we lived had its own unique smells none of which one wanted to remember as I do the scent of pine trees. "There it is!" I exclaimed, as if I had made some great discovery. We both had a hard time spotting it even though it was a bright fluorescent orange. What we were to soon realize sent fear through my heart. Not fear for my safety, as I knew I could take care of myself in the wilderness, but rather, the fear that we would not be fishing by evening as we both had hoped. This was the fact that our friend the trailblazer had did a great job last summer by marking the route in the trees. But what he failed to realize was that winter snow weighing heavy on those same limbs had a tendency to move the tape to the forest floor. This made them very difficult to see and added many hours to this already long day.
The displeasure we experienced was offset by the beauty which enveloped us on that day. Stopping for breaks on great boulders the size of our homes we shared an experience I shall never forget. Laden by packs heavy with supplies the hike was arduous to say the least. Six grueling hours later the path leveled out and we had finally reached the canyon floor.
The grass was almost shoulder height in the meadow we arrived at. It was filled with wildflowers of every imaginable color and fragrance. Walking through this natural labyrinth we were reminded of the fact that we were in the heart of bear country and immediately became unsettled. I remembered a ranger telling me once to make noise and the creatures would avoid you long before you could ever see them. I shouted, "Get out you bears." And any other silly thing I could think of, as long as it did the trick. It did and we emerged from the meadow grasses into our campsite.
Exhausted, we gratefully helped each other off with our packs. I removed my boots and exposed the soreness of this dog-tired hiker's feet. I could hear in the distance the roaring of the middle fork of the Stanislaus River crashing into the fore bay of the cobalt colored lake. Rodger laughed boisterously, as I, too tired to even stand, assembled my rod and reel whilst lying on my side on the ground. I must have fell asleep mid-sentence around that time because it was dark by the time I awoke to Rodger's shouts. He entered camp with the largest German Brown Trout I had ever seen. I was still so sore of body I could hardly move to get the pan. We spent three days there that trip, all the while dreading the return hike uphill. I have since revisited this Mecca of mine many times and is, quite frankly my fondest place here on terra firma. It has shaped my mindset in that I believe all tough challenges should be rewarded at their terminations. I am engrossed by that smell of pine and the beauty I experienced at this place whenever I revisit it in my mind. I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that through all the hardship and physical pains I endured that week, I must say, I would do it all over again..........all but for the love of fishing.
I do not love hiking for hiking's sake alone. I only use it as a means to an end. This is to bring me to unspoiled waters where I meet my lifetime lover: trout fishing. One of my best friends growing up in California was Roger. He shared my passion for the sport and made a great companion for my endeavor. Both of us hailing from the Bay Area metropolis, we were forced to travel to pursue our outdoor activities. We both had free time available and began planning our first trip of this particular summer. Rodger told me of a lake that a friend told him about. If I knew then, what I know now about the hardships of his route I might have questioned his classification as "friend".
We loaded our provisions into the truck and headed East towards the great Sierra Mountains. We were filled with a sense of levity and anticipation of the adventure before us. What seemed like thirty minutes was actually three hours until we reached the turn-out which we were told to park. Jumping out of the truck we rushed over to the edge of the road to peer down a great river canyon of which there seemed to be no bottom. There in the distance was a bright blue jewel of a reservoir almost too far to see. We had only the word of a man I had never met, and that Rodger knew only for a short time, to go on. Nonetheless, we overcame our qualms to load our gear on our backs and make our way to the "trailhead" for lack of a better term.
You see, our phantom guide had explained to my companion that he had marked the route we were to take with nylon tape in the tree limbs as this lake was serviced by no definitive trail. We were relieved to spot the first piece of tape which prescribed the launching point from the road. "See Daniel, I don't know what you were worried about." Bellowed Rodger as if he had never shared the misgivings I was experiencing.
As we searched for the next orange piece of tape our nostrils were filled with the piney aroma of the mountains. The big city which we lived had its own unique smells none of which one wanted to remember as I do the scent of pine trees. "There it is!" I exclaimed, as if I had made some great discovery. We both had a hard time spotting it even though it was a bright fluorescent orange. What we were to soon realize sent fear through my heart. Not fear for my safety, as I knew I could take care of myself in the wilderness, but rather, the fear that we would not be fishing by evening as we both had hoped. This was the fact that our friend the trailblazer had did a great job last summer by marking the route in the trees. But what he failed to realize was that winter snow weighing heavy on those same limbs had a tendency to move the tape to the forest floor. This made them very difficult to see and added many hours to this already long day.
The displeasure we experienced was offset by the beauty which enveloped us on that day. Stopping for breaks on great boulders the size of our homes we shared an experience I shall never forget. Laden by packs heavy with supplies the hike was arduous to say the least. Six grueling hours later the path leveled out and we had finally reached the canyon floor.
The grass was almost shoulder height in the meadow we arrived at. It was filled with wildflowers of every imaginable color and fragrance. Walking through this natural labyrinth we were reminded of the fact that we were in the heart of bear country and immediately became unsettled. I remembered a ranger telling me once to make noise and the creatures would avoid you long before you could ever see them. I shouted, "Get out you bears." And any other silly thing I could think of, as long as it did the trick. It did and we emerged from the meadow grasses into our campsite.
Exhausted, we gratefully helped each other off with our packs. I removed my boots and exposed the soreness of this dog-tired hiker's feet. I could hear in the distance the roaring of the middle fork of the Stanislaus River crashing into the fore bay of the cobalt colored lake. Rodger laughed boisterously, as I, too tired to even stand, assembled my rod and reel whilst lying on my side on the ground. I must have fell asleep mid-sentence around that time because it was dark by the time I awoke to Rodger's shouts. He entered camp with the largest German Brown Trout I had ever seen. I was still so sore of body I could hardly move to get the pan. We spent three days there that trip, all the while dreading the return hike uphill. I have since revisited this Mecca of mine many times and is, quite frankly my fondest place here on terra firma. It has shaped my mindset in that I believe all tough challenges should be rewarded at their terminations. I am engrossed by that smell of pine and the beauty I experienced at this place whenever I revisit it in my mind. I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that through all the hardship and physical pains I endured that week, I must say, I would do it all over again..........all but for the love of fishing.
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