Silver lining in a soggy weekend
| July 28, 2009 | 1:11 PM
More journal entries from Hank Schultz »
Fishing a stream thick with brook trout. (RMI photo by Hank Schultz)
It’s been a wet year here in Colorado. And I have the wrinkly, prune-like feet to prove it.
This past weekend I finally went backpacking with my longtime fishing buddy Brett, who’s happier out of doors than in. Over the years Brett has accumulated an impressive store of backpacking equipment. The best-performing of this. The most waterproof of that.
I have been out of the backpacking loop for years, and my experience before that was mostly in Arizona, where water is rare. The inexpensive boots I have say “waterproof” on the label. It’s either wishful thinking or an outright lie.
Our destination, the Eagle’s Nest Wilderness, is dotted with scenic alpine lakes. Guess where all that water came from? I’ll give you a hint: It’s not all snowmelt.
Brett’s not a lightweight (nor am I), and his method matches his morphology: Go heavy. Bring everything, including the kitchen sink (a collapsible one, at least). He assured me I’d appreciate it when it came time to consume the food and drink the gourmet coffee we brought along. He was right about that. But it did make for some interesting sensations and coarse language on the challenging climb up to the lakes.
A rude surprise came in the form of a sign banning fires near our destination’s bodies of water. (I apologize for being coy about our precise location. It’s for your own safety; Brett tends to get proprietary about his favorite spots, and he’s got a gun.) The ban is a good thing; after years of people scavenging every bit of accessible wood near the lakes, including hacking away at living trees, the campsites have taken on the desperate, picked-over look of refugee camps. Humans are hard on the landscape, even in small doses.
But the fire ban did cause us to go a bit further downstream from the lakes, which is where the wrinkled flesh came in. The flat meadows near the stream were soggy, while the drier areas up the forested slopes were uniformly slanted and littered with huge boulders. We chose flat over dry, taking the least waterlogged spot we could find.
Only the best boots (Brett’s) keep the water out when you’re squishing through bogs and wading through sopping vegetation under a heavy pack. Mine acted more like sponges, much to my partner’s amusement. And my backup footgear was a pair of Crocs.
As if to keep our campsite good and saturated, the clouds opened up most of the time we were there. Rain, hail and thunder. Leaving the door to the tent open for part of the time so the sleeping bags could get soaked wasn’t a plus, either.
The big upside of these downpours is the habitat they create for our quarry. We hauled brilliant, jewel-like brook trout out of the stream and lakes by the panful. It’s hard to describe how good fish can taste when it’s only minutes from the stream to the frying pan.
So here I sit, my belly stretched, my feet shrunken and my face creased with a smile as I reflect on the dual nature of water. It can bestow discomfort, even destruction. But it also brings life. In abundance.
Hank Schultz, Journals, Region
backpacking, fishing, outdoors, rain, water
