My brother and I were here…
Mid morning on a Skykomish River tribtutary, with lots of fishy water.
…fishing…
My brother fishing…
…with Kirk “Unaccomplished Angler” Werner and Orvis guide Derek Young, for this…
Healthy wild rainbow, who was right where he should have been.
This post brought to you by the writing prompt† “My Outdoor Scary”
from the Outdoor Blogger Network (OBN).
The Target: Lembert Dome, 900 feet of granite.
For more than a few years, my brother, my sister, and I eagerly anticipated a week or more of camping in the Tuolumne Meadows campground. These trips were filled with hiking, fishing, campfires, hiking that was sporadically interrupted by fishing, and that general freedom engendered by nature’s wide-open spaces.
Many hikes started in the campground or nearby, which meant a starting elevation of at least 8,500 feet and often closer to 9,500 feet. Many of the trails were obvious or followed rivers or streams, and were usually marked on the USGS maps dad packed with the space blankets, water, lunches, snacks and other supplies. Some hikes were long and generally flat, others shorter but a bit tougher on the shorter legs of kids. The trail to Lake Elizabeth gained about 1,000 feet in elevation over 4.5 miles. Getting to Gaylor Lakes required rising 600 feet in what seemed like the first mile of the three. (Gaylor Lakes supposedly offered great fishing, but the inhalation of swarms of mosquitoes that rose with every step on the surrounding marshes cut the trip short.)
Lembert Dome — a 900-foot tall mass of granite — towers above the nearby Tuolumne River. From the meadows one can often see tiny people standing on top. Then, one summer, me, my dad, my brother and my sister saddled up and began an ill-fated hike that would take us to the top of the dome on a relatively easy trail, but one that grows steeper as it ascends the backside.
The trail cut through a forest and over a few streams as it traced the lower edge of the dome, then looped toward the back the dome. All the while we gained elevation, but it’s the last fourth of the 2.8 miles that asked the most of our legs. This climb started with a clear demarcation of the alpine zone. Trees became fewer and shorter, some stunted, and soon we stood on granite. Then it got a bit tricky, with some rock scrambling and careful footwork required before we reached the top.
Yes, we made it... (This is the original, unaltered photo. Scroll down for a better colorized version.
And where the heck did I get that belt buckle?)
Standing on top of this massive granite dome, where the air seems just slightly thinner, the deep greens of the meadows and trees contrast with a sky of eye-straining blues and snow-capped mountains reaching 11,000 feet or more. We lingered and marveled; maybe a bit too long.
Not exactly the best boots for hiking.
We didn’t know that there was a surprising amount of glacial polish and exfoliation, cracks parallel to the surface that develop with expansion and contraction‡. Our Sears Roebuck and Co. boots would have been more at home on a flat construction site and offered limited grip. (You might know these boots; versions are still sold today under the Diehard brand — the ones with white leather crepe sole with a tread best described as small rolling hills.) Baseball-sized rocks and small BBs of decomposed granite tumbled beside us as we picked our way down.
We’d also find out that the stitching and rivets in our jeans didn’t offer much traction. It wasn’t easy to walk down the steep granite, so we controlled much of our descent with the seat of our pants. Literally. We slid on our bums. I think our pants gave up their last threads that day.
We did make it down Lembert Dome that afternoon and my brother and I hiked back to camp with just a bit of bravado. Dad, no doubt, and probably my sister, were relieved.
We were too young to be appropriately terrified worried that day. Now that age has tempered my bravado, when I think about this, I’m suitably scared for that young man. But I’m always glad that he had this adventure.
...and here we are with the color slightly adjusted. (Forgot that Mark was ever so small.)
Us kids looking out from atop Lembert Dome. Not so scary...
My brother, my son, and I made it back in 2011.
This time there'd be no sliding down Lembert Dome's face.
† This prompt was issued a few days ago, but nothing immediately think came to mind, which I chalk up to a lack of adventurousness the preparedness taught to me by the Boy Scouts.
‡ There is no general agreement among geologists as to the exact cause of this phenomenon.
I’ve no way of checking, but I’m pretty sure hell’s frozen over.
After eight years since his last appearance in the Golden State, my brother showed up with no specific plans. That’s where I stepped in as travel agent, outfitter and guide; apparently a role that suits me better than might be expected.
Lembert Dome viewed from the Tuolumne Meadows Campground, and where we'd be going.
Mark lives in the Evergraygreen state and while he said he’d enjoy seeing California family members, it became clear that he perhaps more happy to see the sun. I swung by the airport to him pick up Wednesday evening and we met up with my oldest son, Sean, at the Bass Pro Shop in Manteca. We secured a two-day nonresident fishing license, grabbed dinner and headed up the hill.
Weather-wise, we’d hit it right. Temperatures had peaked that day and would be still warm but slightly lower the next few days, meaning it would cool off at night; something important for a good night’s sleep in a cabin that has no insulation and no air conditioning.
Before Mark or Sean posts a comment below, I will admit that I was adamant that I would I had expected to wake up and hit the road for Tuolumne Meadows early the next morning. I did wake up at 5:00 a.m. But I rolled over and caught a few more winks.
Mark had asked if we might be able to hike up Lembert Dome. He and I had done so back when we were boys, with my sister and dad. It’s a pretty easy drive from the cabin to Tuolumne Meadows, just about 2½ hours. Since Tioga Pass had opened the week before, we would circle our way back over Sonora Pass.
Mark's friend, the Marmot, at Olmstead Point.
We next stopped at the Tuolumne Meadows Campground, where we spent many a family vacation camping. Sure, some things have changed — mostly manmade things — but nearly everything was recognizable and Mark and I soon agreed upon the location of “our” campsite, partially based on its position relative to the Tuolumne River, which itself was nearly unrecognizably high. I’m sure Sean was somewhat amused by our reminiscing.
Just down the road we pulled into the parking lot at the Lembert Dome trailhead and loaded up. The trail begins with a modest incline, but starting at about 8,600 feet and rising another 800 feet to the dome’s summit, it was soon clear that our lungs would get the kind of workout not seen in years. The gradient seemed to increase every 100 feet, and even if we were on the trail (we weren’t), it would be covered by extensive snow fields that made the hiking more difficult. At one point, Mark fell through the snow into a waist-high air pocket. Undaunted but pausing more often that we’d care to admit to catch our breath, we pressed on. I’m sure it took a lot of patience for Sean to not charge ahead. (I don’t think he broke a sweat or even breathed hard.)
It’s said that the memory grows hazy over time and Mark and I didn’t remember the last stretch up the back of Lembert Dome being so steep or requiring so much climbing. But climb we did, reaching the top. The view was made a tad more incredible by the fact that we had it to ourselves.
Me, Mark & Sean a the top of Lembert Dome. (After Mark and I rested for half an hour just a few minutes.)
It was hoped that we’d also find some water to fish. Without much browbeating Mark had asked if he might get a chance to try fly fishing, and I had plenty of gear he could use. We rigged up and flogged the no-so-high-but-higher-than-usual Lee Vining Creek. It was tough going. I was the only one to get two strikes, but missed both fish.
We refueled our egos with some good barbecue at Bodie Mike’s, then headed north to Bridgeport, and I pointed out all of the water that we might have fished. Every single river was the color Yoo-Hoo.
Traveling creates memories, and traversing the Sierra Nevada Mountains can make for some of the most vivid memories. Then there are other things that one doesn’t soon forget.
Our return to the cabin meant a few preparations for the next day, when we’d get out on “Hatchery Creek,” hoping to get Mark into his first trout on a fly rod. Mark looked to verify that his fish license was in his wallet. It was. His driver’s license wasn’t. He searched through my car. Sean looked through his car. I looked around the cabin. Mark began to go through his suitcase. After thinking about it a bit, I called Bass Pro Shop. The customer service rep went through the lost and found, looking for a Washington license with the appropriate name and a goofy looking photo.
Soon we were making the 1½-hour drive back to Manteca. Only a few miles went by without Sean or I reminding Mark of his snafu.
There was an upside to this. We enjoyed a manly dinner at the House of Beef.
Back at the cabin, assurances were made that I’d not linger in bed the next morning as there’d be fish to catch. And I did not.
But Mark’s First Fly Fishing Experience is a story unto itself, and for next week.
(You can find more photos here under “The Brother’s Visit – Tuolumne Meadows, Eastern Sierra, First Time Fly Fishing”.)
This post brought to you by the photo prompt
“Most Un-Frame Worthy Outdoor Photo You Got”
from the Outdoor Blogger Network (OBN)
Let’s be clear. Fishing small high-country streams means the trophies taken home are usually limited to skinned knees, a sore back or scratches inflicted by any one or multiple species of vegetation.
Those who ask how the fishing was probably won’t understand that the trip is more than just fishing. It’s fishing that entails a walk that, longer than expected, become a hike; the stalking of trout so skittish its remarkable they aren’t afraid of the bugs they eat; and the creation of memories that draw a fisherman back time after time.
Where I fish, at elevations of 6,000-plus feet in the Sierra Nevadas and often above 8,000 feet, there are incredible opportunities to sink back into forests most notable for the lack of human visitation. In the small creeks and rivers found under lodgepole and western white pines, red firs, mountain hemlock and aspens, wild trout live a hardscrabble life during a summer that rarely lasts more then eight weeks. The small size of these trout truly belies their spirit.
But that’s not why they don’t end up in a framed photo on my wall. These trout are so darn small that holding a fish in one handle while using the other to fiddle with camera’s macro setting invariably results in a photo that’s too fuzzy to be called “arty” of a fish that would be a snack for what’s traditionally deemed a trophy trout.
But since so many of these high-country trout to obligingly rise to any of the customary trout flies, seemingly regardless of size, the outcome of a photo op can be a bit unpredictable.
However, the one photo that will never be framed I also hesitate to share in the blogosphere. Because the fish is so small? Because the photo is so blurry? Yes to both questions.
…but mostly because I don’t know what the heck it might be it’s not a trout.
From the South Fork of the Tuolumne River: Pikeminnow? Squawfish? Hardhead? Your guess?
P.S. I’ve since upgraded to a better and waterproof camera to compensate for my lack of photographic skill.
To the chagrin of some folks I’m not retiring like other bloggers we know, but I am “dropping the ball” this week to spend a little time in the Sierra foothills. It comes down to simple logistics. The family cabin is truly that; a few rooms insulated only by a couple of inches of siding, a simple affair with no connection to the Internet.
That’s not to say it’ll be time away from the everyday without sacrifice. There is a plan afoot to fit in some fly fishing — regardless of weather forecasts that include snow at elevations not too far from where we’ll be chasing wild trout.
I won’t jinx this unusual winter trip with any details, except to say that even The Wife has taken notice of my itch to fish and freely volunteered that I might visit one of the few open western Sierra foothill rivers. Maybe the feverish tying of flies and a continuous parade of fly fishing television shows gave me away.
It’s been more than a year since I’ve tested this tailwater. For the most part, I’ll be going subsurface, mainly through riffles and tailouts. Though this time of year it’s the more imaginative fly fishing technique nymphing that’s more effective bringing up the fish, with some luck late afternoon might include a decent blue-winged olive mayfly hatch.
To anticipate one question; no, I won’t be taking the new rod. Even it were fished, there be steelhead in this river and the one fish that broke me off in 2009 suggests that it’s better to carry a rod with a little more backbone.
Hopefully, I’ll be back with more than a tale of a riverside hike.
This post brought to you by a writing prompt from the Outdoor Blogger Network…
I’ve been a dad for more years than you’d think and with that has come amazement that the number of candles on my birthday cakes made it to double digits.
Sure, everyone my age grew up without seat belts, car seats, and medications without child-proof lids. Many of my contemporaries rode bikes without helmets, ate sandwiches made with white bread and drank drinks made with real sugar.
Personally, I’m more amazed that I and my siblings survived family vacations in the great outdoors.
I can’t figure out if dad was fearless, just wasn’t being smart or placed such importance on exposing his kids to the outdoors that the risks outweighed the rewards. Maybe it was the fact that we didn’t have innumerable television documentaries underscoring man’s inability to win in a one-on-one battle with nature. Whatever the reason, we were lucky.
There are photos that I won’t share here of me in diapers, in the wilds of Yosemite Valley. That might have been where it all began, but the memories are foggy.
Where we camped for many years, long ago...
While there’s debate among my family as to the name of the lake that was the destination on one ill-fated hike, it’s clear that dad had pushed the limits on that cold and overcast day. With the distance of the hike limited by the length of my youngest brother’s legs, I’m guessing the hike in took no more than a couple of hours. Much of the trail wound in and around trees before rising and emerging onto a wide meadow. Crossing the meadow put us on the shore of a lake nestled up against granite peaks. Back then we carried spin fishing gear, and it wasn’t more than a few casts before a trout made one of the most dramatic, leaping strikes to swallow dad’s Mepps Agila. Small as the fish was, dad stumbled back in his surprise at the strike.
Just about then or shortly thereafter (my memory was muddled by the excitement), the gray of the sky gave way to small granules of something best described as light hail or heavy snow. Not being as keen on fishing, my sister and brother were huddle with mom near what little shelter was offered by a wind-stunted tree. “Jerry,” my mom said, “I think it’s time to go.” Nearly 40 years later I can understand that when fishing, time flies by but those same minutes are painfully slow to pass when you’re shivering in the high country and miles from the remotest fingers of civilization. Grudgingly, dad decided it was better to leave the fish for the sake of his children and, perhaps, his marriage.
The first time we pitched a tent at the Tuolumne Meadows Campground, where, by the way, there are no public showers; my dad’s solution was to take advantage of what nature had to offer. He proudly explained to us that we’d be using biodegradable soap. (It was a novelty back in the 1970s.) Our water source would be the oh-so convenient Tuolumne River. A river that originates from two forks — the Dana Fork and the Lyell Fork — both of which originate from the huge snowpack in the high peaks of the Sierra Nevada. There’s something about bathing in water that only 24 hours ago was in its frozen form. Yet another time we dodged hypothermia.
Then there were the bears. We knew they were there. We saw them occasionally during the day. It’s the times we didn’t see them that still give me chills. There were mornings we’d wake up and dad would show us the bear tracks through our camp; tracks that weren’t there yesterday and must have been made during the night, when I stepped out of the tent for a trip to the bathroom and could have become a tasty midnight snack for one of Yogi’s cousins.
The fateful faithful Sierra cup.
In that vein, I also remember being so proud of our Sierra cups. My brother and I would loop them under our belts, and like little men, dip them into the clear streams to quench our thirst. Try that nowadays without worrying.
These are only snapshots of my childhood adventures in the wilderness, and there are other, less dangerous memories of other hikes, more fishing and just being a kid in the great outdoors. Those I’ll save for another time.
I was lucky to spend so much time in the great outdoors. All of these adventures never fail to bring a smile to my face.
fishing for words 