The Drift: Fighting The Crowds

A Thursday in late July shouldn’t be too crowded up in the high country, right? Even if there’s a paved road offering folks easy access to dozens of lakes, at least as many trailheads, and countless 4-wheel-drive trails? Even if it’s a bit crowded, the sheer number of places to fish and explore ought to spread the crowds out a bit – right?

That was the gamble I took when heading out to fish last week. This particular spot used to be a favorite haunt of mine, not because the fishing is outstanding, but it’s relatively fast, the scenery is hard to beat, and even when it’s crowded, I’ve had good luck finding a place where I was the only angler.

The highway takes off from a mountain town that, for as long as I’ve been alive, has been a sleepy, one-stoplight place. The kind of town where the gas station has a surprisingly great bakery attached, and where the locals gather for their morning coffee and annual staredown of out-of-staters who rubberneck at 15 below the speed limit, contributions to local sales taxes be damned.

I haven’t been there in years. Since moving out of Utah, and finding other fishing that has predictably fewer people around, I haven’t felt the pull to return. Last week, though, it seemed like my best option. My wife and I are back in Utah with her parents while we build our new house. With the sweltering heat most of the West has baked under all of July, the high country is about the only reliable place to find cool water.

So I struck out to the mountains, planning to drive back through that tiny town, and most of the paved highway. I’d do some fishing at a few lakes which have previously held relatively nice fish when accounting for the pressure and elevation, and take a stroll or two back down memory lane.

When I rolled into town, I almost didn’t recognize the place. Two new gas stations, a new grocery store, and a fly shop had sprung up in my absence. Townhouses dotted what used to be farmers’ fields, almost like they’d sprouted instead of alfalfa. There was still only one stoplight, but I don’t know how much longer that’ll last. Traffic on main street wasn’t light, and I’d had a late start, too.

The drive up the highway wasn’t much better. Two SUVs with Texas plates decided the speed limit was a suggestion, and casually strolled at 20 under for most of the drive. I enjoy the view as much as the next person, but a whopping 35 m.p.h. top speed when there’s a lot of ground to cover doesn’t exactly put me on the lake with plenty of time to fish.

Every pullout was stuffed with cars, and the lakes you can easily see from the road were covered in paddleboards and kayaks. Shore-bound anglers stood almost shoulder-to-shoulder in places, which made me idly wonder if the fish were bigger this year than their usual 10-inch average. This is the high country, after all. A foot-long trout up here is something to celebrate.

Luckily, there are a few lakes you can’t see directly from the road. The first one I stopped at was empty, so I grabbed the fly rod and made my way down the trail I used to walk with my buddy Mike. I haven’t seen or fished with him in years, and I’m not sure why. Sometimes folks just drift apart.

The lake hasn’t ever been fast fishing, but the fish tend to be closer to a foot long here than in other places. That was still true, but the catching was much slower than I anticipated. I was on the fence about leaving and looking for faster fishing elsewhere, or sticking it out here for the evening hatch. Then, a group of teenage boys came down the trail, making enough noise to scare every bear in the basin away. They were clearly having fun, but I wasn’t in the mood for eavesdropping on shouted conversations (kids never understand how well sound travels over water). I packed up and left, pointing the truck to one of those 4-wheel-drive roads. At the end of this one was a lake with some golden trout; or at least, they’d been there the last time I’d fished it six or seven years ago.

The road was awful, and it took an hour to cover about 10 miles. I felt confident I wouldn’t see anyone else, though. Who would be up here, on this awful road, on a Thursday, when most respectable people have to be at work?

It turns out, at least a dozen. Three trucks and as many side-by-sides were parked on the lake’s shore. Kids waded in the shallows, throwing rocks. More anglers were posted up at every decent piece of bank around the lake.

I had half a mind to head out and squeeze between two anglers on the far shore, in a spot where I knew I’d have decent back casting room. But the sight of so many people, when what I was really craving was solitude and not so much the fish, turned me off. I went back down the road, bouncing my way over the rocks and back towards the town that, even in late evening, was busier than I’d ever seen it.

If that’s what this place looks like on a Thursday, I honestly can’t imagine the scene on a weekend. At some point, it’s got to feel more like an amusement park than the great outdoors, and that’s not a world I’m fond of participating in.