I thought I would share part of a letter as it pertains to this topic. I wrote this last year to the wife, my last night's High Sierra camping in 2008 – a grand night at Saddlebag it was.
The last night, instead of staying lazily in the familiar Tuolumne BP campground, I decided instead to take the 4:30 water-taxi over to the end of Saddlebag, and camp there for my last night in the High Sierra for the season…intending, primarily, to fish the evening rise. Upon arriving far side, I found 15 - 20 anglers…many in full splendor / regalia, fishing all around the inlet cove. Hats, nets, vests…some fly, mostly spinner…worms, eggs, lures, nymphs, dries...rod-holders and lawn chairs – the gamut…funny, nobody was catching a damn thing that I could see.
After visiting a spell, hearing all the woeful tales…”Not a nibble”…”Couple of strikes”…”not that good here”… I just bided my sweet-ass time, setting up my tent in the tall, sweet grass above the cove … just content…watching and waiting for the right time to try my own luck. One by one, they all packed it in…by either boarding the water taxi, or hiking out…until at about 7:00, the last one departed. Damn, it sure was quiet and peaceful now… a bit humbling…solo once again.
Sometime around 7:30…maybe a tad later, when the sun just ducked behind Mt. Conness and it no longer splashed its palate across the water…when the wind also died out, as it is likely to do with most High Sierra sunsets… when at last it was totally calm, almost eerie, it started.
4-pound line, fly and bubble…2 lb, 5 foot leader…large Elkhorn…I killed them. For 45 minutes, every cast…BAM! One and two- pounders assaulted the solitary Saddlebag stillness…launching themselves out of the water in some spontaneous aquatic ballet…improvised tail-walks set in their own natural setting… nature’s auto release. Half of them quickly escaped after briefly dancing for me…another 10 or so, I readily set free…but amazingly, they were all magnificent jumpers. The Brookies or whatever they were…black backs, intense silver sides…vague mottled spots… they jumped the highest – the fiercest, the ‘Bows…nice color and fat…metal-flaked reds and golds…they pulled hard too but did not give quite as athletic the aerial display.
I distinctly remember pausing for a fleeting moment while fishing, wishing that there would be someone to share this all with…enjoying those last short-lived moments of summer. Watching the long evening shadows slowly creep up the opposite canyon wall, until the rich granite golds turned into muddy purples, Saddlebag indeed saved the best for last…maybe 3-pounds. It was a no-brainer to release this beauty…even if I wanted to, much too pretty even to consider keeping for a meal…sacrilegious.
This morning…early in the cold blue-gray of daybreak, I briefly argued with myself whether of not to leave the warm comfort of my cozy Western Mountaineering bag. Realizing, time is ephemeral, and that there might not be another opportunity like this until next year…if ever again. I threw off the down, gathered up these old bones, dressed hurriedly, and ambled down to the same familiar rocky point, so successfully productive the night before, just to see if they would rise… again. This time the fun lasted for a scant 20 minutes…this time they were a bit smaller, but again full of fight…then absolutely nothing.
Contented now, I packed it all up, and grabbed the first morning water taxi now fast approaching…piercingly full of day-hikers and wishful anglers. Satisfied, I headed home.
