A brisk northern breeze shivers the water I have been sight fishing. Successfully, mind you. I was shocked when a fish chased after the golden ant I submerged about four feet in front of its face only a few seconds earlier. I was surprised a second time when my 3wt fiberglass rod doubled and my old click and pawl reel began to scream. I have fished in this high alpine, yet highly pressured, lake for thirty years by now and have only ever caught dinks. Stocked, boring ol’ dinks. Yet now there is life, and in my net a beautiful 12” rainbow/cutthroat hybrid–also known colloquially as the cutbow– with a vibrant, nigh phthalo green dorsal surface and a sharp orange cut under its jaw. The last time cutthroat had been stocked in this lake was in 2018, and as the lake rests at the end of a bumpy, yet accessible drive deep into the Selkirks, the lake gets hammered by fly and spin fisherman equally. As I admire the fish in the net with my wife and son (and get drooled on by the onlooking five month old in my wife’s arms), I can’t help but smile at seeing a stocked lake so successfully done that not only are there healthy, sizable fish but the mating is going so well that even the hybrids are getting large and gaining weight.

The breeze continued, so I threw together my Stoker stove from Uberleben here in town, lit a firestarter, and jammed it up with the dry sticks that my son had gathered. The lake filled my pot and I set up a few kuksas for hot chocolate as the water boiled over the now raging, but contained, fire. After one minute of hard boil, I let it boil for five until eight minutes of hard boil had occurred. Better safe than sorry. Plus, I am not going to lie and say I wasn’t fishing before my son asked if the water was done yet as I had forgotten about the hot cocoa job I was put up for. I filled the kuksas for the family, and I was back onto a rock to roll cast out to more cruising trout.

The shimmering of the lake water was intense now as the sun grew closer to the mountaintop, a large eye in the sky that was Medusa-like in its beauty while I couldn’t look towards its direction. Blind roll casts is what I had, waiting for a twitch in my fly rod to signal that I should set the hook. I spent this time with the tip up and the line taut so I wouldn’t miss anything as I admired my family. The baby was feeding while my son and wife sipped from their cups and talked about everything and nothing at all. I smile knowing how good I have it; my wife smiles back. She looks out at the lake and says, “fish”. I looked back and the lake had nearly softened to its typical glassy mirror and I saw the trout heading my way. I pulled back and cast a few feet over, plopping the yellow ant a few feet in front of the pathing trout. As I hoped, he set his eyes on the prize and raced over and grabbed it. A delicate take, I set the hook and I am almost pulled off the rock by a fish more powerful than I thought. The fish jumped as I set my feet, and I played him everywhere within twenty five feet of where I stood.

My son jumped up in excitement, grabbed my net, and ran over to me. My wife held up the baby to watch. The baby drooled, cooed, and couldn’t care less for–or even comprehend–what I was doing. A little bit up the shore this way, and back down the other way, the fish danced in the water and leaped when it wanted to. I played it perfectly on my skinny tippet and lightweight rod until it was curled tightly in my all-to-small net. While it only measured about fourteen inches in length, it was an absolute hog in circumference. I decided that we would harvest the fish for dinner, and I gave it a whack on the head to knock it out, gilled it, and let it bleed out in the cold, clear mountain waters. I thanked the small god for his sacrifice, acknowledging the bravery and strength he showed in battle.

The funny thing about the day is that we were not supposed to arrive at Roman Nose. No, we had been shooting for a different mountain lake to spend time at, explore, and check how the fish were doing. As an arrogant man, the type that seethes at being asked by a clerk at Home Depot if I need help finding anything, I viewed the map to the lake once and considered it locked inside my little peabrain forever. Of course I can find it, hun; the road goes up and cuts far to the back and then you go up a windy hill and you are there!

Well, there are a lot of cutbacks and windy hills up Snow Creek Road. After about one hour of extra driving and a few complaints from the five year old in the back, we ended up just bumping our way up to Roman Nose. That is just how some days (or many days) go with me and the family. We have a plan in the outdoors but that plan will divert four out of five times on our way out there. I planned for a few overnights this year covering a couple miles of Smith Creek for that sweet, sweet early summer hatch and the beautiful westslope cutthroat that would come with it. Then the fires hit, so my buddy Andrew and I ended up hunting for our elusive grayling at Long Mountain Lake. I went to fish the Moyie one day but the water felt like a hot tub–a clear sign to let the trout rest–so I went to wade the Kootenai and found a new love for the river. I plan to make coffee every time I go out to the river or creeks but I don’t always remember to bring the coffee to grind so I settle (happily) for some spruce tip or pine needle tea. Just because a plan falls through doesn’t mean it is the end. Some journeys in life require a bump in the road, and driving up to Roman Nose, you definitely feel a few of those.

Tight lines out there, friends.

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