Over the Labor Day Weekend, I thought it best to do some hiking to get away from the crowds. I drove up to the Rio Grande National Forest and spent a couple days hiking into the Weminuche Wilderness for some solitary fishing.
On Saturday, I was hiking up into the mountains to get to a meadow section of this creek that is supposed to be rather good. I got about three quarters of a mile up the trail and oh, up about 150 vertical feet, and I came across these three guys huffing and puffing, leaning against their packs on the side of the trail.
Moe says to me, "I sure hope your load's lighter than ours."
I survey their packs as Larry fidgets with his GPS and Shemp smokes a cigarette. They've got bows, so I know they're elk hunting. I'm wearing a day pack, which unless it is full of lead, is certainly lighter than the large loads they are carrying. "Yeah, I'm just going up a few more miles. Going fishing for the day. Looks like you guys are elk hunting?"
Larry speaks up and says, "You know how far it is to the divide?"
I didn't have a map with me, but remembered looking at it that morning. "About 6 more miles or so, I'd guess."
Moe says, "We've got an elk permit, but it's for the other side of the divide."
"Oh, then you guys are headed down the Pine drainage."
"Yeah, that's where we're headed." Moe replies.
"Where you guys from?"
"Louisiana."
I look at my altimeter and it reads 9,300 ft. "No wonder you guys are having a tough time."
"Yeah, we're not used to this altitude. Where we're from, it's only 70 ft."
"Well, that's a nice area over there on the other side," I said, "but you've got a long way to go. I know I wouldn't want to be hauling an elk out of there. I think the divide's around 10,700 ft."
I wished them luck and continued on my way. I made it up to the meadow, which sits at 10,200 according to my watch (give or take 100 ft.). Well, the trail was at 10,200, the stream was a good 100 feet down.
I took off my hiking boots, put on the wading boots, and made my descent to the river. Due to all the rain over the summer (every day since the beginning of July according to the campground host), the valley floor was a swamp. The river was still very high for this time of year. More at the normal level for June.
I tied on a House & Lot and managed to catch about a dozen fine examples of brookie pollution. One went about 12 inches, which in the largest brook trout I've caught out west. A big female, ready to spawn a new generation of non-nativeness to this fine little stream. I should have kept her, but I let her go. I felt a little ashamed about it later, but I know I can't single handedly return this stream to the native cutthroat that belong here.
I fished for a couple hours and then climbed back out of the valley. I ate a Clif Bar, drank some Gatorade and packed up to head back to camp.
The three stooges returned to my mind. It had been about four hours since I ran into them. I figured they would have caught up to me by now. On the other hand, I was half guessing they would have given up and returned to the campground.
Well, I have to give them some credit. They had made it in all of 2 miles and had set up camp for the afternoon and apparently the night. They were at about 9,900 ft., which is about half way up to the divide. Larry was still awake, but the other two were fast asleep in their sleeping bags on the ground.
"How'd you do?" Asks Larry.
"OK, about a dozen."
"Seems like a long way to walk for a dozen fish."
"Seems like a long way to walk for nothing," I thought to myself.
"Did you see any elk?" He prys.
"Nope," I said, "but you guys still have a long way to go yet. Good luck." And with that I continued on my way back to camp.
Later that evening as I made my dinner at the campground, the host rode up on his mountain bike to inquire about the fishing. I told him about it and then asked if he knew about the three guys from Louisiana that were up there.
He filled me in on their plan. I initially thought they were going to hike down to a trailhead on the other side of the pass, but he informed me that indeed they had planned to go over the divide, kill an elk, and then pack it back over the divide to the campground that we were at.
These guys could hardly haul their packs. I don't know how they were thinking they could actually haul an elk out of there.
The host then said, "you know, I quit giving advice a long time ago. I told them what they were getting into, but I'm sure they weren't going to listen to me. The one piece of advice I did give was that they should filter their water. I figured that on top of everything else they were about to experience, they didn't need a case of giardia."
I kind of felt sorry for the elk, that is if they did manage to actually get over the divide and down the other side a couple miles to where they might find one. If they did actually kill one, there was no way these guys were going to haul several hundred pounds of elk back up over the divide and down to camp. Probably an eight mile trip with about 1,800 feet change in elevation. At best it would take them a couple trips. Well, I figured, at least the bears and coyotes would have something to eat.
