Some Days

Since my first encounter with the little tail-spotted ancestors of Bonneville cutthroats in my home waters, my interest in the native trout populations of the Great Basin has been intense. And, of all the cutthroats, the Lahontans of Pyramid Lake have always been at the top of my “to-catch” list. These beasts are the granddaddies of all cutthroats; large, toothy, piscivorous, residing in a huge, deep, semi-salty lake out in the barren high desert on a Paiute reservation.

Uh, radical.

You fish nerds know what I’m talkin’ ’bout.

A little more background: The original strain of monster Lahontan cutthroat trout (documented to 41 lbs, reports of 60 lbs.) in this lake were almost lost. In fact, they were lost for years, having gone extinct in the lake when a diversion dam built in 1905 blocked spawning runs and pulled water from the Truckee River for irrigation. The result of the dam and poor water management practices was an 80 foot drop in the lake’s water level and no more Lahontan cutthroats to be found in Pyramid Lake by 1939. In the 1970s the Paiute tribe created a hatchery with cutthroats from other nearby drainages and brought cutthroats back to the lake. These were technically Lahontan cutthroats but were not the same strain as the ancient fish. They grew to 8 and 10 pounds, with an occasional fish getting a bit larger. Pretty cool, but…

The miracle.

One of the nation’s leading trout biologists, Dr. Robert Behnke, happened upon some cutthroats in a tiny stream on Pilot Mountain on the Utah/Nevada border. Geographically, they should have been Bonneville cutthroats, but they weren’t. These fish had actually been brought there, yes, from Pyramid Lake, and had been struggling to survive in the tiny desert water since the early 1900s. These fish were genetically tested and matched preserved specimens of Pyramid Lake fish. These are the “lost strain.”

In 2006 they were reintroduced to Pyramid Lake. Reports, even one from the New York Times, suggest that the fish are surviving and growing well. The presence of a prolific prey base, relative isolation, and massive size of this water make it a factory for oversized cutthroats. And now many of them, the original Pyramid Lake strain of giant Lahontan cutthroats are getting up to 20+ lbs.

Fish geeks everywhere, join with me in fish-geeking out for a moment.

So, as mentioned, Pyramid Lake  has long occupied a spot on the list of waters to definitely fish someday, and well, that someday was here, just a few weeks ago. I had read all about the fishing styles at Pyramid, seen the hero shots of dudes hefting big red-sided Lahontan cutthroats,  talked to area guides and anglers about flies and techniques, read up on the unique ecology and  natural history of this high-desert trout oasis, and driven more than 8 hours. It was time.

I was in town for Thanksgiving and now it was Black Friday. I will not go shopping on this day, ever (again), and there’s not much to do in Reno if you’re not into crappy buffets or playing crappy odds at crappy casinos with crappy carpet. So, a day of fishing was all but required.

With the appropriate permissions acquired, I bolted the sis-in-law’s house early, picked up my yellow Paiute tribal permit and sped out through the desert. It’s pretty darn close to Reno, but when you see it you immediately feel like you’re visiting prehistory. Big white triangle islands in an expansive mass of blue-grey water, all of it out in a barren desert, crazy.

The beaches at Pyramid are well marked, and my research had sent me to one that was known, but not overrun. I bounced down the short dirt two-track and onto the coarse grey sand, stopping just 50 yards from the water. That’s nice. No time wasted in walking.

Every time you arrive at a new fishing spot there’s a sense of excitement, but, when it’s a water with giant ancient almost extinct cutthroats, it’s big old burly butterflies. So rigging my 2 rods took longer than it should. I kept looking out across the steely flat water and whiffing on knots.

I had researched it and felt confident in my techniques. I was going to wade out to a drop off, sling some long casts with a 2-fly rig, let ’em sink to the sandy bottom and strip them in with varying retrieves until I figured out the speed these fish preferred today. If that didn’t work, I would switch to the old stand-by lake technique, big chironomids hanging under an indicator. That could not fail.

I waded out into the lake, taking the streamer rod first, and to my delight, the wading was easy on the hard grey sand and the drop-off was obvious. Knee-deep water plummeted down into blackness that looked at least 15 feet deep. Perfect.

I, pulled a bunch of line off the reel and zipped a cast as far as I could heave it. The line sank, I counted it down patiently until I knew it was on the bottom and I started a rhythmic retrieve. Somehow, I half expected a fish on this first cast. It was the excitement of years of waiting to be here, on a perfect November day, at a time when the fish were supposed to be there. There’s my leader. Nothing.

No big deal of course, these things, especially big old lake fish, take time. So I kept casting, counting the line down, stripping. There’s the leader again. Back cast.

After a half hour or so I started looking around during the count downs. There were three other anglers on my beach. Two of them, in classic Pyramid style, had ladders perched at the edge of the drop. They were slinging streamers, counting them down, and retrieving with a quick steady retrieve, hand over hand, tarpon style. I started to mimic their retrieve, and then, it happened.

A fish. A big fish, not on my line, but visible.

He showed his intentions clearly, back and dorsal fin barely breaking the steely surface with a wake that showed his size, speed, and direction. He was chasing minnows and moving my way. “He’s mine.”

The ripples were right at the outside edge of range, but I was going to get it to him. I yanked the rest of my line out of the water and quickly angled the cast over in his direction. Not a perfect cast, but close enough, “right?” Wrong.

Again, I yanked in the last 30 feet of line and pushed out another long cast, this time moving it 15 feet in front of where I’d seen his head. “Yeah, that’s about where he should be.” Strip, strip, pause. Strip, strip, strip-strip-strip-strip, strip, pause, strip-strip-strip. Nothing.

One more cast, this one more furiously rushed, another 15 feet in the direction the fish was moving, and…

Nothing.

The calm of the lake’s surface was telling. That fish was gone. Off to who knows where, that mysterious place where big fish hang out and wait their turn to frustrate you.

I kept casting, in the direction of the fish, then eventually to the right, and the left, and up the edge of the drop off, and straight away, then a little right, and a little left, everywhere a fish might be.

Nothing.

It had been a good 3 hours and no taps, wiggles, nibbles, nudges, bites, bumps, or sniffs.

I was fishing the indicator and chironomids now, hanging them at about 10 and 13 feet; then 11 and 14, 12 and 15, 13 and 16, 6 and 9, 4 and 7.

Nothing.

After fishing chironomids unsuccessfully for a while you start to look around. Pyramid Lake is a truly unique trout water. It rests in a wide desert valley between barren rocky ridges. There was snow on the tops of the mountains to the West, it even looked like there were a few straggly trees up there, a rarity in this part of the world.

The day was warm for late November, probably over 50 degrees, but the water was cold enough that I had to take a break eventually. Good timing for a late lunch and a quick drive up the highway to scout other water. Nothing to lose at this point, except for fly-in-water time. But where was that getting me?

The highway along the lake shore is great; 2 lanes, well paved, making it easy to get to almost anywhere on the west shoreline. I of course wondered if the fishing was better over on the east shore. There were a few cars glinting in the distance over there, but it was too far to see anything really and it would take too long to get there.

I pulled over at a high shoreline lookout above a popular beach and watched a couple dozen anglers covering big chunks of water with flies, plastics and plugs. Some were on ladders,  some wading out to their waists, some trolling the outside edge of the mob in boats. 

Nothing.

“Just one fish,” yes, one average Pyramid Lake cutthroat trout would make my day. I didn’t know a better spot, and at least I had a good drop-off, and I had seen an actual fish, so I sped back to my beach and pulled down onto the sand, this time even closer to the water’s edge. My flies had been out of the water for too long.

I started slinging streamers again methodically. I stripped fast, then slow, then in a 3 strip pattern, then 5, then 6, and 10, and 8, and 4 all with varying lengths of pull and pause times between strips.

Nothing.

Until…

It appeared. A big trout. A really big trout. Red sides and all. He came cruising in slowly from the left. Then with a sudden burst almost unbelievable from a fish that size he bolted right for me, slashed at something unseen while turning in toward me and the shallows, then paused, and continued his slow left to right cruise pattern. I already had my line in position and dropped my flies right where they needed to be. They sank, not fast enough for my liking but surely into this beast’s view. One short quick strip, then another, then another, and another, and…

Nothing.

The fish had slipped off the edge of the drop and into the deep. 10 more casts in his direction turned up, you guessed it, nothing.

It was clear. This was one of those days. Some days are like this. We all know it, though most of us never admit it to our fishin’ buddies, or anyone else for that matter. Some days it’s not our day.

I kept casting, switched flies 15 times, switched rods. By 3 in the afternoon the lake was packed. My beach now had more than a dozen and a half anglers up and down it. Most were fly fishers, casting, counting, stripping, all with varying techniques. You would think someone along the line, tens of sharp objects being yanked through the water, would hook up with a big cuttie.

Nothing.

For the last few hours I fished next to a couple of guys that were locals. I knew this by their conversations about work and friends and former fishing trips. People always underestimate how sound travels over water. They talked about me, about how it just wasn’t happening for anyone, and about how long they would stick it out. I was determined to fish longer than them, but they were staunch. Finally, as the sun dipped behind the mountains in the west, the air temps plummeted and they quickly lost interest and left. I stayed, shivering, casting, shivering some more, counting down, shivering, stripping, shivering, casting.

Nothing.

It was one of those days.

I was utterly frustrated. I finally reeled in, walked up the beach to the car, packed up my gear, and felt something odd on a day like this. I was immediately completely at peace. There wasn’t a fish on film, but, this was an amazing place, with a history and hope, an incredible lake, with at least 2 enormous cutthroats, in an ancient desert setting you simply have to see to comprehend.

I’ll be back – some day.