A GUIDE’S LIFE
•
BY HAYDEN MELLSOP
Sun and Ice in November
F
ollowing a fifteen-degree night in a twenty-degree sleeping bag, I wake to a frozen five-gallon water jug, and the realization that I may have chosen the coldest place to camp in the entire valley. Positioned close to the creek, the camper also sits in the shade of the low ground, in the lee of snow-covered slopes with a northerly aspect. Kicking my water jug frees up enough liquid to brew a cup of tea. Like my dog on the living room rug on a winter’s day, I position myself in anticipation of where the sun will first reach, watching as the golden light fingers 28
High Country Angler • Winter 2021
slowly toward me. After a breakfast burrito that leaves rivulets of congealed bacon grease on my fingers, I take to the trail downstream. The creek bears all the hallmarks of a low water year—threadbare save for the occasional deeper pool; a layer of reddish silt covers the bed, swept clean only where seams of current are concentrated. Where not iced along its shallow reaches, the water flows gin-clear, and I stop from time to time to spot fish, to reassure myself they haven’t retreated for the season into the deep pools and cut banks. They seem few and
far between, but seeing one or two gives me hope that my day may be fruitful. The fish I do see hold station under thin ice shelves that have formed overnight. My hope is that, as the sun rises higher and the day warms, the ice will disappear. The canyon narrows the further down I hike, and trees grow heavy to the water’s edge. Although the trail shows ample sign of being well-used—ATV and bike tracks, boot and hoof prints—I encounter nobody. From the south a small stream, little more than a trickle, is frozen in place, the boulders over which it flows cased in ice. www.HCAezine.com
