Western Montana: A Mountain Lake Saga

I pushed my way through the forest underbrush having crossed through the old burn. At last, I could see its turquoise waters. The small lake was exactly as I remember it. Deceptively deep, clear water snug against the steep mountain wall. The rising Westslope cutthroat trout broke the morning stillness across the surface. I had to close my eyes for a moment and let the excitement and euphoria wash over me as I had finally made it up to this spot. The last time I was here was Labor Day weekend, 1999, exactly twenty-one years ago today. I’ve been searching for this lake ever since.

By: JOSHUA R. JOHNSON

In the Fall of my senior year of high school (during the Y2K scare) my friend, Joe, invited me on an overnight camping trip. He said we were going to a nameless lake his family referred to as “Mountain Lake.” If I remember right, his dad had only taken him up there once before. So at 4:30 am that Saturday morning we hopped into his dad’s half beige and half rust 1970’s Toyota FJ40 Land Cruiser and sputtered our way over the pass.

By sunrise, we made it to a locked U.S. Forest Service gate which was as close to the lake as we could get by vehicle. We got out, donned our backpacks, and had our rods ready. Joe’s dad told us, “See that rock on top of the ridge that looks like an ice cream cone? There’s no trail so we’re going to walk straight up the mountain toward that rock and we’ll run right into the lake.” He led the way into the forest, .357 magnum revolver at his side in case we ran into a grizzly.

After three or four hours of bush-whacking, we made it to the lake. We set up camp and walked around the shore making our way to some overlooking rocks. The water was impossibly clear. From our perspective above the water, we could see the fish rise in the deep. They first appeared as small dots, then would grow into nice-sized trout, and then into monsters once they surfaced.

Early afternoon morphed into early evening and we started fishing. I may have brought a fly rod with me, but I didn’t use it. We cast heavy Panther Martin spinners as far as we could. Mine was yellow with red spots. The fish couldn’t help themselves. Every cast it seemed these giants would smash our lures. Joe’s dad caught the biggest fish that evening. He used a clear weighted bobber with a three or four-foot leader attached to present an all-black fly to these fish. The fishing went on like that into the night. It was time to get the campfire lit, so we stopped. We caught a few trout the next morning, but by a couple of hours after sunrise, they stopped biting altogether. Fishing these lakes is a lot like life in that way; sometimes you have to be in the right place at the right time. We were both.

Twenty years later and I still get tingly thinking about it. This trip stuck with me. The years following I’d find myself trying to get back. Not too long after that trip, I lost touch with Joe and couldn’t remember where this place was. I knew the general area but I didn’t store exactly where we were or how we got there in my mind. In 2009, I attempted to find the lake again. I brought my uncle and his daughter with me. I referenced Google Maps and a forest service map and found a lake I was positive was it. It had the right attributes; an outlet on the northeast corner, trees on the east shore, and rocks on the west. From what I could tell by the satellite image I had found it. I was sure of it. We drove down that long dirt road which kept winding further than I remembered it did ten years before. We got to a good place to park the truck and made our way up the mountain. A fire recently burned the whole area within the last couple of years.

We climbed and climbed and climbed. My uncle pestered me, “Are you sure we’re going the right way.” I told him, “of course we are,” though in my mind I’m doubting every step of our ascent. We got to a ridge that I was sure the lake was down the other side of. Nope. There was no lake there. “It must be the next ridge over,” I said. Rather than going all the way to the next ridge to what was certain disappointment, we collectively chose to turn around. We camped for the night not too far from the truck.

The next morning I was pretty bummed we didn’t find the lake, but my mood soon changed. We fished a creek that flowed through the canyon that took us up there. The fishing was lights out as the stream held some beautiful Westslopes. I crept out of the bush and gave a good upstream roll cast from my knees. The fluffy caddis drifted high through the heavy ripples. My intuition and stealth served me well as the fly disappeared. At the end of my line was a beautiful sixteen-inch cut. This fish made the unsuccessful search for the lake all the worth it, at least in that moment.

That failed attempt made me more determined to find it again. I would continue to study the maps and daydream, my mind wandering upstream. As I would try to plan a time to get up there again I’d reminisce that first experience; the dancing trout, impossibly clear water. The opportunity never came around until the Monday before Labor Day, 2020. I was taking a break from work and opened up Google Maps. I was looking at an area where a friend and I had fished a similarly stunning lake weeks before. This happens to be in the general area as my fabled “Mountain Lake”. Then I spotted it. I had dismissed it before, but I gave the satellite image a closer look. I could clearly see the unique rock formation that came down into the water. I was searching the wrong mountain this whole time! My weekend plans had now changed.

That Saturday I got in the truck and headed toward the pass right before dawn. With my dog as my copilot, I was hoping not to hit a deer on the way out there. I hate driving during this time of day. Sure enough, coming down the other side three deer were standing in the road.

Luckily I was driving slowly down the steep and winding descent and they chose not to walk in front of the truck. Then further down the highway, I came over a hill to find a giant six-by-six bull elk crossing the road. I missed him by about a foot. That would have been just my luck; a totaled truck and another failed attempt to make it to the lake.

I made it to the end of a dirt road, or at least to the U.S. Forest Service gate, and got out. The landscape looked completely different than it did twenty years ago. What was a dense forest is now grassy mountain-sides. Gray skeletons are all that remain of the old forest after the burn. The dog led the way up following meandering game trails, seemingly knowing where he was going. As we moved up the mountain I cautiously examined every grizzly-sized boulder ahead of us, checking for movement. You can’t be too complacent in bear country.

We stopped for a drink in the springs and would find the occasional huckleberry which the bears left untouched.

The more elevation we gained the less the fire had touched the forest. I was relieved the old burn never made it to the lake. After a quick rest on the tree-lined east shore, I assembled my fly rod and looked through my fly box while the dog took off to explore. The fish were jumping and knowing these alpine cuts, it didn’t matter which fly I presented. I spotted a few large orange-brown caddises flying about, so I chose a size twelve October caddis to begin.

My excitement boiled over. I finally made it up here and I was finally fishing this blue heaven. It seemed like an eternity for me to tie the fly to the leader with shaky fingers. My first cast was a disaster, casting into myself, twisting up my leader, making a mess. Calming myself down with a few deep breaths as I untangled the nest, my next cast was error-free. The fly soared out over the still, glacial blue water, softly landing on the surface.

Within a few heartbeats, I had my first fish on and quickly netted. A vibrant Westslope cut. Its dark back, silver sides, bright red belly, small black spots denser at the tail, the distinctive red slash under the jaw made it a perfect specimen. My next two casts mirrored the first good cast with two more beautiful cuts netted. They would continue to bite the rest of the morning. Most were in the fourteen-to-sixteen-inch range with one slightly larger. I switched from the October caddis to a purple and tan foam hopper to avoid reapplying floatant. The fish were happy to go full-send at the new, jazzy meal.

At noon I took a break and sat down with the dog. Moments later I heard voices coming from the north end of the lake not too far from where I was. The hikers appeared to be thrilled and relieved to reach their destination, dropping their packs, and sitting down. My dog ran over to them to say hello. They, a family three generations deep, were shocked to see me. They said they have been coming up here on an annual Labor Day family adventure for several years and never saw a soul. The son-inlaw had even proposed to one of the daughters five years prior at this very spot. I told them about my relationship with this lake and we all agreed this is a special place for those lucky enough to stumble upon it.

I left the family to themselves and took the rod, backpack, and dog into the forest away from the lake to reflect on my journey. I had planned on staying overnight, but I decided to turn it into a day trip instead, but not before a few more casts. As had happened during my first trip twenty-one years earlier the fish had abruptly stopped biting. That was my cue to head back down to the truck. I don’t know when the next time I’ll come up here will be, another decade or more maybe. I’ve closed the chapter on this lake for now and it’s time to find a new gem, in which there is a lifetime’s worth on my list.