Last summer I was on a small lake, the smaller of two, up in the Indian Peaks Wilderness Area. It was a perfect cutthroat day-overcast, cold, with a fitful breeze - and trout were rising all over the lake. My two partners and I were connecting well, using a variety of smallish wet flies, but all we were getting were little cutthroats, from seven inches on down. I knew there were good fish in the lake and the weather was ideal, so I kept working that wet fly and getting little trout. Finally I waded out near the dropoff, replaced my wet fly with about a #8 Squirrel Tail Streamer, and started working the edge of the dark water. After only a few casts I felt a good strike, the kind where you can really feel the weight of the fish. He started into a strong, steady run, and all of a sudden the weight got very heavy and very dead: a rock.
The weather in the high country can change at a moment's notice. . .
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Since I'd lost my fly anyway, I went ahead and put on a heavier leader and another streamer, and within the next half hour I landed a sixteen-inch brookie and a fifteen-inch cutt. Those were the only good fish I landed that afternoon, but they were enough to make the day a success, and I'm convinced I'd never have hooked them except on the streamer. I typically try a streamer in one of two situations: when I'm taking fish with such regularity that I feel confident to experiment or try to single out the larger ones, or when I'm doing so badly that desperation has set in. They have often worked at both times.
Streamers seem to be most effective out near the dropoff or in deep water, and medium to small flies-sizes 6 or 8, sometimes as small as a #12-seem best. I fish them pretty much the same way I fish wet flies and nymphs except that I usually start with a little faster retrieve.
The weather in the high country can change at a moment's notice, and these changes exert a strong influence on insect and fish behavior. Everyone, myself included, likes to be up in the mountains on a bright, warm, sunny day, and the fish will certainly feed at these times. I've found, however (and many good fishermen concur), that the best days are overcast and cool, and a breeze or even a drizzling rain or snowfall can make for excellent conditions. As a friend of mine puts it,"hypothermia and cutthroats go together." I don't keep a detailed fishing log, but I'd guess that I've taken a good 80 percent of my larger high lake fish under conditions that, in another context, I'd call "bad weather." I believe this is because the low light and the cover of a ruffled surface make the fish, especially the larger ones, more confident about exposing themselves. You will, naturally, have to find your own happy medium between getting soaked and frozen-something that can be dangerous, even fatal when you're far out in the backcountry-and fishing at what is often the best time.
Wind can be both a blessing and a curse on a mountain lake. A stiff breeze can make casting a chore, and long casts can be almost impossible if you're facing into the wind. At the same time, a wind can ruffle the water nicely, trap hatching insects on the surface, and even deposit terrestrials that wouldn't be there otherwise.
Trout and grayling will sometimes decline to feed right on the surface when it's windy, probably because the bugs are hard to see on the choppy surface. But they will often begin to rise well when, and if, the wind dies down. In some cases, especially when Cutts are involved, they'll keep rising to a choppy surface, but you just won't be able to see them.
Like fishing in a drizzle, fishing on a windy day will require you to put yourself in the most uncomfortable position. If the wind is blowing out of the northwest, then the leeward side of the lake (the northwest side) is where the casting is easiest. Unfortunately, most of the insects and fish will collect on the windward side (the southeast in this case), and that's where you should be fishing-right into the wind.
The high mountain lakes are best described as unpredictable and paradoxical. You can come on a high lake at mid-morning and find no indication whatever that there's a single bug or fish in it and then, an hour later, be fishing to hundreds of trout rising to a multiple hatch of midges, caddis, and mayflies. You may fish a lake four times and come to believe that it holds nothing but six-inch cutts and then, on the fifth trip, hook a five-pound brookie, or, just as likely, spook him in the shallows because you've gotten too casual, thinking you know all there is to know about the place. You'll never know it all, and that's where the fascination comes from.
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