It was “The Last Train to Gunfire Lake” yesterday, with me and the  “Wiggletail Kid” for backup.

The howitzer was a new twist, but the Kid and I bartered our safe passage; a battered Baby Ruth and a handful of Juju-bees for a day’s fishing.

The lake was murky but airless, and while I’m pumping up my ancient float tube, Kelvin (Wiggletail Kid) is doing pirouettes complemented by Force Fins, and underwater fish finding gear. He’s out of rock range, and there’s little I can do but make threatening gestures.

I see his net come out and a 14″ Kokanee falls victim to an Olive J.Fair Wiggletail nymph. I was hoping to wean him off the fly (as it’s the only fly he carries) but he’s thumbing his nose at me  – knowing the wake of his passing is enough to cause me consternation.

I’m one Oreo cookie away from being the Edmund Fitzgerald; the combination of lard arsed angler, old style tube, and gear has made my freeboard less than optimal.

The gut I was working on already, but I resolved to get a new float tube – mine was the original Mountain Trader circa 1988, and it’s time to let the Old Girl pass peacefully.

The Kokanee proved a fluke, the cocoa colored water was impenetrable, and despite our best efforts nothing else showed. I lost a couple streamers to underwater branches, and Kelvin donated similar.

The wind hit at 10:00AM, and with waves breaking over the windward side of the tube – I lost no time getting to shore.

I had a chance to speak to some other anglers that inquired how we did, and found the southern access had been restored – but the water was as murky there as it was on the northern arm. No one seems to know what’s causing the discoloration, and fishing has been poor all Spring.

I took Kelvin on a quick tour of the North Fork, which won’t open until the end of April, and as the creek arm was clear, we fiddled around for a bit. Kelvin caught a 12″ Rainbow Trout on the Wiggletail – and I’m keeping an eye on a fire building on the eastern rim of the lake, no air tankers showed so I assumed it a BLM controlled burn.

The east ridge was our way out – and brush burns fast and hot even in Spring. The idea of meeting a strike team of wildland engines on that narrow canyon road was a bit daunting, and as the fishing was slow we beat a hasty retreat.

Getting outfished isn’t as painful as it sounds, I’ll have to recount the deeds at work and invent a few superlatives, but focusing on his fish will be less painful than drawing attention to my gut…

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