Avalanche Lake

It has been raining here in Glacier National Park as spring runoff nears its peak. I put on a scratchy wool sweater and hike a trail sticky with mud. The ground on either side is covered in a lush emerald moss. It makes a lovely floor for the giants living here.

I am strolling through a grove of ancient cedars and feel as though I have been transformed into a mystical world. Forests like this are the stuff of story books and bedtime tales, a place of trolls, gnomes, and fairies.

Clinging tightly to the sticky grip on my fly rod, I caress the small cracks and lines in the cork with my thumb and forefinger. I never feel quite at home near a lake or stream without my rod.

“Do you think we will catch any fish in the lake, Brian?” I ask.

“I haven’t heard what is up there. I don’t remember seeing any fish rising there, but that doesn’t mean anything,” Uncle Brian answers.

“It should be a pretty hike anyway,” my dad adds.

“It is a gorgeous hike,” says Brian.

We are on an adventure to sample the fishing in Avalanche Lake, a high mountain lake in this part of Montana. It lies at the end of a well-used trail, indicating the steep walk is popular this time of year when other parts of the park are closed because of snow.

I had hoped the visibility would be better. Low clouds are shrouding the peaks.

“Mountain goats!” I exclaim. “Hey, you’re right,” Brian says as he peers through his binoculars. We gaze up through a small opening in the trees toward a cliff face in the distance.

“God, those things are so cool. Look at the way they just cruise along down that ledge,” Dad says.

These off-white creatures captivate us with their display of hardiness and agility.

As we climb higher, the forest of giant cedars thins and we enter a forest of spruce and tamarack. We are near the end of the trail, and though the skies are not clear, we can see most of the peaks around us.

The trail leads us into the small lake basin. It was a steep and mucky climb, and I can feel the aching in my legs. As we descend and round a corner, the emerald waters become visible. I see the concentric circles on the water formed by rising fish, and the thought of trout on the other end of the line motivates me to move faster.

I’m disappointed to see about 20 people standing on the shore. I wave to the tour group as we pass and I think to myself, “So much for seclusion.”

Despite the disappointment, I cannot deny the sheer beauty of my surroundings. Encompassing the lake are peaks nearly 10,000 feet in elevation.

Though the glaciers that carved this area have melted long ago, the snows of winter still stick to the boulders on the faces of the mountains.

The fields of ice and snow are no longer stationary due to the warmth of the spring air. The lake lives up to its name, for small avalanches tumble down as we stand and watch. Knowing we are far out of reach of these icy cascades, we venture further around the lake to separate ourselves from the tour group.

Our first attempt at fishing is turning out to be a failure, but we are able to watch a pair of rare harlequin ducks. These hardy birds, like the salmon, migrate from the ocean to breed and rear their young in the cold streams of the mountains.

This is the first I have seen the whitewater birds in still water. The lake is small and it is the head of a rushing creek. The male harlequin has a bold configuration of slate grays, rust browns, and bright whites. As is the case in most hen ducks, the female harlequin is a drab brown, but she does have a white eye patch.

Aside from an occasional chickadee call, the only sounds are our own voices discussing the fishing. We have finally found privacy at the top end of the lake.

“What did he hit?” I ask as my father lands a fish.

“A green Woolly Worm,” he replies.

“I’m seeing some fish hit the surface. I think I’ll switch to a dry fly,” I say.

Across the inlet creek from where I am standing, a large number of fish are rising. As waist-deep frigid waters soak into my jeans, I think about the uncomfortable walk out.

I can see fish cruising in the slow current where the creek flows into the lake. As soon as I cast my mayfly imitation in front of one fish, he rockets up and takes the fly. I catch and release several beautiful cutthroat trout over the next hour.

Long after the trip to Avalanche Lake I read an article in the newspaper about the cutthroat living there. Isolated in the lake since the last ice age, the trout are a unique population.

I had caught fish descended from individuals that lived in the same place 10,000 years ago. Trout, like the ancient cedars, had lived there before Europeans set their pale feet on North American soil.