Fly Fishing Eastern Sierra Streams

The cold tagged me hard. Snot was dripping from my nose, my eyes were watering terribly, and my hands were so numb I couldn’t get them to operate well enough to get my fly rod out of its tube. I took a moment and sat quietly on the tailgate of my truck, closed my eyes and listened to the music that the breeze made as it gently blew through the pine trees. I thought about how much my father would have enjoyed being there with me and wondered if his spirit was nearby, watching over me. I also thought about how much I missed his company both on and off the water, and for a while got lost dreaming about the day when I might see him again.

The feeling in my hands quickly returned, thanks to the warm sun that had begun peeking through the trees. Shortly thereafter, the fly rod, floating line, tapered leader, tippet, and tiny size 22 Parachute Adams finally joined together flawlessly. I grabbed my lumbar pack off the tailgate, my ball cap from the back seat, locked the truck, and hit the trail running—and I swear to God I mean really running. Actually, it was probably more like a hiker’s version of speed walking, but regardless of what you want to call it, I definitely had no business doing it at altitude.

About a mile or so into the hike, I couldn’t even remember my own name let alone where I was. I was terribly hungry, thirsty, possibly hallucinating somewhat, definitely disoriented, constantly asking my buddy to carry me the rest of the way, and I swear it felt like my brains were going to pound right out of my head. I had also sensed that I would be throwing up soon, and moments thereafter had become host to the worst case of the shits that I’d ever imagined.

I wandered slightly off and above the main trail, sat down on an old fallen pine tree, and placed my head in my hands. Unquestionably, I was in serious medical trouble, but felt I could handle it at that moment. More importantly, I realized that I’d arrived at a place where most self-proclaimed trout enthusiasts only dream of being at some point in their fly fishing careers. I had clearly displayed all the signs and symptoms that my father had warned me of earlier in his life, and at that moment had officially become a bona fide trout addict. The anticipation of hanging my first golden of the season had been so intoxicating I foolishly chose to ignore all the rules of altitude acclimation. I drove all night without eating anything nutritious; I didn’t catch a wink of sleep prior to the trip; I ascended from sea level to over ten-thousand feet in a matter of just five hours; and I totally ignored the last thing my wife said to me as I kissed her goodbye: “Don’t forget to keep drinking water.”

We immediately got off the mountain and drove back into town, (although I can’t remember the hike back to the trailhead parking area or the drive down the hill) got our room at the old Alabama Hills Inn, and I vomited, crapped, and slept the rest of the afternoon.