In the summer of 2001, Craig and I decided to go backpacking for a few days near Wolf Creek. I was dead set on hiking to Fish Lake to catch some trout; who wouldn’t want to hike to a mountain lake called Fish Lake? I suspected a 4 hour hike, though admittedly the last section did look a bit steep. I bought the topo maps and packed my gear, and early one morning Craig and I and my dog Farlo headed for the hills.
All started very well. It was sunny and warm high mountain day. We found the trailhead no problem and Farlo was running around like an escaped zoo animal. After strapping on the backpacks, we headed down the trail in high spirits.
Shortly afterwards we came across a stream flowing from right to left and a sign pointing downstream to Fish Lake. I thought this was absurd. How can the path to Fish Lake follow downstream the brook that flows out of the high altitude Fish Lake. It can’t! We have to ignore the sign and hike up stream to get to Fish Lake. Convincingly I explained my logic to Craig who was quick to agree (we are both culprits in my version of the story).
A few hours and a tough uphill switchback climb later, we reached the top of ridge and realized our mistake. We were hiking in the wrong direction towards another lake. Ah, we laughed and shrugged it off. It happens to everyone. We were still laughing after we returned to the site of our original mistake and followed the correct path. Onwards to Fish Lake.
After about an hour of hiking (now 7 hours total) we left the brook and started heading uphill. On cue, the weather turned and we had to break out the camouflage rain gear. Later, we spooked some horseback riders as we emerged from the bushes but they recovered and we asked them how long to Fish Lake. One rider looked at us puzzled, looked at his friend, and back at us. Never a good sign, I thought. He said, ‘you have about a 6 hour steep uphill climb from here to Fish Lake’.
Preposterous I thought. Silly people on their horses have no concept of time. The whole hike, if you will remember, was only supposed to take 4 hours. Despite our long detour, we should still only have 2 -3 hours left. I convinced Craig we should keep going, ‘I bet the fish are already jumping!’ We continued to climb up the trail.
The next scene is the closest I can think of what it would have been like to survive the Bataan Death March, or the Trail of Tears. Farlo, who had probably doubled the distance we had walked since he ran everywhere, would run ahead, fall asleep and wait for us to catch up. The day turned to dusk and the rain didn’t let up. At hour 10 of hiking, I felt like I was going to pass out. My feet hurt, everything hurt. We walked in silence wondering how far the other was willing to go. Finally, as darkness was approaching and we had seen no sign of the ‘last steep section’ we decided we had to stop. Our first good decision of the day. We made camp and fell asleep immediately, save for the trail mix in our bellies.
The next morning we woke and broke camp very slowly and stiffly. Farlo obviously wanted to go home. However, we continued up the trail, which got very very steep. What we expected to be an hour hike to the lake was like a false summit. An hour turned into two, then multiplied to four! Finally, after lunch sometime we made it to Fish Lake well above tree line. Not a fish to be seen.
Later when we were home and happy to have survived, my Dad asked the very reasonable question of why, when we realized our initial mistake and hiked the wrong direction, didn’t we just continue for 30 minutes and camp out at the other lake? Very reasonable, I thought with irritation. ‘But never’, I said, ‘underestimate the collective brain power of Neil and Craig’. Who, I must point out are now both doctors.
Neil Aaron Thompson 