Lower Mohawk Lake is just at the tree line at elevation 11,861 in the White River National Forest. After our three-hour climb, I went to put my feet into water that was cold from snow melt.
I walked around some boulders and found a boy, maybe age 13, at the water's edge and organizing his fly rod.
"Are you getting started or finishing up?"
"Getting started."
"You casting from right here?"
"I was thinking about it."
Not wanting to get between a boy and his fish, I moved 30 yards down and found a slope that got me close to the water. I took off my boots and socks and waded in. It was alpine cold and it felt good.
I waded back to shore and sat on a rock to let my feet dry. I could see a pair of cutthroats lazing in the clear water below me.
The boy had waded into the water and was casting out toward the center of the lake. I called, "Hey buddy." He looked.
I held up two fingers. Two fish.
I pointed to the rocks in the water below me. Right here.
I held my hands about 10 inches apart. This big.
He nodded and waved and turned to cast his fly toward the rocks below me. I watched him work his line for a couple minutes and then left him to his business.
He nodded and waved and turned to cast his fly toward the rocks below me. I watched him work his line for a couple minutes and then left him to his business.
