Handful of Gold: Solo Fly Fishing in the Wind River Range

One flight, one rental car, one speeding ticket. Five hours of driving. Twelve miles and 1,500 feet of steady elevation gain. Countless hours of staring at maps, daydreaming, and researching lakes named only after their height above sea level on a topographic map. Sore shoulders and a heart full of gratitude.

It’s day one of my five-day backpacking trip into the Wind River Range, and I’m hoping to catch my first golden trout. This lake, I know, has them. All the right websites told me so, and I’ve even heard some anecdotal whispers passed down in hushed voices and winks and coded comments on message boards. Yet the sun is setting and I haven’t even seen a fish break the surface. It’s just after ice-out and no one else is here. This should be the perfect time. I fish dry flies, I fish special scud patterns deep on an intermediate line I bought from a guy who literally wrote the book on fishing these alpine lakes. I strip Woolly Buggers. I jig leeches. I slap beetles and skitter caddis patterns.

I try everything, and the lake stays calm. The surface never breaks with any sort of movement. At certain moments I grow frustrated and my mind goes to the extreme, and I’m convinced I’ve wasted something I can never get back. Thankfully these thoughts are fleeting, and I easily brush away these dubious insecurities just by casting again and watching the mountains.

I spend the last hour of a long dusk tracing ridges and staring at rock faces, immersed in a haunting stillness that only exists in the alpine. I fall asleep that night with my rain fly open, lying on my side, watching an almost-full moon slide across the sky and the tops of the mountains that outline the valley I want to explore the next morning. I fall in and out of dreams of the lakes I’ll find just over the next ridge and, hopefully, the trout I’ve yet to hold.

I wake before the sun even reaches the basin, too excited to sleep anymore. My original plan was to camp down in the next valley tonight, but they’re calling for severe thunderstorms all evening and into the next day, and I need to make it over the next mountain pass before they settle in if I’m going to make it out of the backcountry in time for my flight home. Camping in the backcountry and traveling off-trail require a commitment to change and adaptation, especially when you’re solo. Instead, I decide to explore this area in the morning, then come back to camp and hike over the pass before the afternoon storms hit.

It’s a bit risky, but I know I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t make it to those lakes on this trip. I don’t know when or if I’ll ever get back here, and the golden trout that supposedly live there will haunt me forever if I don’t at least cast to them. I quickly boil water for my oatmeal and drink my two cups of instant coffee while studying my map, figuring out which contours I’m going to traverse and what I need to bring with me for my morning of exploration: fly rod and reel, fanny pack full of snacks, water filter, bear spray, GPS, and backcountry fly-fishing hip pack.

I’m scrambling over a scrub-covered brim by dawn. The whole valley opens like a cresting wave in the liminal morning light, forcing me to stop and stand in awe. I’ve never seen a ridge of mountains like these. They are stunningly drastic walls of granite with three deep, clear lakes at their base that—from what I hear—hold some large golden trout.

I can easily read the slope and see how I’ll switchback down to the second and largest lake. Back home in Pennsylvania I’m used to bushwhacking through thickets of briars and nettles, rhododendrons, and mountain laurels where I can barely see a few feet in front of me. There, I have to use sound and faith as much as sight and knowledge in order to get to the blue map lines that hold native brook trout. Out here and up this high, there are barely any trees taller than me, and the understory is thin and easy to manage. I love it.

I make it down to the lake before the sun reaches into the valley and find a boulder to stand and cast from, but I’m distracted by the light slowly stretching down from the peaks. I’m at the base of a large slab of granite and I’m barely paying any attention to my fly—I’m too enamored with the idea of a tabula rasa, that perhaps mountains are always drawing us to them because their raw nakedness lets us write whatever we want on them. Each time I encounter a mountain this close—which, if I’m lucky, is just a few times a year—I feel the smallness of my own being and the wonder of existence.

I’m struck by the notion that we are so utterly unaware of the infinite possibilities that life offers us, that we are just little pebbles moved by water, sometimes settling on the bottom of a stream, sometimes rolling and tumbling through fast riffles, always becoming something else, always heading downstream to a place we do not know.

The dawn light unfolds itself down the rock and with it, my head clears and I sense my whole being for what feels like the first time. Again and again, these wild mountains remind me that we are always in a state of becoming.

I’m finally drawn back to the water by a brook trout that’s taken my fly. I don’t think I’ve ever been disappointed by catching a brook trout, until now. They are native to my home waters, and fish I absolutely adore catching, but here in Wyoming in an alpine lake some 11,000 feet high, it just doesn’t feel right. I’m here for golden trout, not brook trout. Neither of them really belongs here—both were introduced by renowned forester and mountaineer Finis Mitchell (1901–1995). Golden trout don’t exist at all in Pennsylvania, and here in Wyoming only in high alpine lakes and streams, so I can somehow justify my bias and disappointment.

I can’t stop catching the brookies, I find. Every time I cast, a brook trout cruises over and takes the fly. It’s relentlessly easy, and I grow impatient. I see no sign of golden trout, so I scamper up to the last lake in the basin, hoping for a fish I’ve never caught or even seen in person.

That lake proves to be very similar to the first: brook trout after brook trout and no golden trout. I feel like a fool as I ruminate on all the time, energy, money, and effort it’s taken me to reach this place, only to catch fish I could easily catch back home. As I follow the meandering alpine blood-clot lichen up the col—trying to read each seam of gneiss and memorize every crag and tumbling line of the long ridge that hugs this valley—I realize that feeling like a fool for venturing into a wild place is really the only foolish thing I’ve done. I’m here, in a place that will always be with me in some way. No matter how hard we try to distract ourselves and forget what we, even fleetingly, know as complete truth, we can never unlearn a landscape that shapes us and offers us a blank slate to write on.

I sit at the edge of the lake and eat my lunch of Nutella, honey, and almond butter wrapped in a tortilla and just watch. So much of my time fishing is spent sitting and observing—everything else in my life requires movement, decision making, judgment, and results. Here, I listen. I watch. I try not to forget. I exist.

After lunch, I make my way down to the last lake in the chain and decide to fish the outlet stream before heading back over the ridge and onto the trail. I’ve got a mountain pass to hike over before the evening storms, and miles to go before the next lake where I want to camp, and this is probably the best shot I’ll have at a golden trout the entire trip. I tie on a caddis pattern and start fishing the stream just as I’d do back home. No matter how far you wander from your home waters, mountain streams fish pretty similarly. Within the first few minutes I see a slash of brightness slap at my fly and I spot my first golden trout as I miss setting the hook. I’m beyond excited, I’m stoked, and I keep casting.

With each cast I let the landscape in a little more. Slowly it shifts something inside of me, and finally I slow down enough to let my fly linger in a small pocket of water behind a perfectly placed rock. A golden trout takes the fly, and I play it just like I’d play a brook trout, easing it into the soft water by my feet until I finally hold a handful of gold.

I’m stunned by its vibrant red bands and dark olive parr marks, colors I’ve never seen painted like that before. My hands are infused with its beauty for the next five days as I hike in to other mountain lakes and find myself gazing at more slabs of granite, dodging hailstorms, and catching hefty cutthroat trout. Every time I wipe the sweat off my face or splash frigid glacier melt over my body, I smear the memory of that golden trout into my skin. I know that each fish I catch and each mountain I hike and each lake I study and each map I trace and each trail I traverse and each river I explore is who I am, a mystery I’m content trying to solve, knowing I never will.

Mountain Flies

There’s nothing easier than fly fishing for trout in high mountain streams. They are voracious eaters, always hungry. With such a short window for feeding, these fish seem to devour anything that lands on the surface. I’ve had the most success with just a handful of flies: foam patterns (Amy’s Ant is my favorite), Elk-hair Caddis, and Purple Haze. Sure, you could drop a nymph off a hook bend or throw some streamers, but I’ve never felt the need. Fish these streams just as you would any blue-line brook trout or cutthroat stream.

Lakes, on the other hand, are finicky. Each one seems to have its own personality and acts differently based on fish species, elevation, and a variety of other factors. I’ve found lakes full of brook trout that will eat anything you throw at them. I’ve fished lakes full of cutthroat trout that will only take big foam patterns popped or skittered like a bass fly. I’ve found that golden trout are the most difficult to catch. Fish them as soon after ice-out as possible because golden trout tend to go deep as the summer advances. Look for lake outlets and inlets, and shelves that mark sudden underwater drops. If all else fails, stop casting and look around. You’ll inevitably find yourself surrounded by some of the most beautiful peaks and granite ridges you’ll ever see.

Getting There

I’ve found the easiest way to reach the Wind River Range is to fly to Salt Lake City. From there, it’s less than a four-hour drive to Pinedale, Wyoming. The airport in Jackson, Wyoming is closer, but it’s much more expensive to fly there, and to rent a car. To access the east side of the Winds—mostly controlled by the Wind River Indian Reservation—I recommend Dubois or Lander to begin your trip. Depending on which lakes you want to target, the east side might be your best access point. But keep in mind that the Wind River Indian Reservation requires hiking and fishing permits.

The mountain town of Pinedale, on the western side of the Winds, is a great little base camp. The Great Outdoor Shop (greatoutdoorshop.com) sells everything you’ll need for your trip, including items you can’t fly with, such as stove fuel and bear spray. Speaking of bears, you definitely should keep your food in a bear-resistant canister or Ursack, and practice bear safety in the backcountry.

Two Rivers Fishing Co. (tworiversfishing.com) is a solid fly shop right in town. Be sure to visit for some flies and to check on recent conditions. There are plenty of lodging options if you need a night in town to acclimate to the elevation and get ready for your trip. My personal favorite is the Jackalope Motor Lodge (jackalopemotorlodge.com).

I recommend the Wyoming Interactive Fishing Guide to find out which lakes hold whatever species of fish you are targeting. With more than a thousand lakes throughout the Wind River Range, it’s important to do some research ahead of time. Along with the Interactive Fishing Guide maps, the state of Wyoming also publishes guides that detail which lakes have trout and what kinds of trout they hold. There's even a list of all the stocked lakes. For the Winds, check out the Bridger, Fitzpatrick, and Popo Agie Wilderness Fishing Guides. There are 133 lakes known to have golden trout—some wild, some stocked. You can find a list of all the stocked lakes on the Game & Fish Department website (wgfd.wyo.gov) and cross-reference this with the interactive map to figure out which lakes hold wild golden trout.

Once you know which lakes you want to target, you’ll need to plan your hike. Beartooth Publishing (beartoothpublishing.com) offers two great maps for the Wind River Range, a North and a South, which provide everything you need regarding trailheads, mileage, and elevation. Nancy Pallister’s Beyond Trails in the Wind River Mountains (Gray Dog Press, 2017) is a must-have if you’re planning any cross-country travel.

Green River Lake, Boulder Creek, and Elkhart-Pole Creek are all good trailheads to research as starting points for your backcountry trip, especially if you want to try for golden trout. Big Sandy is rather popular—it’s how everyone gets to the famous Cirque of Towers—but it does offer access to some lakes holding golden trout, and to some incredible scenery. Don’t forget, even if a lake doesn’t have golden trout, its likely to hold cutthroats or brook trout.

How much ground you can cover in a day is really up to you (your health, how much weight you’re carrying, your experience) but a good average is about two miles per hour while backpacking. I like to keep my days in the 10- to 12-mile, 5- to 6-hour range, which affords me some fishing time near camp every morning and evening.

Keep in mind that if you are traveling from a lower elevation, you may need a couple of days to adjust to the altitude. As with all backpacking trips, plan for alternative trails and lakes you want to check out. You never know what kind of weather might settle in, or how your body might feel. I’ve found that having the flexibility to adapt to current conditions is a key ingredient in having a good time.

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Michael Garrigan (mgarrigan.com) writes and teaches along the Susquehanna River in Pennsylvania. He is the author of multiple poetry collections, including Robbing the Pillars and River, Amen (Wayfarer Books, 2023). He was the 2021 Artist in Residence for the Bob Marshall Wilderness Area.

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