Tame fish—and ones that are nearly gone—remind an angler that the natural world is our home, a place to use and preserve
The first trout hit no more than 15 minutes after we first dropped our lines into the waters of Pyramid Lake. The fish struck the lure hard; I didn't even have to set the hook. I set it anyway. It felt like a decent fish, and it was: The cutthroat was easily more than two pounds.
My guide, Joe Mendes of Eagle Eye Charters, liked what he saw: "I think we'll do pretty good today." He was right. We caught 28 trout in five hours, including a nice five-pounder. It was a blissful day--the best trout fishing trip of my life.
But there's something you ought to know. I am not a trout angler. In fact, I've harbored an irrational dislike of trout for most of my life. It's really not the trout's fault: I avoid them because I don't like trout anglers. Or at least most I've yet met.
No, Mr. Trout. I am supposed to catch you and eat you. You are supposed to be a little warier about what you bite, and to struggle a little harder when you've been fooled.
The reason for my distaste is, quite simply, catch-and-release--or rather the culture of catch-and-release. Yes, I do release plenty of fish on my way to catching my legal limit, and tossing back fish of illegal size is all part of angling. But I don't think that harassing fish all day just to feel a tug on my line is such a great idea; as Holly puts it, catch-and-release is a lot like shooting ducks with a taser, just to watch them fall. I fish to eat. Period.
I realize some of you reading this might be lifelong trout anglers. A few may pursue this fish to the exclusion of all others. Don't get me wrong. If you are a catch-and-release angler, I may not agree with you, but I respect your decision. And if you respect my decision to eat my catch, I'd be happy to fish alongside you any day. But a certain breed of trout anglers gives me the hairy eyeball if I even mention eating trout. You'd think I was talking about eating their pets or children. Sorry pal, but I refuse to be ostracized because I choose to step out of the audience and take my place on Nature's stage.
The natural world is not a museum, nor is it an amusement park. It is our home--and a home to be lived in. We forget this at our great peril. Which brings me back to the Lahontan cutthroat trout, and to the Paiutes who tend them.
As we were catching trout after trout, I noticed something odd: Most fish would hit the lure hard, I'd set the hook and reel--but after a moment or two, they would seem to give up and swim toward the boat. An ocean fish would never do this. I asked Joe's mate, known to one and all as Old John, what was going on. "Most of these fish have been caught a lot," he said. And, as if on cue, 20 minutes later I landed a trout with a little barbless trout fly stuck in its mouth. John gently pried it out before releasing the fish, which was too large to fit in the 17- to 20-inch slot limit and too small to count as my "trophy" keeper.
That fish--the five-pounder--came later. Here's Old John with it.
These fish seemed resigned to the drill. That it was part of their fate to be caught and released any number of times during their lives. I swear I could almost see a look of shock in the fish's eyes as I put him in the cooler. What? This is not how it is supposed to end! You're supposed to let me free!
No, Mr. Trout. I am supposed to catch you and eat you. You are supposed to be a little warier about what you bite, and to struggle a little harder when you've been fooled. Lesson learned. These fish are glorious trout, fat, healthy, and among the finest eating in the world. But most have lost their native ferocity. Sad.
The trout's misfortune goes far deeper than their strange and stressful dance with human anglers. The real tragedy of Pyramid Lake's Lahontan cutthroat trout is that they have lost their home. Without the aid of the Paiute tribe, they would vanish.
A century ago this was not the case. The trout would spend most of their days in Pyramid Lake, then run up the Truckee River to spawn, some as far and as high as Lake Tahoe. But in 1905 the federal Bureau of Reclamation dammed the Truckee, and almost overnight the lake's water level dropped an astonishing 80 feet. Foreign invaders hit the trout harder. Imported German brown trout and Eastern rainbow trout began to tighten their grip on the Truckee, and soon the cutthroats were on the edge of extinction, trapped in their alkaline, salty lake with nowhere to spawn.
It was only in the 1970s, when the Paiutes built a lakeside hatchery, that the Lahontans began to recover. Still, most Lahontan trout in Pyramid are not actually Pyramid Lake Lahontan trout, they are a strain of cutthroats from nearby Summit Lake, which will never grow to the size of the original fish. Another group of trout in the lake are cutbows, a hybrid of the Lahontan and rainbow that are excellent eating; my five-pounder was a cutbow.
It was only very recently that biologists found the original Pyramid trout--in a stream near Pilot Peak, Utah. Someone, at some unknown point, planted them there. They've been returned to Pyramid Lake, and hopes are high that anglers will someday catch another 40-pound Goliath.