My father was a fisherman, a good one, and he took me with him on one of his camping trips to Lake of the Clouds in the Sangre de Cristo Wilderness, near Westcliffe. I was a kid, still carrying baby fat, but my dad and a couple of uncles expected me to hike with them several miles into the mountains, help set up our tent, and then to clean the fish I caught. Everyone except me hooked several cutthroat and rainbow trout. I don’t remember catching any fish, but I certainly recall trekking up steep and rocky trails for what seemed like days. I didn’t appreciate the natural beauty of the mountains or the peacefulness of the clear, pure lake, but I knew that my father did. He fished with a smile on his face, no matter how many times I tangled my fishing line or snagged a hand or an arm with a hook I couldn’t control. The only positive memory I kept from that trip was the sight of cutthroat trout swimming towards me. They churned the lake water as they swam in a V formation to the worm on my line, and, in my recollection, they swerved away from the rocky shore at the last possible second, in precise synchronization. I told myself for years that I would return to the lake one day and catch a rainbow or a cutthroat, but that never happened.
Later.
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Manuel Ramos writes crime fiction. Read his latest story, Northside Nocturne, in the award-winning anthology Denver Noir, edited by Cynthia Swanson, published by Akashic Books.
What a nice memory!
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