GET OUT: Phelps Lake fiasco

From JH Weekly, Edition 6/29/11Like clockwork, fly fishers spend June jonesing for the rivers to clear. And once waterways do run clean, few anglers choose to fish a lake over a river or creek. Most would agree that fly fishing is just more fun on rivers. But some of us just need a fix. For me, it was time to bust out the sink-tip fly line and some nasty looking streamers.I’ve made an annual trip to Phelps Lake for the last few years because it’s an easy hike, even with a pack full of heavy gear: a fishing float tube and pump, waders and boots, long underwear and warm layers, flippers, life jacket, net, rod and accessories. I was completely prepared, or so I thought.Anxious to wet a line, the hike took less than 20 minutes. I unpacked my 7,500-cubic-inch pack down to the last item—the float tube. As I began to unravel it, some unfortunate words came out of my mouth: Did I really pack an inflatable, queen size air mattress instead?! I looked at the amount of gear that was slung about the shore, not yet admitting to myself that an air mattress wasn’t going to cut it. I re-packed, hiked back to my truck, drove to my condo for the real boat, and returned to GTNP.It happened to be a “free entrance day” to the park, so the Moose-Wilson Road was extra thick with cars by late morning. I figured I could shave some minutes off my trip by parking in one of the turnout spaces west of the Laurence S. Rockefeller Preserve. I was wrong. Seconds after parking, a volunteer ranger approached me and asked me to move my truck to the preserve because they were “limiting the number of people on the trail.” I found that to be odd in more ways than one, but I kept my mouth shut and cooperated despite my bubbling frustration.I pulled into the preserve’s parking lot and noticed a line of cars getting briefed by a crew of volunteers.“It must be your lucky day because you got the last parking space,” the lead volunteer informed me.It was then that I realized had it been 30 seconds later, I would have been denied the opportunity to park, and thus denied the chance to hike the trail.Finally, after another hike, I arrived at the lake. It was still a benchmark day with a slight breeze, perfect for floating. I set up my 8-weight fly rod with a white No. 2 double-bunny and pushed off from shore. Within 15 minutes of casting and stripping line, I felt a tug. It felt like it was hung on a rock. I tugged back and the rock moved. It was definitely a fish. My rod bent nicely, and as I got the fish closer to my dangling legs underwater, it spooked and rapidly descended back down into the depths. My rod doubled over and I was now getting pulled around in my little float tube like a water skier behind a pontoon boat.Upon my first glimpse of the fish, I knew it was one of the biggest I’d ever had on a fly. It didn’t fit in my net, so I had to scoop it onto my lap with one arm. It was a beautifully colored, 25-inch, 8-pound Mackinaw. The petty frustrations of the day disappeared and I realized how lucky I was to even be there. The dream was being lived.