The golden trout of a lifetime

When people think of golden trout, they usually think of tiny nuggets of brilliant red and yellow and green all melting together, darting in and out of sun-dappled pools within intimate high meadow creeks. California’s state fish lives almost exclusively in high alpine environments above 10,000 feet. Here above the treeline, these mountain lakes and streams have limited food and are shrouded in ice for 7-9 months out of the year, so a golden trout rarely grows larger than the palm of your hand.

In the Sierra Nevada, where the golden trout is native to the Kern River drainage, an 11-inch golden is an infrequent catch. A 14-inch golden is exceptional. And any golden trout 17 inches in length or better is a bona fide trophy. There are only a handful of lakes in the Sierra capable of growing trophy goldens.

To find the largest golden trout, you need to put in the miles and the hours. You also need to hope for a generous dose of luck. In the Sierra and in Wyoming’s Wind River Range, where the transplanted goldens can grow even larger, most renowned trophy golden lakes are dozens of miles away from the nearest trailhead. So it’s usually necessary to embark on a multi-day backpacking trip to even position yourself for the chance to catch a big golden, with all of the planning and logistics and resources that such an endeavor entails.

And then once you finally arrive at the shore of a big golden lake, your work has only just begun. You now need to find the actual fish somewhere in this lake and successfully fool them into taking your lure of choice. On one trip earlier this year, I hiked 27 miles round trip and fished for 13 hours (some of them in the rain) to land 3 goldens up to 16 inches long. That’s not an atypical outcome for big golden fishing. It could even be considered a successful trip, especially in light of the fact that on previous trips I’ve hiked nearly as many miles only to strike out completely, or only catch some smaller fish.

But sometimes, every once in a long while, the fishing gods smile down on a hapless fisherman and the stars align perfectly for just one day. Or even for just one minute. It doesn’t need to be for long, but just enough time to keep him hooked for years to come.

And a chilly afternoon earlier this month was one of those times when I stumbled upon the catch of a lifetime.

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I arrived at the lake in the early afternoon. It had been a steep hike to get there, but there was nobody else around and I had the lake all to myself.

The sun was out and the water’s surface was relatively calm, but I could see clouds building up to the southeast. I had come prepared with warm layers — even on a sunny day, I knew the weather in the High Sierra could change at a moment’s notice.

I spotted a few rises nearby as soon as I began fishing, but they were just far enough out of casting range that I couldn’t reach them so I continued along the shoreline. I made a few casts with my spinning rod and retrieved a Z-ray lure back through the shallow water, trying to mimic a fleeing baitfish.

On my fourth cast, I began my retrieve almost as soon as it hit the surface and I was surprised to immediately receive a hard hit. I pulled back to set the hook and found myself locked into battle with a strong fish. It pulled out line as it ran but soon tired, and a minute later I landed a muscular golden that measured out to 15″. This catch made my day, and I hadn’t even been at the lake for 30 minutes.

After that fish the action shut off as quickly as it started. I fished for the next couple of hours and didn’t see a single sign of trout, despite alternating with lure retrieves and blind-casting a hopper/dropper combo with my 3-weight fly rod. If I hadn’t caught that first golden soon after arriving, I’d be starting to question whether this lake even had fish.

The day had started out sunny and clear, but the weather was now beginning to turn. A steady wind picked up, and the air temperature swiftly plunged from the low 50’s down into the 40’s. I already had a light fleece on, and soon I donned my rain shell to provide added wind protection as I fished my way around the lake perimeter.

When I rounded a corner and peered into the water, my heart rate immediately quickened. About 30 feet out from the bank I could see a large shadow appearing in view beneath the choppy surface. A fish was cruising near where a shallow shelf dropped off into deeper water. And although I couldn’t see it clearly, I could easily tell one thing: it was big.

I barely had time to register just how big this fish was before it turned, bearing in toward shore and heading right toward me. Now I could see it better, and it wasn’t just big — it was a huge golden. I held my breath as I ripped fly line off my reel and launched a cast.

Despite my shaking hands and oxygen-deprived brain, the cast somehow managed to land in the perfect place. I still had the hopper/dropper rig on, and the indicator fly hit the water far enough away not to spook the cruiser, but close enough that the fish would have no trouble seeing the big foam fly. Sure enough, the huge golden turned toward the hopper after it touched down on the water and a few seconds later it rose to the surface on an intercept course.

As soon as I saw the fish open its mouth I yanked back on my fly rod to set the hook. Against all odds, it stuck!

I thought the giant golden would immediately go berserk and braced myself for a wild ride. But instead the massive fish simply turned and plowed steadily, using its sheer size to bulldoze off toward the middle of the lake as if it wasn’t even hooked. My 3-weight fly rod bent nearly in half as the tip plunged down nearly to the water’s surface, and I began to fear that I was outgunned as I failed to slow the fish. The drag on my reel screamed as line peeled off the spool at an alarming rate. I lowered my rod tip as far as I dared while my fly line continued to slice through the water after the retreating fish. The big golden was too heavy for me to turn it by force, so instead I just let it continue to pull and prayed that the fish wouldn’t come loose.

After a hard ten-second run, the fish finally slowed and veered off on a new course to run parallel to the shore. I stripped in line frantically to keep tension as it changed directions. Soon the golden tired and I gingerly coaxed it in toward shore, crossing my fingers that my tippet wouldn’t snap from the pressure. Only once I had scooped the behemoth into my net did I feel like I was finally able to breathe again.

It was a magnificent big male golden trout, with thick shoulders, a deep body, and a wide, powerful tail. The kype on its lower jaw jutted out well past its nose, giving it a formidable sneer. Its body was splashed with radiant yellow and gold hues, with a thin pink stripe along the lateral line and an iridescent crimson gill plate.

My net has a 15″ inside opening, and I’ve notched marks into the handle denoting each inch between 16 inches through 21 inches for easy field measuring. When I laid the massive fish flat across the net with its jaw touching the outside end of the net opening, its body stretched out so far that the corner of its wide, flat tail came to just over halfway between the 20″ and 21″ tick marks at the end of my net handle.

Up until this day, a trio of fish shared the honor for my personal best golden trout: a pair of 18-inch fish landed from the same small lake on the same day during a frigid September trip in 2016, and a high-shouldered, broad fish from August 2021 that was a hair shorter than the first two but was even heavier. But this leviathan golden, measuring 20.5 inches long and thicker than my calf, dwarfed all three of them.

After admiring my catch for a few seconds longer, I revived the fish in the shallow water near the lake shore. After a minute in the cold water, it shrugged free and surged away out to the middle of the lake.

I stood there dumbfounded, still trying to comprehend what had just happened. I’ve been fortunate to land exceptional fish before, but this catch was on a whole different level. Most 20″+ trout in California are browns or rainbows or cutts, typically caught trolling deep on a reservoir, or fishing streamers or lures on big blue-ribbon rivers. This one was a bruiser golden larger than any other I’d ever seen before, and landed on a 3-weight fly rod while sight fishing a dry fly in a backcountry lake above 10,000 feet in elevation. I could fish for the next 30 years and never come close to another experience like this.

The clouds crowded out the sun overhead and the temperature dropped even lower, but I felt impervious to the cold as if I were floating high above instead of standing on the shore. It began to snow lightly so I donned rain pants and then set off back toward the south end of the lake. I fished for a little while longer, but I could tell I was just going through the motions. An hour later I hiked out of the lake, admiring the landscape in the fading light. It was well past dark by the time I made camp that night, but I hardly noticed as l reveled in my good fortune and the catch of a lifetime.

A stunning High Sierra sunset to end a successful day of fishing for big goldens