Stocking a Lake

Sheazie Bear's grandpa and grandma used to own a fish hatchery, which is a place where fish are artificially bred, hatched, and reared through their early life stages. I guess this is how fish farms get their fish. One thing's for sure though, this is where we got our non-reproducing trout to stock a lake.

Here is our "Nemo" story of sorts...

Sunday morning started foggy and early. We packed our bikes and fishing gear, and headed up to the Cascade Mountains. We were anticipating a lovely, flat ride on an old, almost forgotten forest service road to Canyon Lake.

But first, the fish. Two hundred and fifty little trout, about to embark on a quest to return to the wild.

A thick blanket of fog covered the valley. On yonder peak is the Mt. Pilchuck Lookout.

Previous hikes to the little hut have not graced me with a clear view yet. Today is no different.

The trail head appeared promising. The sun was out, and the old almost forgotten forest service road was rideable at best, and littered with shot gun shells and clay pigeons mostly at worst.

But it went from okay to really bad right away. The old road was definitely almost forgotten, overgrown with stinging nettles, eroded by a million run-off streams, and barely maintained even by foot traffic. It was so bad that 5-Star Scotty, with lack of proper tools because we were expecting an easy rideable trail, hacked foot cages off his pedals to keep them from snagging on the thick brush.

The only sign that this trail is not completely forgotten was this cold campsite we came upon. It looked like it was abandoned with forethought. It reminded me of The Blair Witch Project movie, so I passed it without disturbing the titanium pot, the unopened can of chili, the shovel, and the full can of bug spray.

After a harrowing bike ride through stinging nettles and water carved ravines, the Nemos of Washington finally arrived at their new home in the wild.

First, they must acclimate. Cascade lakes are fed by melting snow. Need I say more?

In case you're wondering about Palomino's skiff, it is a prototype. You can't buy it anywhere. It has an attachment for a seat, from which you dangle your wader-clad legs into the snow-melt water.

In the meantime, the dry-land inclined get comfortable on shore.

And the crazy-inclined dare to test the snow-melt fed lake.

If you've never swam in a pristine mountain lake high in the Cascades, you will never understand the deceptively inviting crystal clear waters of such lakes.

If you cannot imagine a million needles stinging every square inch of your skin, then do not jump into a snow-melt fed lake. I repeat, do NOT jump in!

Unless you're crazy like Netty, and can tolerate the feeling of your chest being compressed, and don't mind the prickly needles all over your skin, and can remain calm in the face of frigid paralysis, and still have the faculties to scamper up a log like a frightened monkey, I repeat again, Do. Not. Jump. In.

Otherwise, if you appreciate the outdoors, by all means take the old, almost forgotten forest service road, overgrown with stinging nettles, eroded by a million run-off streams, and barely maintained even by foot traffic, to drop off two hundred and fifty fish from the hatchery.

Because calling out "Fish on!" is almost just as exciting as jumping into the lake.

And if you can do it with your bestest friends, all the better.

Oh, but I almost forgot about the harrowing details of the trail... You see, before this seemingly innocent make-shift bridge of logs across this run-off ravine...

This is what might have happened. Might. Palomino might have slipped on the bridge, as Netty might have attempted to ride across the water sodden logs right behind him, and thank goodness Alfonsina might have been there in the nick of time.

But it didn't happen like that because we all marched our bikes across that bridge like sensible mountain biking, hatchery fish lake stocking fishermen and lake jumpers like this.

That's how it's done!

Across any bridge over any ravine, regardless of levels of biking expertise. Just ask 5-Star, who was a professional BMX racer once upon a time.

But let's not kid ourselves. The good, better, best part of these crazy excursions is the meal afterwards.

Yes, we were a bunch of mooks who ordered the exact same thing. Chicken Parmigiana for Alfonsina, Chicken Parmigiana for Palomino, Chicken Parmigiana for 5-Star Scotty, and Chicken Parmigiana for yours truly.

And that's how you stock a lake!



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