When You Would Like to Live Forever

By the year 1960, Inez and I had acquired a Jeep, a 9' x 9' popup tent and real sleeping bags. I had fabricated a campbox that just fit in the rear of the Jeep with the front hinged to fold down as a table off the end gate. I worked a six-day week in Creede's hard rock mines which gave us little time on a weekend to get away from it all, but with luck we could leave by 5:00 p.m. on a Saturday eve and wilderness fishing was only two hours away in three directions. Inez would have everything packed, ready for loading when I got off shift at 3:30. I would bathe hurriedly, throw the gear in the Jeep, and we were off.

Wyley Lakes, between Lime Creek and Fisher Creek, were a favorite of ours in midsummer when weather was good and a swampy area had dried out enough near the lakes to assure us we wouldn't bog down. One trip in, we dropped into the axles and most of our time was spent jacking up the rear end and hauling in rock to get footing. It was a good lesson. We would fish the two lakes in the evening after setting up camp and usually had enough pan size trout for a late supper. Sunday would find me on Fisher Creek where there were still Cutthroat Native trout that thrilled me when I saw the flash of red as they rose to a Gold Ribbed Hare's Ear wet fly or a Fancy Mosquito, my favorite lures. It was a long haul in and out but certainly worth the effort. Inez would continue fishing the lakes and I could tell by the look in her eyes if she had caught one of the lunkers that would occasionally get hungry enough to rise to a fly if it had a salmon egg attached. Inez used grasshoppers as bait when available and fish can't seem to resist a fat grasshopper.

The headwaters of Rat Creek were also a favorite camping spot where we could watch elk late evenings and early mornings on a north facing slope covered with buckbrush. We watched a herd of cows and calves one evening that cavorted around in homemade games like a group of humans. One calf continually hid from his mother, causing her much concern. They are very protective of their young and the third time she rousted him from the buckbrush she nipped at his hind quarters and made him stay with the herd. Rat Creek was loaded with pan-size Brooktrout in the 1950s and 1960s with a few Rainbow and Native trout to make it interesting. When in that area, I left the fishing to Inez and I prospected nearby intrusives that had prepped the rock for mineralization with minor faulting.

It was inevitable that developers would find the upper Rio Grande paradise, but we must remember that we stole it from the Native American and the tears of the Utes must have raised the levels of the streams they so loved when the white man invaded their land. We actually can lay claim to none of it.

Topographic maps show it as Trinity Lake and it lies at the foot of Trinity Peak in the San Juan Mountains West of Vallecito Creek. We learned of it through Gene McClure, owner/manager of Tomkins Hardware Company in Creede. Carroll Wetherill had hauled in several hundred fingerling Rainbow trout in ventilated milk cans via horseback in the mid 1950s and wanted to take Gene in on a camping trip to see if the fish survived.

Les Turnipseed, Gene Wardell, and I decided it was worth a long weekend to jeep to Beartown, find the trail over Hunchback Pass to the head of the Vallecito that would lead us to the West Fork and Trinity Lake. Gene left before me early on a Friday morning and I followed after a quick journey into the Amethyst Mine for the last tape-up on a contract. Inez had my gear ready to load and I was on my way shortly after 9:00 a.m.

I arrived at Brewster Park at the foot of Little Timber Hill about 11:00 a.m. and memories of another camping trip flooded in. It was August, 1947, and we were camped on the north side of the park with a tarpaulin strung over Aspen poles for shelter and a faithful old Model T Ford truck parked at one end as a windbreak. My Dad took a few days from work but couldn't pass up a chance to fish the headwaters of the Rio Grande. Six of us, Dad Bill, Mom Jo, my sister, Bubbles, Gavin Skinner, Whitey dog, and myself plus camping gear made a real load for the 1916 model truck. Several years before our journey in, Bruce Manning had hauled a four burner, wood/coal kitchen stove to the park and our tarpaulin covered it with elbowed pipe protruding behind tied to a tree for support. The fishing couldn't have been better and the meals were fit for a king due to the efficiency of Bruce's stove and the culinary skills of my old Dad who wanted Mom Jo to have a real vacation for once and fish to her heart's content. Bubbles waded and dogpaddled in Beaver ponds, Gavin and I fished from camp to above the junction of Pole Creek and had time for prospecting as well.

I can't honestly say I had more faith in the 1959 CJ 5 Jeep I was driving, but I was grateful for the four-wheel drive on creek crossings and mud bogs that severely taxed the Model T Ford. On the way up Timber Hill, I passed the remains of another Model T Ford. It was lying in aspen trees off a switchback where Johnny Youngsavage wrecked it in 1940 on his return to Beartown and his job with "Beartown Maude" Townsend who operated a small mill and mining operation at Beartown from 1936 until 1941. The gold was there and Maude had the determination and faith necessary to make a success of it but access was terrible and winters were worse than even Maude had anticipated. She gave up such a hard life and moved to Creede where she ran the Creede Hotel for five years.

Red Ewell, who had mined for Maude at Beartown became her cook at the hotel and Pete Cane, who hauled fuel in for the operation in a stake bed truck using 55-gallon barrels, joined the Army along with Johnny Youngsavage. The end of an era.

I was unable to catch up with Les and Gene at Beartown but I found the trail easily enough and I felt I would make it to the lake long before dark, maybe even in time to do some fishing. I lost my bearings and, somehow, missed the West Fork but in backtracking I met an old Mexican and his son on horseback who had a sheep camp over a ridge on West Ute Creek. The old gentleman spoke no English and his son little more, however, I could speak fair Spanish and with some arm waving the son was able to direct me to the West Fork where they had seen two Gringos earlier. I was vastly relieved and quickened my pace.

The lake isn't all that easy to find. It sits to the left of the main branch or West Fork heading west and is directly under the peak. I found sleeping bags in a somewhat level area in buckbrush and knew I was near but had to hike up and south about two hundred yards to find Les and Gene having the time of their lives catching and releasing eighteen inch, two-pound Rainbow Trout. The lake is small but very deep and cold. It had taken Carroll's fingerlings six years to reach this size in the frigid waters but most survived and were doing well. I caught two that we baked that evening in foil along with Red McClure potatoes brought in by Gene. We didn't miss sour cream or tartar sauce as we picked the bones of the fish clean and cleaned up the salted, peppered, buttered baked potatoes.

The rough ground and a sore back gave me a sleepless night and I was glad to see Trinity Peak glow with the first warm rays of the day. I raised up just enough to see all of the peak and was startled to see, less than thirty feet away, a beautiful four-point mule deer watching a wisp of smoke from a stump Les had thrown on the hot coals when we crawled into our sleeping bags. Les was between me and the buck. I was able to slip a hand in my pack and get my camera without the buck moving. I took two pictures as quickly as I could focus, then nudged Les. He groaned. I nudged him again and whispered, "Wake up, we have a buck in our camp." He groaned again and said, "Go to hell, you just want me to get up and put the coffee on."

I assured him it was no joke and I had no ulterior motives and he raised his head enough to see our visitor. Gene was less fortunate and only saw his backside as he was leaping through buckbrush. As I took photos on the return at the top of Hunchback Pass, I told myself that was as close as I would ever get to Heaven. A true paradise.