Sangre de Cristo Colorado Mountains

Before the summer just becomes a past dream of what it could have been, it’s time to head to the Colorado mountains. My back pack is loaded with the essentials, maybe loaded is not the right word. Sounds too heavy! Fishing in the back country and exploring new territory is my goal for this trip, or all of my adventures, come to think of it! The Sangre de Cristo mountain range located in southern Colorado holds unlimited opportunities for great fishing and exploring.

I drove out of Hillside Colorado heading west on CR 198, with my destination of North Brush Creek Lake on my mind. The wash board dirt road, turned into a rutted rocky one. The path was so rough I thought my teeth filings were going to get rattled out of my skull. I have driven this road before and if anything, it has grown worse from wear. I turned up the wrong dirt path and came to a complete stop at a private property sign, protecting an old mining claim. After a little back tracking I found the right road CR 331. The road continued up for 3 miles with numerous turns and switch backs. By leaving my truck here I saved walking an additional 8 miles from the North Brush Trail head. An old mining shack at the old Peerless Mine would be my truck’s companion for the next 5 days. Since it’s a short cut you can expect a few twists and turns. First off, the trail for 1/8 of a mile is straight up and it’s covered with ankle twisting rocks. Once you reach the ridge and the original trail, it is just a lot of grunting and groaning. Wild flowers of all colors and sizes decorated the trail. Our own Colorado Columbine with its’ showy blue petals was a feast for the eye.

Within 3 hours I was reading a sign advising man and beast not to camp near the lake. The North Brush Creek Lake is one of the biggest in the Sangre range. Piles of granite left from the last glacier make fishing and camping tough. After a few minutes of scanning the shore line it looked like I was the only camper. I had met a couple of hikers coming down the trail as I ascended, and they confirmed my observation. They also told me of great fishing using a gold colored lure. I found a picture perfect site for my tent among the wild flowers and fresh water from a running stream. I spent just a few hurried minutes setting up my camp site, because the fish were calling.

I could have been on a fishing show because the trout were cooperating with my lures. I cast the bait out four times and four times I caught the quarry. Since I knew that cutthroat trout like the color orange, I was using a orange spoon with black dots. Within a hour three fellow fisherman showed up with their backs bent over from the weight of carrying big packs. Come to find out, these gentlemen always come to this lake on July 12. It’s their own Father’s Day celebration. Each one of them had been brought up to the lake by their fathers and over the years each one had lost their favorite fishing partner to that big lake in the sky. The cremated ashes of each dad had been brought up and spread. Over the years the three got to know each other from their meetings at the lake and now they make it a yearly event. They were going to camp on the north side of the lake where there is deeper water and level grass to pitch a few tents.

After lunch, I worked my way in that direction in hopes of finding the big daddy of all trout. Brush Creek comes into the lake on the west side and it is choked with willows and over run with trout. The water was only a few feet deep but what a ball I had casting a lure and watching the hungry trout try and be the first to hit the lure. I seemed like they were taking numbers to jump on my hook.

As I worked my way around the jungle of willows, I stumbled onto my new friends camp site. Two of them were setting up their tents but the heavy set hiker was flat on his back in the shade of a pine tree. All three agreed that the best fishing was on this side of the lake and I was going to be more then glad to prove them right. Besides having a great view of the southern mountains, the fishing proved rewarding as well.

On the way back to my camp for dinner I came to a small patch of Columbine flowers. Two Hummingbird Moths were working the flower petals in order to get a little nourishment. If you have never seen one of these critter, they look a lot like a humming bird but its’ sucker beak has a downward kink and they don’t make the same humming noise like their bird friend.

After eating my dinner I decided to hike south towards the upper lake that is known for larger fish. After experiencing a few dead end trails I found my next possible monster fish hangout. This glacier lake was half the size as the lake where I was camped. The surrounding trees in the forest had most of their bark sand blasted off from winter winds coming off the near mountains. The tree limbs made for some interesting art forms. Within a few minutes I had a very nice trout on my line. This time the trout was a Cutbo, which is a hybrid between a rainbow and a Cut Throat Trout. They fight a little harder and longer. The fish was very thankful to get back into his world when I released him.

The next morning I awoke to clear skies. I had to hike by the same upper lake in order to get to Electric Pass and to continue my journey. The path went thru a pine forest then lead thru an area of willows and then finally above tree line into tundra. Five bull elk were watching me with interest from the mountain side. I was only able to get within a fourth of a mile when they started to mosey ahead of me over the pass. By the time I made it to the top of the pass these animals were long gone. I did spy a lone coyote on his way to a early morning breakfast date.

As I crested the pass I could see the San Luis valley below with its’ heat radiating off the high plains desert floor. I followed Major Creek trail for a few miles. There was just one problemo maybe two, there wasn’t any creek and last spring a small flood wiped out part of the trail. Half way down the trail I did find the creek as it seeped out of the ground. Then within a few minutes the water had grown in strength and volume. This wet area also attracted or maybe was the breeding grounds for the most pesky mosquitos on the face of the earth. Clouds of them just followed my juicy legs and arms where ever I walked and or ran! The critters were so big that when I killed them, you could hear their bones break! By late afternoon the mosquitos and I found the end of the trail. I could see the CR 65 as a broken down truck kicked up dust as it sped along its’ way. There was another problem, a ranch with cows and horses blocked the path. A side trail lead north in the opposite direction from where I wanted to be traveling. Since it would be quicker to walk straight west, I just decided to follow the barb wire fence line to the road. After thirty minutes of ducking under pinion pine tree limbs and dodging more than a few prickly pear cactus I made it to the road.

It was the time for a decision, if I headed north it would take me to the Valley View Hot Springs and if I went south it would lead me to Cotton Lake. The hot springs had camping but then I would have to back track a few miles to Cotton lake tomorrow. Two years ago I had walked by the hot springs and found out that it’s an optional clothing hot springs. Last time I visited, two older men and one older woman were standing in front of the club house chatting. They were wearing just a smile. Because of their ages Sir Isaac Newton could have studied the effects of gravity right here instead of under an apple tree! I decided the Cotton Lake made better sense.

The Cotton Creek trail head would be a 3 mile hike if I stayed on the roads but why not cut across the BLM land and save a few miles. I definitely saved some time with this short cut but with every step I had to be careful not to be impaled by cactus yucca and barbed wire fences. By 3:00 pm I was reading the rules and regulations at the Cotton Creek trail head. After looking at the map and realizing Cotton Lake was to far for tonight, I decided to hike until 5:00 pm and then set up camp along the trail. Within a hour the skies opened up for a little liquid sunshine. The rain slowed down the mosquitos just long enough for them to go home, pick up a cousin and get a jacket, than regroup. I had to put on long pants and a long sleeve shirt to save my sanity and my blood from the pests.

By 5:00pm the rain stopped and the forest opened up enough for me to set up a level camp site. The Cotton Creek had a welcoming sound as I sat down to eat dinner.

The next morning was a little cooler and the bugs stayed away. The trail was a series of switch backs. With evidence of saw dust and cut up fallen trees along the trail, it looked like a trail maintenance crew must have been doing their job. By 10:00 am I could see Cotton lake and it looked like I was the Lone Ranger with no signs of any tents. I set up camp and couldn’t wait to try my luck at fishing. I tried my luck all afternoon with out any luck. Like the Hank Williams Sr song goes “If it wasn’t for bad luck you wouldn’t have any luck at all!” After lunch I took a short hike towards the northern mountains and noticed dark clouds moving into my little world. I made it back to camp and the shelter of my tent just in time to slide into my sleeping bag and break out a book to read. Rain came down and my shelter seemed to hold out the mean weather. The last thing I remember was my eyes shutting about 2:00 pm and then I woke up and it was 4:00 pm with the sun shining.

After dinner, I was going to give Cotton Lake one more chance to produce some fish. I brought along a book to the lake side keeping one eye on the bobber and the other eye on the book. I was sitting along side a small rock outcropping just relaxing, when I noticed a brown furry animal swimming towards my floating bobber. Mr. Beaver swam right over to my float and caught it right under his arm. Luckily for the rodent and for me the bobber slid down the fishing line and got caught on the hook. It protected the beaver from getting stabbed and from me from losing all my fishing gear as the beaver went diving for the safety of the deep water as the bobber came free. The event didn’t seem to affect the beaver and he just swam to the end of the lake and then turned round and swam back.

Next morning I awoke to clear skies with my eyes towards the Cotton Lake Pass trail. The trail would lead me into the Rio Alto mountain range and lake area. As I was crossing the well maintained trail I could hear elk bleating back and forth. The mountain side opposite me looked like the Serengeti Plains of Africa with hundred of elk moving back and forth as they planned their escape route. Cows and their calves formed a single file line on the treeless tundra and were high tailing it towards the lower reaches of the valley where the serenity of the dark timber grew. For the next thirty minutes as I walked on the opposite side of the canyon I witnessed the large herd of elk make their way towards the shelter of the trees. At a cross roads where the Cotton Trail and Rio Alto Trail meet the elk and I called a truce and they just disappeared into the pine trees.

By 10:00 am I arrived at Rio Alto lake with high hopes of big fish or any fish for that matter. I noticed three tents set up above the lake. I had fished and camped on this lake two years ago so I knew a few good spots for my tent. After setting up my camp spot, it was time to test Vince’s wits against the fish’s. Last time I had used live grasshoppers on a small hook to catch my dinner. I set up my hook with a hooper and gave the line a cast out into the deep water. A few kicks from a live grass hopper on top of the water is almost as irresistible to fish as Velveeta Cheese is to a trailer park. I hooked up 16 hoppers and caught 16 fish. I didn’t land all of them mostly because I got so excited with a few big ones that I cowboyed them a little to much and they snapped the line. I saved one trout for lunch and had the critter all wrapped in aluminum foil ready for the fire, but alas I couldn’t get a fire going for the life of me. So I found a cool spot and stored my prize for later.

As I walked back to the lake I stopped by the other campers to say hi and to ask them if they wanted any fish. One woman camper looked at me like she had seen Big Foot and maybe after a few days of me not showering or shaving her assumption was right. I found my way back to the lake with a eye towards catching more grass hoppers as bait. I noticed all the high dead grass that would make a perfect fire starter, so I pulled and saved a bundle. Peter, one of the campers came down and we talked as I fished. He was from Colorado Springs and the other four members in his group were from Michigan and Iowa. The group was staying at the lake for a week and were really enjoying each others company and the great fishing. I had saved another large trout for the group, when Peter said they had enough fish, so it looked like I would have a fish for dessert!

At 5:00 pm I walked back to my camp with dried grass and a fresh fish. The bundle of grass with a pile of sticks on top worked like a charm as fire arose from the fire pit. I had red hot coals with in thirty minutes. The trout wrapped in aluminum foil on top of the hot coals were ready for my stomach in fifteen minutes. After dinner and with a bit of a cleanup I walked down to my neighbors camp and talked with them for a hour. Only Peter had done much camping but all were having a good time trying out their new camping gear.

At 6:00 pm I walked back to the lake to try and break a state record for the biggest trout. Lets say the level of the lake didn’t fall much when I brought out my few fish but it’s like gambling you never know. I ventured back to my friends camp and we talked into the night. They also had two cooked trout that I was persuaded to eat, just to help them out! As we talked way into the night we could see a fellow camper with a head lamp walk into the timber and set up camp, better late than never, we thought.

The next morning brought me the last leg of my hike but it would be a long day with 35 miles between me and my truck. My inspiration was the thought of a shower and a warm bed to curl up in at home. The biggest obstacle ahead of me was Hermit Pass but first I had to walk the few miles up out of the Rio Alto lake drainage. Two years ago when I tried to walk out of this area the fog, rain and snow made it impossible and I had to turn around and go a different route. Now with dry clear weather I could see what I should have done 2 years ago. The trail had gone off to the north and it was wide and clear. I followed the trail which turned into a mining road and it lead me over the Sangre de Cristo’s and into the Wet Mountain valley.

I could hear the sound of a motor powered machine chugging its’ way up the mountain road. A Mennonite couple on an ATV waved as they passed me by. Close to lunch time I walked by a group of younger hikers all sitting in a circle talking. A little later I noticed the same amount of back packs along the trail. I found out from one of their leaders that they were from Outward Bound in Leadville Colorado. They had walked by the Rainbow Trail sign by mistake and were checking out the map. Their objective tonight would be Megan lake. I told them about a World War ll plane that had crashed by the lake in the 40's.
I kept walking with the understanding that if I was anywhere near my truck by 5:00 pm I would walk to the truck and if not near it, I would camp. I met a father and son about 5 miles from the Lake of the Clouds Trail Head. They had gotten turned around on the trail and had to walk extra miles in the mid day heat. The father was carrying a little extra weight along the waist line, a gun, GPS, and cell phone. I wished them luck and carried on. I was glad to see the dirt road that would lead to my vehicle in 2.5 miles. It was a total climb but what a relief to see the truck.