As most anglers are hardy outdoorsy people who enjoy catching all manner of fish nearby to civilization, the golden trout enthusiast is the Henry Stanley-in-search-of-Livingston of fishermen. Going after golden trout can become like a fishing safari into unexplored regions of the Sierra’s dark continent. If you like bushwhacking, tripping through wooded manzinita and feeling like the Tin Man after a good thrashing by the flying monkeys, you’ll enjoy fishing for Golden Trout.

Found in less than 300 Sierra waters, state-stocking programs place the rare species in remote high-altitude lakes carved from granite mountains that have short, ice-free summers. Getting to most of these lonely lakes takes a bit of shoe-leather, a bit of madness, and a lot of athleticism. Cup Lake is one such body of water.

Located near Echo Lakes off Highway 50, Cup Lake rests at 8,600 feet under the northwestern shadows of Ralston Peak (9,235) and below the western ridge leading to Pyramid Peak ( 10,500). Park at Echo Lakes and take the ferryboat across to the north side. There are no trailheads, only rough underfooting.

In the far distance 8,895 foot Echo Peak juts into the sky above Eldorado National Forest and the Pacific Crest Trail, but landmarks are few. With compass and topo map ( a GPS Tracker is best), hike cross country through jungle-like brush and scree laden with pine and incense cedar.

The scramble leads deeper into Desolation and the Wildernesses’ dense network of ecological systems. Eventually, the two hour trek gives way up granite flakes into country the casual angler seldom sees. Crest the last rise and discover a manicured lake reaching up through granite talus. Surrounded by rock, Cup Lake makes for poor camping. But the aromatic wildflowers and paint by numbers landscape full of backlit birdlife makes the fishing hole a day’s outing in paradise.

Torpid most of the year, goldens seldom exceed thirteen inches, although they can grow as big and taste the same as their kissin’ cousin, the rainbow trout. Their enchanting color, fiery molten yellow to brilliant orange, convinced the California state legislature in 1947 to designate the golden as the state fish.

The key to catching them is the same with any high-altitude, backcountry trout: stealth. Reading the lake like an ancient text, taking note of every ripple and protrusion, I nymph fish, working my rigged rod in a rhythmic dance of line and wrist. Suddenly, I caught a golden, just like that. He was more than ten inches long says my fisherman’s recollection of reality. And then I caught another one.

I agree with Einstein that time doesn’t tick the same everywhere. Balancing on an unseen boulder, I tossed a stone fly that trailed past what I hoped was another hungry golden. Under a warm sun, the air crackling with a
soothing voltage of summer, the silent rhythm of the my casting insulated me in a mental bubble. For a few moments I’m full of youthful excitement, and Cup Lake swells from its shallow depths into something embryonic, endearing, and rich.

The enjoyment of afternoon turns to too-lateness. Carrying with me the ones that didn’t get away, I begin the unromantic trek back to Echo Lake with a sense of deflation. Then again, the tastiest fish, just like guilt revelations, don’t come without a struggle. Golden trout: You make me rich.