I knew I needed to find a lake with easy hiking access (let’s face it I’m not in the same shape as the last time I was an outdoor enthusiast) and hopefully something alive in the water to make things more interesting. So again I turned to the trusty ol’ internet, and a few books I had on loan, and decided Barclay Lake was the place to be. Just over 2 miles in, supposedly great scenery and a lake that just might have a few fish in it.
I bailed out of the city alone on an early, drizzly morning with a full day pack, a full stomach and of course my trusty outdoor companion Oliver for a day of adventure. After all, if you’re basically a reborn novice at backwoods hiking it’s best to do it alone right? I must admit I was a little nervous about the idea. But determined to catch myself some dinner I pushed my nerves aside and found my way to the trailhead four miles up a dirt road just past mile post 42 on the Stevens Pass Hwy near Index.
Well thank heavens I had brought some trail reports and some directions from the Washington Trails Association website (wta.org) because as soon as I got out of the car I noticed three different trails leading off into the trees. One of these reports mentioned the trail “started off down into an old clear cut” so hoping for the best I took the trail that went down. When they say on ‘old clear cut’ they aren’t kidding. It must’ve been 40-50 years old because there’s no evidence of it now other than some stumps lining the trail. Not that I want to spend time criticizing the accuracy of the report or anything, because honestly I was just happy to be out in some fresh air. And boy oh boy was Oliver loving it too. I couldn’t make his leash long enough! You’d think he’d never smelled a bush before!
Oliver settled down soon enough and we were really trekking along, hell bent on finding a lake. As we pushed on I recalled some wise words the old man had given me back in our Pasayten expeditions: You have to almost make yourself look around while you’re hiking. It’s really easy to just get stuck looking at the trail so you don’t trip, but then you miss have the scenery”. I started spending more time enjoying the moss on trees, natures consummation of the clear cut stumps, the distant white noise of Barclay Creek and the whole process that was going on around me. Never did I appreciate my fathers advice more than when the trees to my left suddenly disappeared leaving a gorgeous viewpoint of… well some mountain.
A few pictures later we were back on the trail and a foggy mist started rolling in around us. Nothing blinding, but enough that I couldn’t see more than a hundred yards or so from where I was, and the drizzle that had been threatening all morning was steadily becoming more of a rain. “No way” I thought to myself. “Come hell or high water I am getting to that lake, I am catching a fish, and I’m GOING TO ENJOY IT.” The God’s must have given up because the rain lasted only a few minutes and returned to it’s drizzle right about the time I came to the Barclay Creek crossing. The directions I had said it was about halfway to the lake, which made sense because I’d been pounding the trail for 40 minutes or so. The crossing is nothing more than your typical trail carved log. Built to be functional without taking away any of the nostalgia of the woods. Oliver was not such a fan. For being an adventurous dog he wanted nothing to do with crossing over a log with water below. After a little coaxing he figured the best solution was to just get across the thing as fast as canine-ly possible. This would have been fine with me except that the rain had made things a little slippery. White knuckled with Oliver’s leash in one hand and the rail on the other I shuffled my way across, thankful to be dry at the other end.
Oliver did me a favor though because his hesitancy to cross gave me the opportunity to pull out my directions which indicated the trail turned “sharply to the right immediately after the crossing”. Not exactly. The trail in fact split with one well beaten path leading straight ahead and a more rugged option switchbacking to follow the creek upstream. Looking back now my thought it “of course you follow the stream up when you’re going to a lake” but we’ll just put that in the bank of lessons learned from almost getting lost. That’s a file that’s growing rapidly I assure you.
To my surprise less than 10 minutes later I caught a hint of water through the trees. It didn’t look like creek water, but the smooth topcoat of a lake rippling with the rain. Thinking the crossing was only halfway I began to doubt my decision to take the switchback but figured either way I was going to get a line wet so what’s the difference. As I approached the lake shore however it became abundantly clear that this was Barclay Lake. A little over 11 acres in size it drastically submits to Mt. Baring, who’s rocky face towers over the lake into the clouds. It stretches directly from the south side of the water nearly 2500 ft straight up, staring ominously at a poor little novice hiker and his dog like me as if to say “Go ahead. Just try to climb me. I dare you”. Not today Mr. Baring, not today… (I validated my excuse with an "I’m just here to fish" reasoning that seemed to work out for me)
The lake itself was mostly clear of ice, with just a thin layer remaining in the sun parched shadow of Mt.Baring. It looked like the perfect opportunity for an early season hiker to wake the senses of winterized fish with a brightly colored rooster tail. After the first few nightmare casts I regained my touch and before I knew it had spent a good 40 minutes or so throwing in line after line without so much as a nibble.I’d been staring longingly at the pieces of the south shore that didn’t have frozen water in front of it the whole time, admiring how quickly the water deepend. “Gotta be fish there! They’re just hiding under the ice!” I reeled on in and spelunked my way around to the south end only to meet up with the creek that descended from Eagle (or Stone) lake and fed into Barclay. A bit muddy, and lacking any stepping stones to cross I settles on a sandy delta surrounded by yellow glacier water. I only made it about 10 casts in before I came to the conclusion I wasn’t going to catch anything here except the bottom, which I was quickly becoming an expert at. Once again I picked up my rod and headed back to the north end, hoping to find that sweet spot.
I hadn’t gotten a quarter of the way there when I noticed a small wooden “toilet” sign and a flag or two headed up the hillside. I had read about Eagle Lake in my research, another two miles of grunt hiking straight up the hill with no trail, but that the lake was three times the size of Barclay and the fishing was a lot better.It only took me about 30 seconds of pondering before I started the slow, muddy trudge up the hill… and only another 30 seconds before I decided that totally alone, on my first hike out, in the rain, and with limited daylight it probably wasn’t the best idea to attempt a trail-less adventure into the Wild Sky Wilderness. Not today Eagle Lake, not today.
Feeling a little defeated, but with head held high I returned to my fishing spot confident that I could get those tricky fish under the ice by putting a bobber on and letting it drift on out. I threw some power bait on, cinched a bobber on the line and cast a few yards out with the bail open and sat down to enjoy a few bites of PB&J. My plan worked perfectly. Before I knew it the line was halfway out in the lake, steadily make its way towards the ice and I was positive I’d start to feel something before too long.And then the rain came. And with it a change in wind direction. I’d been sitting for 20 minutes watching everything go perfectly (and watching for flying sand as Oliver dug himself a bed to lie in directly behind me) only to watch my bobber change direction and come swimming back at me. Foiled again!
Another pair of casts proved two things: The wind wasn’t changing, and the rain was determined to stay. :Good enough for one day” I thought. Oliver was looking pretty wet and starting to get antsy, and I probably couldn’t have looked much better. We turned tail (or is it turned trail?) and made way back to civilization. Nature proving to me the whole time that everything I admired looking at so much on the way in wasn’t so admirable with mud caked shoes and a dog that was damn sick of having wet fur.
Wet, muddy and a bit chilly we returned to the car in record time. Oliver of course made quick work of dirtying up my passenger seat by jumping in before I could towel him off. One dirty dog, one dirty seat and one pair of dirty pants were all I had to show for my first woods expedition in several years. But I’d survived. And really, other than a guaranteed dinner with gills, that’s pretty much all I could ask for. Another day Barclay, another day…
Wet, muddy and a bit chilly we returned to the car in record time. Oliver of course made quick work of dirtying up my passenger seat by jumping in before I could towel him off. One dirty dog, one dirty seat and one pair of dirty pants were all I had to show for my first woods expedition in several years. But I’d survived. And really, other than a guaranteed dinner with gills, that’s pretty much all I could ask for. Another day Barclay, another day…
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