Casting High

Re-discovering Colorado’s alpine on a fly

By: Liz Dengler

Tucked into the high mountains of the Colorado Rockies, my backyard boasts some of the most breathtaking landscapes in the country. But after a knee injury last year, I wondered when I’d enjoy them again. The months of recovery were long and frustrating, so this past summer, I decided to heal both body and spirit by exploring the Colorado alpine, combining my newfound enjoyment of fly fishing with my old passion for hiking. What I discovered in those remote, pristine lakes was more than just gorgeous fish—it was a reconnection to the joy of exploration and a deeper appreciation for my own resilience.

There is something alluring about high alpine lakes. Perched near or above treeline, the isolation of these pools of glassy water, hemmed in by jagged peaks, feels rare in the modern world. But one can relish the solitude and beauty along their shores, even if only for a few hours before the afternoon storms roll in. Many of these lakes hold populations of native cutthroat trout, making these spots a fly angler's dream. 

These lakes are not for casual fishermen. They require a fair amount of effort to access and a decent amount of patience to net fish. For me, the effort began before I laced up my boots. After months of physical therapy, the idea of carrying fishing gear, water, and snacks up miles of steep trail at altitude was daunting. Yet, the prospect of standing on a rocky shoreline, casting at the beautiful fish, was too enticing to ignore. The patience aspect of fishing is more challenging for me to settle into. Standing in a mountain cirque, enjoying the views, helped me stay centered when the fish weren’t biting.

The act of hiking became part of the reward of these adventures. I’m no stranger to knee issues, but after years with no problems, I’d started taking my mobility for granted. Now, after an ACL repair and months of rehab, each step felt like progress. The trails to alpine lakes range from easy to challenging, some with steep inclines and loose rocks, but all of them are in the thin alpine air. Feeling like I could trust my knee again on these rugged trails was a huge leap forward in my mental rehab. It gave me the confidence I needed to keep moving forward.

Hiking to fish in alpine lakes transformed my rehab into something beyond a workout. It wasn’t just about getting strong again; it was about enjoying the experience as a whole. For me, hiking has always been more about the journey than the destination, following trails weaving through forests and wildflower-filled meadows under the towering alpine peaks. By adding fishing, to some extent, hiking became about the destination. Each lake felt like a reward, the destination symbolizing my recovery progression. The fishing gave my hiking a purpose beyond enjoying the views. It was about the journey, the destination, and also the connection to the natural world once there. 

Before this summer, my fly fishing experience was mostly limited to euronymphing the headwaters of the Arkansas River. It was convenient—the river practically runs through my backyard. Fishing this way, I learned to anticipate where fish would be and how to sneak up without spooking them, and the sensitivity of the setup helped me learn the feel of fish on a line. But alpine lake fishing was different—standing on the shore casting a weight-forward line with a dry towards a ripple in the water seemed to simplify things. When sightfishing was possible, it was a dream, watching those beauties slip out from their hiding spot and sip a fly. 

More than once, when shade or sun glare made sight fishing hard, I crouched on the shore, scanning the water for signs of movement or trying to discern what the fish were eating off the top (because it wasn’t what I was tossing out). Fishing into those conditions felt like a gamble; each cast was a lesson in patience.

Whispers of 20” cutthroat lured us to a lake nestled high in the mountains down the valley. We packed our camping and fishing gear on the motorcycles and rode a couple hours down the highway before navigating 17 miles of very rugged and rocky road to the trailhead. After the strenuous moto ride laden with gear, it was a relatively easy hike to the lake, sitting at 12,000 feet. After all that effort, we were properly skunked. The gorgeous and massive cutthroat were spawning. Additionally, all the trolling fish promptly ignored our bugs. 

We returned more than a month later to try our luck again. Though the fish showed more interest this time, the fishing was still tenuous at best. After hiding atop a boulder overhanging the water and tossing bugs for over an hour, a gorgeous fish finally slipped out from under the rock and sipped my grasshopper. I let out a holler that echoed off the surrounding peaks as I frantically scrambled down the rock toward the shoreline. My partner rushed over with his net. It was the first hook of the day and it was gorgeous—22 inches at least with blazing colors. Just as we were about to net the monster, it rolled three times, and pop! It swam back to the safety of the boulder. 

Bested but now hungry for it, I wandered around the lake to see if there was another spot that might produce a nibble. I left on the hopper that had coaxed the last one out of hiding, assuming if it looked tasty to one, it might also look tasty to another. After an hour of no luck, I wandered back to the boulder to try my luck again. On the way, I spotted a large fish trolling the shores. Without much hope, I tossed at it, and when it turned toward me, I crouched down to “hide” behind a pathetically small rock. “Eat it, eat it, eat it,” I whispered as it cautiously eyed my hopper. As it sipped the top, I set the hook, and it was on. Again, I hollered, and my partner ran. I netted him myself, a beautiful 20-inch cutthroat. He was the only fish of the day, but he made the trip worth it.

As the summer progressed, these adventures became as much about healing my mind as strengthening my body. Standing in these remote settings, surrounded by silence and remarkable landscapes, allowed me to reflect on the past year. The frustration of injury, the slow progress of recovery, and the doubts about my abilities faded when I was among the beauty of these landscapes and unique fish.

Fly fishing became a form of meditation. The deliberate, repetitive motions of casting, the focus required to read the water, and the anticipation of a strike demanded my full attention. In those moments, I wasn’t thinking about my knee or limitations; I was simply present. The mountains, the lakes, and the fish became my partners in this journey of recovery.