Fishing trips always better with The Wildman

The sun was sinking low on the horizon as The Wildman and I emerged from the mouth of Carpenter Canyon.

On top of a small ridge in front of us, the silhouette of a lone tree stood out against a growing background of bright orange and red hues, a fitting end to a great day outdoors.

In many ways, The Wildman grew up right here in the Sports Section of the Review-Journal. Stories of his exploits and unique approach to outdoor living have played a central and often humorous role in this column since he was about 6. Hyrum is now almost 20, and though he is my youngest child, he no longer can be called one.

As we topped the small ridge and looked west toward the lights of Pahrump, I couldn't help but think of the backpack stuffed with Hyrum's minimalist belongings leaning against the now empty wall in his bedroom. While a fitting symbol of his approach to life, the pack also means he will be blazing his own trail by week's end.

It was early Saturday afternoon when Hyrum and I loaded our fly-fishing gear and pointed the truck toward the Spring Mountain Range. No, it is not your typical fly-fishing destination, but we were hoping to find just enough open water along Carpenter Creek to cast a fly and maybe even catch a fish or two. The creek is home to a small population of Lahontan cutthroat trout, a fish neither of us had ever pursued.

Given the amount of snow that has fallen in the Spring Mountains recently, ours was an adventure of hope and desperation. Hope we would find open water and a desperate need to cast a fly once we found it. I had my doubts, but thoughts of that backpack pushed me onward.

Almost an hour from the driveway, we turned east off Highway 160 onto Carpenter Canyon Road and almost immediately began climbing in elevation. As we bounced our way slowly along a road that is more rock than dirt, Hyrum and I talked of life and outings past. The outdoors is a good place for such talks.

Another hour and 12 miles later, we reached the road's end and parked the truck beneath a canopy of pine boughs. I looked around, but all was white, the canyon floor was covered in a blanket of snow. We were definitely a little early, but remained hopeful there might be some open water not too far up the canyon.

Suddenly, The Wildman smiled, pointed up the canyon and said, "I think I hear something." Then he was off in search of the source. I had to laugh as he waded through about 6 inches of snow in tennis shoes and shorts. "Only Hyrum," I said while shaking my head in wonder.

A few minutes later, Hyrum slid his way back down the canyon with a smile on his face.

He had found some open water.

We each tied on our choice of flies and fished our way up the canyon. The only tracks in the snow belonged to us and a handful of critters that had passed through the area. So it was easy to see where Hyrum had stopped and fished or simply passed by a stretch of water in his hurry to get upstream. Sometimes he made a good choice, and other times his choices weren't so good.

The creek wasn't completely open by any means. Much of it was covered with ice, and snow came right up to the edge of the pools that were open, but the water was inviting nonetheless. While some of the pools were large enough for an actual cast, most of the time it was best to simply let the fly settle into the water in a likely looking spot.

Trout are a nervous fish and easily spooked, so a stealthy approach is required when fishing small waters such as Carpenter Creek. Unfortunately, the snow made that more difficult than usual. A wary fish could easily see our dark outline against the white background and the banks were slippery. So sometimes we kind of slid into place rather than sneaked.

We fished upstream until the snow came nearly to my knees, then decided that was far enough and made our way back to the truck. On the way out, we stopped where the road topped out on that small ridge next to lone tree. There we spent a few minutes taking in the sunset. Neither one of us had so much as a nibble, but somehow that didn't matter. The outing was never really about fish anyway. It was about that backpack leaning against the wall and was perhaps the most fitting way I could tell The Wildman goodbye.

Tight lines, son.

Freelance writer Doug Nielsen is a conservation educator for the Nevada Department of Wildlife. His "In the Outdoors" column, published Thursday in the Las Vegas Review-Journal, is not affiliated with or endorsed by the NDOW. Any opinions he states in his column are his own. He can be reached at intheoutdoorslv@gmail.com.