Kremmling
The sound that skittered across the surface like quicksilver produced an impulse that nothing ever can change.
That unmistakable cry of a loon instantly redirects the electrical currents in an angler’s brain back toward some distant north country place of fond memory, a sort of Pavlovian link between bird and fish.
Anyone with the slightest belief in omens or a lick of imagination would have known we had come to the right place.
Some compare the loon’s rapid trilling to a sort of nervous laugh. The question, as Dave Van Cleave and I prepared to stumble across a mile of steep, unstable rock along the northeast shore of Williams Fork Reservoir last week, was this: Was this grand bird laughing with us or at us?
Even without the loon, reason for excitement was in long supply. These early days of open water at Williams Fork and many other mountain lakes bring high anticipation of large fish cruising near shore.
Emerging from our own winter ice cap, we somehow fancy them as hungry for action as ourselves. Which sometimes is actually true.
Nowhere is this more the case than at Williams Fork, a large impoundment whose recreation is managed under agreement between Denver Water and the Colorado Division of Wildlife. Even with its radical seasonal fluctuation, Williams Fork is Everyman’s fishing hole, with a species and situation to suit every desire.
Want something really big? An arm-stretcher that might dash your line and your dreams off to some deep, faraway place? Northern pike and lake trout long as a man’s leg swim here.
How about a rainbow trout with a crimson stripe as wide as your hand? Or a brown trout with spots big as quarters?
On a magic moment in late April, you might find any or all cruising the steep drop-offs along that erratic arc where the lake bends from the east boat ramp toward the dam. Then, as the season progresses, boaters collect a harvest of kokanee salmon or whatever else might be prowling the open lake.
Thing about Williams Fork is you can do this with any method you choose: flies, lures or bait. Or any combination of the above.
For Van Cleave, who carries a deserved reputation for catching big fish, the lifting of the ice lid at Williams Fork stands as a sort of visceral signal that not even a loon’s call can equal. The Denver angler suddenly morphs into a bundle of nerves and tingles that scarcely can be contained inside an auto following its headlights through a corridor winding between moon-splashed peaks.
It’s no surprise that Van Cleave caught his state-record 30-pound, 6-ounce northern pike here in 1996, and that he has landed or lost dozens of other pike and trout almost as big. His fantastic tales might smack of the usual fisherman’s yarn if he didn’t have a drawer full of pictures for proof.
The big lake is heaven for lure enthusiasts in both early spring and late fall, when cold surface temperatures pull fish up from the depths.
In these pursuits, Van Cleave favors a tube jig for the simple reason that everything that swims seems to like it. He prefers 3-inch, either pearl or chartreuse, letting the fish guide him in the daily menu selection.
“I love lake trout and pike,” Van Cleave declared for the simple reason they often can be super-sized for the same low price.
But on a day whose surprises might be laid to the mystic forces of an almost-full moon and the sorcery of a rare bird, the biggest fish that chased his lure was a brown trout estimated at 8-9 pounds. This fine creature made a swipe a few feet from shore, then swung and missed again just as Van Cleave pulled the line from the water.
This cycle of uncommon events included some strange means by which the gauge for lake trout changed from pounds to inches and the lure of the day became a Krocodile spoon with pearl fish scales.
“I wanted a 20-pounder, but I guess I’m glad to get this 20-incher,” Van Cleave said, substituting the image of filets floating in lemon and butter with visions of wall-hanging photos.
Van Cleave’s extended affinity for Williams Fork involves serenity, which abounds on every shore that demands a hike from the widely scattered access points. This is particularly true on the rocky shoreline that bends north from the east ramp, a setting as raw and wild as any you’ll find 2,000 miles to the north.
By the time we returned, the loon had changed locations from mid-lake to a place oddly near shore.
It wasn’t laughing anymore.
Listen to Charlie Meyers at 9 a.m. each Saturday on “The Fan Outdoors,” KKFN 950 AM. He can be reached at 303-820-1609 or cmeyers@denverpost.com.
