February, 1922 
Jimmie announced blithely, through a 
mouthful of canned beans and cold flap- 
jack, that he had decided to ride his 
mare into the water and catch two 
golden trout at one cast — from horse- 
back — and have it published in the 
paper. 
It was nearly dark that evening when 
we camped at the Tunnel Ranger Sta- 
tion and turned our animals into the 
public pasture maintained by the ranger 
there. We had thus far followed down 
the creek about twenty miles, over one 
of the best Sierra trails I know. 
In every mile of that distance we had 
seen countless numbers of golden trout 
in the creek. It is remarkable that the 
supply remains so constant, considering 
the increased use of this trail by travel- 
ers and fishermen every year. Natural 
conditions for propagation must be ex- 
tremely favorable. 
Our trail next morning still followed 
the creek, down through more beautiful 
meadows and through fine belts of pine 
and firs, which were gradually replacing 
the dwarfed and hardier species of the 
higher altitude. In the early afternoon 
we suddenly came out on a point which 
commanded a fine view down into the 
Kern Canyon, and across it to the 
frowning Kaweah group of peaks. 
Here our creek leaped boldly out into 
space, in a series of long falls and cas- 
cades, to join the Kern nearly 3,000 feet 
below. The trail followed it down, in 
a long succession of very steep lacets, 
which caused Jimmie to gasp and ask 
anxiously if we hadn’t better stop and 
tighten all cinches. Like many another 
steep, but really safe Sierra trail, this 
place looked bad; in reality it was much 
safer than many less striking stretches 
of trail, where loose shale, treacherous 
boulder beds, or glacial granite set at a 
slant presents an element of real danger 
{Continued on page 88) 
A FTER a few days the trail again 
lured us, so we packed the mules 
and climbed into Cottonwood Pass (11,- 
000 feet) and started down the Kern 
River slope. A tiny spring just over 
the pass proved to be the head of one 
branch of Golden Trout Creek, and we 
dropped steeply down with it to join 
several other branches which united at 
the upper end of Big Whitney Meadow. 
The creek winds placidly through its 
irregular length for several miles, and 
nearly everywhere the green grass 
slopes like a lawn from the water back 
to the timbered ridges. 
We were interested in watching the 
golden trout in the clear water, as we 
rode along; always a dozen or more 
would dart to cover from each open pool 
and riffle. We wanted to stop and catch 
a few, for comparison with their trans- 
Some golden trout from Cottonwood Lakes 
Whipping a swift Kern River riffle above Funsten Meadow 
Later, in a little, almost unknown 
lake, far to the north, we found condi- 
tions reversed, and unbelievable fly fish- 
ing at any hour of the day. 
An old man who, with a crony, had 
spent the entire summer in delightful 
aimless wanderings, told us about it, 
with brief and concise directions how to 
find it. 
Later we fished the larger and deeper 
upper lakes, hoping for some of the five 
and six-pound monsters which had been 
taken by a party a few days earlier. We 
could occasionally see the big fellows 
swimming about but, like large trout 
elsewhere, they were wise and too well 
fed. However, we took several nice fish 
of from 15 to 18 inches in length, and 
were satisfied. 
It is strange, indeed, that this Cotton- 
wood fishing is not more generally 
known. The lakes may be easily reached 
in eight hours riding from Lone Pine, 
a small town in Owens River Valley, 
through which passes the Lincoln High- 
way. The transcontinental tourist could 
leave his car there, procure saddle an- 
imals, and make a delightful side trip 
into the Cottonwood country, stopping 
at a pleasant little summer camp main- 
tained for tourists a few miles below the 
lakes. 
planted cousins from across the pass, but 
had determined to continue on until time 
for the evening stop. 
However, just as we were leaving the 
lower end of the meadow to take a steep 
drop down the canyon I heard a plain- 
tive hail from Jimmie in the rear. It is 
work to unpack two animals and un- 
saddle four, but we were soaking our 
leaders in fifteen minutes, scarcely think- 
ing of the fact that it was mid-after- 
noon and that we had not eaten since 
morning. 
The creek averaged about ten feet 
wide here, and flowed along smoothly in 
almost continuous sod-banked riffles. 
Fishing upstream I took a limit of 
twenty fish in about a half hour, and 
caught several doubles on the Royal 
Coachman and Grey Hackle. Jimmie 
fared about as well, fishing downstream. 
All that was required was fair casting 
ability and some care in keeping the 
head below the line of the sod banks. 
