Young, dumb and crazy. Not me anymore. I pulled the plug on a fishing venture the other day. I set out to hike to a mountain lake. I figured that it should have had a few nice ones just ripe for the catching.
Most of the hike was uneventful, as most trail hikes are. But the trail ran out. It was time to bushwhack. I made my approach and took the direct route, right up the outlet stream that ran through a defile in the mountain. It was plugged with a large snowfield. No problem I thought. I'll just cross the creek between patches of snow, go as high as possible. Surely there will be an opening and I'll be able to rock hop and squirt on through to the lake.
No go. It just got steeper. The rocks got wetter. Crossing the creek got a little more dicy. I eyed up the rocks. If its wet I won't jump. A couple of feet maybe. Six feet, no way, even with my long gangly legs.
I got across again. There appeared to be a gap between the rock wall and the snowfield. No sweat. The summer heat surely had melted a space between the wall and the snow I thought. I'll just squeeze my way through. Good idea. Until I got squeezed out.
I pondered. Maybe I'll back off a bit and hop up onto the snowfield. I muscled my way onto the snow. Twice. Hmm. It's packed pretty hard. Steep too. For a mountaineer, with crampons, no problem. For a chicken with a pair of trekking poles and a salami sandwich. Uh,uh. I had visions of climbing a ways, losing my footing and schussing back down. I'm sure that I be screaming all the way. The rocks that were waiting below were big and hard.
For some reason the headline "Old dumb bastard killed while trying to go fishing" just didn't sound right. The old, dumb bastard part didn't bother me. The killed part didn't have a melodic ring to it though. At least the creek would wash away the blood.
Like the saying goes, "You have to know when to say when".
Fish be damned. I turned and hiked out.
I'm pondering another route.