I was taking my 7-year-old son Noah on his first extended backpacking/fishing trip. We wanted to go far and deep into the Sierra, in search of Golden Trout. At the last minute, not wishing to leave our faithful 11 year old dog behind (due to permit issues) we loaded the old pick-up and headed out into our backyard, up the Rubicon Trail, to the less trammeled northwest corner of the tiny Desolation Wilderness. We bounced our way up to the end of wheeled travel losing the rear window of our worn out campershell to the continuous pounding, only to realize that the fishing rods were still leaning against the house. Back down the Jeeper-beaten trail, grab the rods and a few cold ones to ease the pain, and back up the over abused trail.

Off the next morning we went - light and fast style, with minimal gear, cross country across the granite slabs, down into the less visited heart of the Rubicon. Sandbagged by a 30-50 foot cliffband at the bottom which did not show on our map, I had to get the young man and the old dog safely by this obstacle. I found the only reasonable downclimb was a chimney. The young mountainman and the packs were not an issue, but the 80 pound beast was a another story. She came out the chimney with me hanging on, ass-backwards, big-eyed, but unscathed. It was soon thereafter, I realized the map had disappeared in the struggle. This could only add to the adventure as getting truly lost really wasn't an issue. A short bushwack to the Rubicon Resovoir and upon Noah's first cast, an 11" Rainbow comes out. Up to a beautiful camp on a slab overlooking the river. First thing in the AM, Noah is off, and back in no time holding onto our fresh trout breakfast. The first fish he ever stalked, hooked and landed all by himself. The look on his face walking into camp, holding that little Rainbow, as I brewed the coffee was one I will never forget.

Over the next several days we explored the numerous lakes and tiny streams, as the moon grew closer to full, lighting up the granite world each evening in silver moonglow. The fishing became more incredible as we went into the more remote area of McConnell Lakes - more of a high elevation swamp with a meandering stream. Brookie hybrids, Rainbows - most of them as gold and orange as any Golden I had ever seen. Time lost meaning. We lost track of the days and when we would finally need to return home. The moon grew bigger, and so did the fish. We finally ran into some people who told us what day it really was. We camped that night with our new found friends on cush green grass and treated them to a high country feast of fresh trout.

The next day, we climbed "The Mountain." Red Peak is not very high, only about 9,300-something feet - but it has no semblance of trail, and few, if any people visit it's cliff-topped summit. Leaving the dog in the col below, we scrambled up the last bit of easy 3rd class to the top to survey our domain of the past week. Fuel and food were getting low, and soon it would be time to return to Sillyvization. On the second to last night, the moon was finally full, and our camp was on a vast, nearly flat, hundred-acre piece of polished granite. Talk about hard to leave...

We could see "Lost Corner" mountain in the moonlight, far across and down the valley, and knew that we had two days left to get there. Some of the pools of the tributaries leading into the Rubicon River had some enormous brookies, but nothing like what was to come.

The last day of the trip had come, and not a day spoiled by weather. We were almost back to the start, back at The Rubicon Resovoir, on a long rocky penninsula. Noah was on about his tenth "one more cast dad..." when he hooked the fish. I watched the rod bend, and his little body being pulled, and I knew he had hooked a submarine. The drag zipped out steadily as I took the pole and tried to get control of the fish before it stripped our spool. Luck had it, he ran toward instead of away from us, and I slowly gained line as Noah begged to feel the pull of the rod. The fish came near and shallow enough to get a look at. 26 - maybe 28 - inches of fat Rainbow. Getting tired, getting close, and then the hook comes out and off the fish swims. To me, no big loss, we got a good look at him - but to a 7-year-old with little understanding yet of fish population dynamics - this is the end of the world. Lo and behold, I grant "one more cast" and out the Kastmaster goes to the same submerged stump, and the lad pulls in an 18-inch beauty. We clean it, lightly salt it to keep it from spoiling, climb back up the cliff and slabs and bring it home to mom.

In my days, I have had some serious backcountry and mountain epics that skill, luck and/or good equipment has brought me back with all my body parts. But this trip hit the heart strings, and is likely to be the most memorable one I will ever experience. Teach your children well...

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Karl with a Rainbow at Highland Lake.

Noah having the time of his life.

Cooking up a meal of fresh trout.