If spiritual fulfillment is to be found anywhere, it will be in the Church of the Great Outdoors. Where else is God’s existence more evident, His handiwork more abundant? Which is why, every summer when I fish mountain lakes, I’m simultaneously exhilarated and humbled. You can explain the lakes’ chaotic origins, how glaciers and earthquakes carved them out and formed the surrounding snow-capped peaks and basins. But when I look at the perfect symmetry and efficiency that marks each one I’ve visited, I have to give credit where it’s due. Some grand blueprint was at play here, and the guy behind the controls sure as heck knew what he was doing.

Mountain lakes are 100-proof Mother Nature. They come in all shapes and sizes but are invariably stunning in their raw, elemental beauty. Water, sky, rocks, trees: Like the four primary colors, they can produce both subdued and vivid landscapes, at one moment supremely serene, the next completely intimidating.

 Step outside your tent after sunrise and the surrounding trees and peaks are so perfectly reflected on the glassy surface you could just as well be standing on your head. Watch an afternoon thunderstorm barrel toward you on a twig-snapping wind and you’ll never feel so vulnerable or insignificant – no place to run, no place to hide. Mountain lakes have a way of whittling down mankind’s status in the scheme of things. Down there, thousands of feet below, nature might prove malleable to progress. Up here? Get serious. This ain’t Mr. Roger’s neighborhood with manicured lawns and swing sets.

There’s another reason I feel so ebullient the moment a mountain lake comes into view: the hike in. Fact is, I’m not the man I used to be. But even back when I was known affectionately as “Death March Bill,” lugging a 50- to 60-pound pack uphill for three to 10 miles never really thrilled me. A friend once described mountain-lake fishing as “Bust your ass, cast, cast, cast, then bust your ass again.” He must fish with the same guys I do. After one 10-mile hike up to a tiny lake we spent little more than a day fishing, I finally laid down the law: If the hike exceeds five miles, we’re staying for at least three nights.

Yet for all the leg cramps and sore shoulders, the dehydration and the horse-trail grime sticking to your sweat-coated skin, there is that heady moment when you finally crest the last rise and there below your feet is this deep-blue oasis promising solitude and feisty trout. When your world goes from a narrow dusty path through dark timber to 360 degrees on top of the world, it’s not unlike following a long, dark ramp up to the bleachers of a baseball stadium and walking out into sunshine with an emerald-green field below. Only one thing goes through your mind: Let’s play ball!

Vittles

To lighten the load in, my friends and I usually plan on catching dinner. Normally this isn’t a problem. Between word of mouth and various guide books on the subject, we have a fair idea what to expect before strapping on our backpacks. In the Rocky Mountain West, you can catch anything from rainbows, cutthroats and cutbows to brookies and even golden trout. Whatever we catch will be covered in onions, peppers, lemon and salt, then wrapped in foil and placed on glowing coals. It’s a feast we’d enjoy at home, but up here in the dying light, with temperatures dropping and our bodies craving protein after eating trail mix and granola bars all afternoon, the orange-meated trout taste especially good.

Then again, sometimes we crawl into our sleeping bags hungry. After driving halfway up a boulder-strewn road that would bring us within a mile of a lake a trout-shop employee had recommended, a friend and I were forced to turn back before the undercarriage was torn off my truck. No problem, we thought. We’d fish a lower lake nearby. Late afternoon is never a good time to amend any plan involving the high country, but after an hour of tiny brook trout and swarms of mosquitoes, we decided to hike to the upper lake. Besides, the moon would be full tonight, and how far could it really be?

By 10:30, we were still asking ourselves that question. By 11:00, tired and cramped from dehydration and navigating the faint trail up a steep, loose-shale slope by our fading flashlights, we were seriously questioning our judgment. But when we crested the final ridge near midnight, none of that mattered. Above timberline and shimmering in the moonlight, the lake was magical. We took in this ghostly view for five minutes, filled as much with relief as awe, then picked our way through the boulders to a flat, grassy spot along the shoreline to pitch our tent. The next morning the fishing turned out to be far less than advertised, but when you’re treated to scenery like that, the trout really are secondary. Still, you don’t do all this work just for the view.

Fishing

Mountain-lake trout come in two basic packages: big heads with skinny bodies, and fat and healthy. The former are found in overpopulated lakes; they’ll take virtually anything you throw their way, but are lackluster fighters. After an hour of reeling them in, you’re ready to go home. The latter are what we seek, 12- to 18-inch slabs that strip line with impressive speed. Being well fed, they’re a lot choosier about what they take, which makes each hookup all the sweeter.

Windy days call for blind casting, but usually you can sight-cast to the fish. When a hatch is on, trout will cruise along, gulping up mayflies and midges at pretty regular intervals. The trick is to look for a pattern, then try to guess where a trout will likely rise next and cast to that spot. Other times they’ll be feeding in pods, perfect for casting a small nymph or scud and stripping it back in tiny but animated jerks. The take is usually violent, the fish you eventually bring to hand always a colorful, spirited reminder that you’re fishing in total wildness.

Fishing up where heaven and earth meet isn’t for everyone, and frankly, the hiking isn’t getting easier with age. Trouble is, long ago I promised my mother I’d go to church regularly, and if mountain lakes are where I find true religion, who am I to disappoint her.