After a predicted winter storm was less severe than forecast, I took the opportunity to head to Swift Camp Creek and see if I could find some fish. I think it was a bit late in the stocking season as I saw and caught nothing. There wasn’t a lot of water either. A few deep pools looked promising but nothing was stirring in them.
Having the entire day to do whatever, I went further upstream than I’ve ever gone. Sleet and rain the night before had scrubbed the shoreline of any footprints or animal tracks. Truly felt like I was the first person to go back in this area in a long time. Icicles were dripping everywhere I looked. The sun was shining and the sky was blue and clear.
I eventually came to a point in the stream where the only way forward without swimming or floating was a narrow gap between two massive boulders. As I passed through the gap I couldn’t help but feel like I was passing into another zone of unspoiled forest. Giant stones with deep undercuts from erosion dominated the shoreline. The water was very low so I was able to walk completely around these giant sentinels.
I pushed a little further and found a valley that looked as if giants had a battle using rocks and trees as weapons. The cataclysmic chaos the landscape gave evidence of was truly humbling. Another interesting event was the gurgling water of the creek sounded like a group of men talking. I kept pausing to look over my shoulder as I heard imagined voices from the water.
As the sun dipped toward the horizon I made my way back downstream to where I had parked and had a late lunch on the tailgate. There was another fisherman headed in as I left. I didn’t say anything about not seeing fish as he may have a spot or a method better than mine. Even so, I had stomped through every hole for miles upstream. Felt slightly bad about that but wished him luck anyway.