Joanie’s job in the school district’s business office was a 12 month job. During the summer of 1976, I got to fish almost every day. Don and Pat Heizer, who were fellow students with us at NAU, also got teaching/coaching jobs here in 1975. On weekdays Don and I, and often Pat, got in some fishing. Don and I also tied trout flies for Shives Custom Flies. (The Shives also had a trout hatchery and a guaranteed catch pond for the tourists. It was located east of town on 160 and on the San Juan River, just before the Pagosa Riverside Campground, which was then a KOA owned and operated by the Lavertys.)
 However, on weekends, usually on Friday afternoon, as soon as Joanie could get off work, I would pick her up at school and we would race to a trailhead and try to backpack in for the weekend to some high mountain lake in the wilderness and make it before dark. (We didn’t smell the flowers along the way so much back then.) We’d been to many incredibly beautiful spots, but never to Hossick Lake, which we’d heard about a few times. When Uncle John Stevens talked about the ‘non-biters” and natives as long as my leg, that did it! I had to check it out.
I didn’t make it until late August of 1979. I remember that distinctly because I got my real estate license that spring and I had to show some property the following day at 1:30 P.M. to some dear NAU friends, Craig and Kathy Hanson, who then lived in Denver.
I mentioned to Jim Panter, a neighbor and fellow elder at Community Bible Church, (now Restoration Fellowship), who ran Challenge Wilderness Ministry, that I was going to Hossick. He told me to bring plenty of food along because I would not catch a trout there, because those cutthroats were all non-biters. He took city kids up in the mountains for a week at a time, kind of a Christian Outward Bound type of thing and said he’d been there at least 7 times, watched huge “cutts” (cutthroats are the only trout native to Colorado — thus known as “natives” to the natives and some us oldtimers) cruise by shore, but never caught one or even got one to follow a fly or lure; “I tell you, they’re non-biters”, he said. I told him there was no such thing. Every fish ate something, sometime. “Jim, you’ve probably never used a copper Z-Ray, have you?”
“Doesn’t matter, pack plenty of pasta,” he said, “it’s a long, steep, hard hike out on an empty stomach.”
I left very early the next morning. The trail (stock driveway) from Poison Park begins by going down, down, down, down to the bottom of the Weminuche Valley. After about 2 miles, at the NE corner of the Upper Weminuche Valley Ranch (owned by Bob and Betty Lindner, the major donor for our Ruby Sisson library and many other local causes), the trail divides and you enter the Weminuche Wilderness. (Jim Panter’s parents were the first caretakers the Lindners hired, but David and Theresa Cook have been running it for the past 20 some years. The main stock-driveway that Uncle John Stevens drove the sheep on, heads up to the Pine River and Granite and Divide Lakes and far beyond. A right fork at the fence corner (that many people still seem to miss), heads up the Hossick Creek drainage to Hossick Lake, which lies at 11,883’ elevation, well above timberline, in a cirque surrounded on three sides by the summits of Hossick Peak, the middle one being the highest at 12,967’. It’s about 5 more miles from the fence corner at 8450’ and with the exception of a couple level, and even downhill spots, pretty darn steep, compared to most other trails. It actually goes up to 12,100’ before dropping down to the lake.
I was in pretty good shape and pressed on, jumping several deer and elk along the way. I had the trail and lake all to myself. The monsoon seemed past so I pitched my little backpacker tent way up there above treeline ( not a good idea when there’s lightning). It’s fairly exposed, but in a bit of a bowl-shaped morraine, or cirque. Across the valley, or canyon if you prefer , rises Cimarrona Peak at 12,536, the south side of which is viewed prominently from Williams Creek Reservoir.
I started flailing the water with a quarter-ounce copper Z-Ray. (I really shouldn’t have told you that, now I have to kill you). It was mid to late morning. I cast and retrieved for hours — nothing. I did see a nice fat cutthroat cruise by near shore occasionally — so they were in there. I had a second rod stamp and put a night crawler out there; hey, I’m not that proud, plus no one likes an “I told you so”. (Purist fly fisher can be a euphemism for vegetarian sometimes.) The limit was 10 trout back then and catch and release was not nearly the ethic then that it is now. (And that is a good thing, most trout are way too valuable to only be caught once. Even back then, though, I easily released over 90% of the fish I caught.) Still, nothing!
That evening, by the inlet where a little bit of water trickles down from a small pond above the lake and some springs, I started noticing some consistent rises. I'd already spent the whole day walking around the entire lake, casting everywhere, but quickly rock-hopped over to where some huge cutts were sipping little midges. I tied on of the tiniest dry flies I had with me, tied some extra fine tippet material onto my 9’ tapered leader because these monsters were in shallow water which was very clear. There were several very healthy fish rising and sipping. I only really spooked one badly enough to put it down; but they kept ignoring my offerings. I tried several different patterns. Finally as it got duskier, a huge native (one like Uncle John had talked about) actually turned and headed up toward my #18 Blue dun dry. “Please Lord, let me catch just this one and I’ll release him!” (Don’t lie to God — you’re not man enough to release this monster!) The trout turned away from the fly. I took up one of my spinning rods and started casting a copper Z-Ray past the school of natives, retrieving it right through them as slowly and lazily as I could and still keeping it off the bottom. When it got too close to them they would move out of the way, but not take it. This was incredible, I could hardly believe it.
I had watched some bighorn sheep on the side of Hossick Peak during the afternoon, while casting. (Cimarrona means wild sheep in Spanish). About sunset I heard an elk bugle down below and went to look over the edge of the cliff that Hossick Creek spills down after it flows out of the lake. There was a big bull in the meadow just above the last trees, with a dozen cows. He will stay warmer than I will tonight! Back to fishing. Before giving up for the night and starting supper, I decided to leave a night crawler out on the bottom all night long; I was that desperate
It was now dark. There is precious little firewood above timberline and I had carried some dead wood up from down below with me. I boiled some water in a pan and put in some spaghetti noodles. I had forgotten a lid for the pan. I won’t do that again. I continued to blow on the fire to keep up a rolling boil. 45 minutes later, the noodles were still not "firm, but tender," but I was starved. I opened my jar of Ragu and poured it in. It was pretty chewy, certainly not al dente. I imagined Jim Panter laying in his warm bed, laughing himself to sleep. I scarfed down the whole pan full and left the noodle residue stuck to the bottom, filled it with water and crawled into my sleeping bag inside my little tent I should have been thankful for just getting to be there and experience all of the beauty and wildlife. Getting skunked really wasn’t so bad, but the “I told you so” was going to be harder to take.
It was very cold that night; the bull kept bugling, coyotes howled and yipped, and I finally fell into an exhausted sleep. I awoke the early the next morning probably more from cold than being rested. The frost was heavy on the tent, both inside from my breath condensing and outside too. There was heavy hoarfrost on the ground and my pan had an inch of ice on top. The bull was still bugling his heart out. I went over to the edge to look down on him again, then grabbed the spinning rod and reeled in the night crawler - untouched - unbelievable! I started casting the Z-Ray with the other rod. On the second cast I hooked one. And landed it - a beautiful 17” cutthroat. Thank you , Lord! A couple casts later I hooked another one; it was only 15”, but I kept it to eat. A few casts later — a nice fat 19” beauty that pushed 4 pounds. I had a couple more bites, but did not hook them before the sun came over the mountain and hit the water. They stopped biting.
I started up the fire with the little bit of wood that was left, filleted the fish, wrapped it in aluminum foil, and laid it in the coals while I packed up my gear as it cooked. I had to have one meal of trout at Hossick Lake! I then hurried down the trail. I barely made my appointment with the Hansons after showering at home. I ended up selling them Lot 329 in Pagosa Highlands Estates, bordering national forest. But before I went out to show them property, I ran across the street to present Jim Panter a couple of fish — bounty from the high country.
I would return to Hossick over and over again, sometimes getting skunked, sometimes catching fish like crazy — especially right at ice out. Most of the times we saw plenty of cimarrona. I went alone and with friends. Joanie hiked it with me only once and vowed not to go back — it’s that steep! The time she went , we had to camp below treeline because of lightning. After a nap, she hiked on up to the lake during a break in the thundershowers to join me. She made about 5 casts, caught 2 beautiful fish and asked me what the big deal was. I have made it a brutal day hike several times. I spent a few entire weekends up there.
One time, two of us never caught a fish the entire weekend. Another weekend between three of us only one fish was caught, but it was big enough to feed us all. I finally landed one like Uncle John talked about ten years ago. It was in early November and most of the lake had just frozen over the night before. I hope “inseam” will satisfy Uncle John! It’s on the wall of my office with the very quarter oz. copper Z-Ray I caught it on. My name — Driesens — means “three sons” in Dutch. We have three daughters. We had picked out Zachary for the first child’s name, if it were a boy. But I may have blown it when I insisted on Ray for a middle name.
Longtime Pagosa Springs resident Jerry Driesens is the broker owner of Jerry Driesens Real Estate. He has been sharing his memories of life in Pagosa Springs during the last quarter of the 20th century, in a series of Post articles. You can visit his website at pagosare.com.
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