The following is a “tale” from the memoirs of Earl Trousdale titled “Tall Tales” from the Old Timer. Earl spent most of his life in Carlin, served as Mayor, and passed on at the ripe age of 99. All spelling and grammatical anomalies are the product of the author and he requested they not be changed.
It was the middle of June and time for our annual fishing trip to Beaver Creek. Cremer, Wise, Livingston and I left town about five o’ clock in the morning. A beautiful morning, I might add. We planned to go high on the creek and to keep only those fish fourteen inches or longer, all other to be thrown back.
We traveled up Maggie Creek road, four of us in Cremer’s coupe. The road was a dirt road. On we went past the five mile fence, through the canyon, on past Simon’s field, through Little Jack Creek, over Coyote Creek, through Spring Creek and past the Redhouse Ranch. Eventually we reached the turn off to Beaver Creek. An hour had past and the sun was climbing higher. It was still June so it really wouldn’t be too hot. There were a few clouds in the sky, but absolutely no sign of a storm. We forded Beaver Creek going through about two inches of water which made the crossing easy. The bottom of the creek is composed of pea sized gravel, making it very treacherous in times of high water. There seems to be no bottom in high water and I have seen a car sink down to where the water is running through the cab in a matter of seconds. But, not on this day.
Onward we drove up the creek for about three miles and then it was time to load up our gear and our lunches before we walked another mile or so to begin fishing.
Fishing was excellent! The water was clear and the fish were hungry. By limiting ourselves to fourteen inches, every fish we kept we ended up throwing three or four back into the creek if a fish swallowed a hook. We were very careful not to injure them if possible.
With four fishermen in the party, it was about a hundred yards between holes and so after walking and fishing for several hours, we found ourselves to be a long, long way up that creek. We stopped to eat our lunch and to clean our fish. What a catch – we had all limited out – twenty five fish was the limit at that time.
It had started to snow about noon, but what the hell this was June, it was probably just a spring squall. At any rate, we didn’t pay much attention to it until we noticed the snow was sticking to the ground, it wasn’t melting!
We headed back to the car happy and contented with ourselves. A very successful fishing trip. It was late afternoon and we were going to have to leg it to get back to the car by dark. It seemed like forever and a day before we finally got to the car, those fish had become mighty heavy by the time we got there. It was still snowing and the snow was about six inches deep and the damned car wouldn’t start.
There was a heated argument about just what we would do, continue to walk out at that time, or wait until morning and daylight. It was finally decided that because we were so tired and unable to see the trail because of the snow, we would build a fire. Two would sleep in the coupe while the other tended the fire. We took turns.
While Livingston and I were tending the fire, this dumb child let Livingston convince him that he, Livingston that is, had a great fear of coyotes. True, the coyotes were howling, but I have never seen other that the back end of a coyote. Coyotes want no part of a man, unless of course someone should corner said coyote, then I’d say LOOK OUT! Anyway, I believed the man and I spent my time gathering brush while Livingston sat by the fire and worried about the coyotes getting him, or was he laughing at this dumb, gullible child.