Predicting when the cutthroat will show up, if at all, can prove just as difficult. In late fall, the fish usually come in during the afternoon, the warmest part of the day, and that’s when Gilligan and I had our best action. However, there are always exceptions to the norm, and it’s not like the one beach you’ve chosen to fish is the only one with favorable conditions along the 200 square mile lake. On slow days even Pyramid’s most seasoned anglers scratch their heads: should I stay where I am, or try a different spot? If you stick it out in hopes that the fish will eventually cruise your way, you might get skunked and could miss out on a bite that may be happening at that very moment just around the next point. On the other hand, if you give up on the beach you’ve been fishing, you run the risk of hearing from some grinning guy, later that night at Crosby Lodge, that the place went off just minutes after you reeled up in defeat and left in search of greener pastures.
“You should’ve been there,” he might say, as you’re flagging down the bartender for a stiff drink.
When I first heard about Pyramid Lake, more than a decade ago, I was instantly intrigued. And the more I learned about the lake and the Lahontan cutthroat that inhabit its alkaline waters, the higher it rose on my list of places to fish. Sure, I wanted to try my luck at catching a species of trout that grows to the size of a salmon. But, for me, the real draw of fishing Pyramid lies in the unique history of the fishery.
Fed by the famed Truckee River, which begins as the outflow from Lake Tahoe, Pyramid Lake is the country’s third largest salt lake, and was the second largest natural lake in the West prior to construction of the Derby Dam in 1903. When Gilligan and I crested the bare, windswept mountains surrounding Pyramid, and its mirrored surface came into view, the lake appeared to be a mirage. After all, we’d driven through the desert for miles without seeing even a trickle of water when, out of nowhere, the bright blue oasis suddenly appeared, shimmering in the arid basin below. But my eyes weren’t deceiving me; there lay the largest remnant of Lake Lahontan, a prehistoric inland sea that once covered much of what is now Nevada.
Recognized as one of the state’s natural wonders, Pyramid Lake sits on the Paiute Reservation, whose people have inhabited the shores of the lake for 10,000 years. The Paiutes consider the lake sacred and it is easy to see why. Pyramid provides sanctuary amid a desolate landscape, its azure waters standing in contrast to the brown and muted orange hues of the surrounding desert. Strange-looking tufa rock deposits line the lake, while one such formation in the shape of a pyramid rises from the depths along the eastern shore. The lake has an otherworldly feel; time seems to have stood still here. As Gilligan and I headed toward the water along a rugged two-track that resembled dirt roads I’ve traveled in Patagonia, I felt as if we were traversing the barren surface of another planet. There was not a single tree in sight and, as I crossed the beach with my eight-weight in hand, I was struck by an eerie quietness. The only sounds were waves lapping against the shore and the persistent desert wind.