Rock Creek At Iris Meadows
If this writer was cursed on prior trips (e.g., forgetting his toilet paper on the 2002 trip), Charles was hexed on
this trip. After a quick breakfast of cold cereal, we set out for Crowley Lake in Charles’ truck. Charles’ twowheel-
drive truck, to be more specific. Although the clerk at the fishing tackle store in Bishop advised against
Crowley Lake because of a moss build-up, that’s where we headed. Charles was exploring the dirt roads
around the lake when the truck bogged down and became stuck in the sand. We tried, unsuccessfully, to
budge the truck. Thank goodness for cell phones, and for Charles’ AAA membership. A tow truck was
dispatched, and we began the long wait for salvation. We couldn’t flyfish as we waited, on account of the
moss build-up along the shoreline, but we spent time toying with our fishing gear, as idle fishermen often do
when given time to pass. As we waited, this writer examined a map of the lake, and learned we were stuck at
a promontory aptly named “Sandy Point.”
After about two hours without a tow truck in sight, the hot day had turned into a thunderstorm. We counted
three seconds between lightning flash and thunder clap, and this writer was sure the end was near. There
was nothing around but us… no trees, no rocks, just a wide-open area next to the lake, and us. Charles
thought that staying in the truck was the safer choice. Ordinarily, this writer would have agreed. But, since the
axle and frame of the truck were resting solidly on the ground after being dug in by the spinning wheels, this
writer opted to crouch below the nearby shrubs. Crouching became increasingly difficult given the state of this
writer’s knees, and as lightning touched the ground to the west, north and south of us, it was clear that the
end had come.
The good news is that we didn’t die there on the plain. The bad news is that we didn’t float tube (or flyfish)
either. The tow truck eventually showed up and freed us from the sand (the tow truck driver noted it was
easier to pull the truck after Charles had released the parking brake, rather than dragging the truck through
the sand, as had happened for the first 10 feet before Charles had released the brake).
After the truck had been liberated, we drove up to Rock Creek Lake and ate lunch while the rain came down,
sitting in the same truck in which we’d spent the morning. We tried fishing from the shore during a let-up in
the rain, but then Mother Nature returned with a fury. Thunder, heavy rain and hail were all present. We hid
out in the Rock Creek Lake Lodge and had coffee and pie as the tempest surrounded the basin. Hats off to
Sue King for making the best Dutch Apple Pie this writer has ever tasted. The clouds cleared out that
evening, and we barbecued chicken and corn, with a side of chili. Beautiful stars, again. That night, we had
not only the hard floor to contend with, but also the unfortunate fact that the tent leaked. Considerably.
This day is easily summarized: fish, eat, fish eat. We set out to use Charles’ float tubes in Rock Creek Lake,
but upon arriving at the lake and attempting to inflate the float tubes, we realized Charles’ air pump was
broken. Still no flyfishing for this writer. Instead, we waded into the lake for a morning session of fishing,
without night crawlers (since we were supposed to be flyfishing). Very cold, but no rain.
After striking out, we headed back to camp for a fine brunch of thick-cut bacon (from Bisher’s) and eggs (fried
in the bacon grease, of course), piled high atop hash-browned potatoes. And an excellent Bloody Mary for
each of us, using the recipe this writer credits to Otto.
After brunch we waded back into Rock Creek Lake for a great afternoon session, aided by the use of night
crawlers. We landed two fish apiece and stayed out there until the sun went down. A great time.
After cleaning the fish, this writer convinced Charles to eat at Tom’s Place rather than to cook and clean in
the dark again. Once at Tom’s Place, we sampled fine local beer from the Mammoth Brewery and threw coins
at the saw hanging above the bar (a local tradition). After dinner we returned to camp for a long campfire
beneath the stars, which once again had returned as the clouds cleared away. Ultimately, however, we had to
return to the hard floor of the tent.
Not much to write here. We struck camp and headed down to Bishop for gas and for bread from Schat’s.
Lunch saw us return to the Pizza Factory in Lone Pine, and this writer’s car was found, safely parked near the
motel in Olancha. In fact, on account of the heavy rain, the car looked particularly clean.
