Panguitch, Big Fish
Western Gateways: Magazine of the Golden Circle, March 1969.
[Editor's Note: This is Maurine's last published magazine piece, written for a small-circulation travel magazine, based in Flagstaff, Arizona. The article includes pictures she took herself. This piece is not included in A Craving For Beauty: The Lost Works of Maurine Whipple.]
So you don’t know a rod from a reel A fly from a night-crawler? Join the club.
Having spent my life elbow-deep in fish, boiled, broiled, baked, canned, frozen, and spoiled, I naturally shrink from a can of salmon. Yet my world teems with mad people who oftener than not don’t even eat fish, but are extolled from “The Complete Angler” to today’s Sunday supplements for their dedication to early-rising, mosquitoes, sunburn, and something at the end of a line: What is it?
One day last August I determined to find out. When my Ford balked, it was only the equal determination of two non-fishing fellow-sleuths (rock-hounds Brad and Betty Eutsler) who saved the day for posterity. But we were as nervous as three astronauts at countdown.
Speculated Betty: “To catch a fish, wouldn't you have to think like a fish?”
Brad’s eyes lit up. “And therefore hunt the biggest, deepest, coldest water?”
“Panguitch Lake!” I shouted. For in the vicinity of St. George, Utah, only one fishin’-hole is rated among the ten best trout lakes in the United States by National Observer.
Panguitch Lake (“Pang-witch”, a Ute-Indian word meaning “Big Fish”[1]) is mounted like a jewel at the red-rock heart of south-central Utah. . We had a choice of two routes: take highway 91 east of St. George 9 miles to off-ramp State 17, 9 miles to Hurricane, and north 3 miles to LaVerkin Junction with State 15 which winds for 56 miles through Zion National Park to Mount Carmel Junction on U. S. Highway 89.
The nearest alternate route from St. George leads north and east on Highway 91 to Cedar City for 53 miles, then off-ramp to State 14 which ascends Cedar Mountain (highest point, 10,500 feet) and crosses it for 41 miles to Long Valley Junction on Highway 89. Both routes, though occasionally storm-menaced, are open the year around, and both are worth taking. In fact, as a tourist heading for Panguitch Lake from any direction, you can’t make a bad choice, for you are now within the “Golden Circle” of recreation areas, which includes some of earth’s most exotic scenery.
Still, Brad and Betty and I were going fishing. Scenery was secondary. But packing that hot morning in Utah’s “Dixie”, we were as apprehensive as Admiral Byrd packing for the North Pole. So we stuffed the Volkswagen with everything from our insulated long-johns to the kitchen sink. It would be nice to record that we started at dawn, but to our breed of angler, “dawn” is a nasty word. Not that it mattered, since Hurricane’s peaches were ripe. Our chins still dripped juice as we climbed out of the valley to State 15, a shelf blasted out of salmon-colored cliffs for 22 broncho-busting miles. Although the grade is steep, and the turns abrupt, this approach to Zion National Park is as exciting as an overture. (Don’t pass up the overlooks!)
With Zion Park’s temples behind you, you emerge at Mount Carmel Junction into real fishin’ country . . . Panguitch, with its permanent population of 2,200, is worth seeing, if only for its “Mormonesque” architecture—see this century-old gray granite courthouse still upright and foursquare to the elements, spire with fish-weather-van (rescued from the original church) still as heaven-bent as its builders . . .
Almost immediately upon entering Highway 55, cedars yield to the conifers secreting the mountain-sides in a green gloom from which the white-trunked aspen leap out like ballerinas. One in a caravan of cars (apparently consistent until snow flies), we twisted upward until 1530 feet, beside still another brawling stream banked with wild berry-bushes (oh that pioneer jelly!), bright flowers, ferns like shrubs. Abruptly we came upon the campers—everything from built-in trucks and jeeps to attached trailers to tents to a sleeping-bag flung down like an afterthought. But with the loveliness of the background, each camper might have chosen with an artist’s perspective.
In a stream-laced meadow we met Ruth Ann and Dick Williams. Schoolteachers from California, they vacation here year after year. “It’s got everything,” said Dick, “only this year there’s unusual wind, so stream-fishing’s better.” He exhibited a creel of shining Rainbows. We followed them back to the campground maintained by the Forest Service at this northeast entrance to the lake. Here there are trailer-spaces, cooking facilities, restrooms drinking water . . .
Often families pool their resources and come here together. Take the Williamson and Pepperling boys, age 6 to 11, fishing from a rustic bridge spanning the stream running through the campground, itself. (Handy to keep your kids in sight!) Although these primeval forests are always photogenic, it is the kids who capture the lens. Observe now this ageless communion between human and fish: Line fingering the water as a lover fingers a cheek, and then that illimitable grace of the stroke, alternately outward and inward, like a caress over the surface.
When Brad asked about bait like any veteran, the boys sang out, “Bread-n’-worms!” Sniffed Betty: Sounds like a sandwich.” But Brad rummaged for our fishing poles. And I shivered—stagefright? Just then we caught the tantalizing smell of frying fish. Though we were bundled in sweaters, the community campfire looked inviting.
“Chow’s on!” hollered Mike Pepperling, stoking the fire with gnarled sagebrush roots which, being oily, roar instantly into flame—and always give off that exhalation half-stench, half-fragrance that is the essence of the West. Then eyeing Brad’s rods and line, he shook his head. “Too late, now.”
So we ate a second dinner. Is anything more delicious than properly-cooked mountain trout (inside meat just crisped), consumed under the stars, in pine-scented air, to a brook’s chuckle, the soul fed with companionship? Presently our new friends (both families from California) resurrected fishing stories. Panguitch Lake has its own Sea-Monster not only tame, but sociable. “Only don’t go out alone,” said some killjoy, “he’ll swallow the boat!”
We laughed . . . And sang song. “And the skies are not cloudy all day.”
Yet the campground was deserted by 8 a’clock the next morning. Pre-breakfast fishing? I shuddered at the implications.
But in less than a mile the Volkswagen topped a rise to emerge at the roof of the world, and I forgot everything else. There it lay, and Olympian porridge bowl held up to the sky by the tree-tops of the encircling forests. Around the rime were docks, lodges, cabins, trailers, chalets, and cars. And despite the whitecaps, clusters of boats bobbed gaily upon the shimmering water.
Said to occupy a volcanic crater with a maximum depth of 48 feet, Panguitch Lake is a natural body of water fed mainly by mountain-snow runoffs through Blue Spring Creek, Clean Creek, and Ipson Creek. It has 3 guardian angels. The West Panguitch Irrigation District which it supplies with water. The State Fish and Game Commission which stocks it in July and August with 250 to 350 thousand trout (catchable size to fingerlings), mostly Rainbows except for a few German-Brown, the cutthroat once native to these waters, and some recent Kokanee salmon eggs. The Commission also keeps the lake free of Chub by periodically destroying all the fish.
Panguitch Lake’s third guardian angel is the State Boating Commission which protects it for fishing by prohibiting boat speeds over 10 miles per hour; this fact, plus icy waters rarely exceeding 55 degrees (August temperatures warm up enough for the Big Ones to jump) eliminates sport-boating, skiing, and usually swimming, thus insuring quiet—and an ideal fisherman’s lake. With a ten-mile shoreline and a span only two-miles long by one-mile wide (800 to 1200 surface acres of water), with no lure grabbing moss, no reedy shallows, rocky beaches, or hidden stumps to threaten shear-pins, this is a lake ideal for boat-fishing as well as still-fishing by the shore willows . . .
But after all, we, too, had come to fish. “First got to find somebody to show us how,” practical Betty pointed out.
From our vantage point, the activity seemed to converge across the water. So we followed the half-circle of graveled roadway skirting the east to Panguitch Lake Resort on the southern shores, owned and operated by Joe and Ella Stuart for 12 years. Their lodge is typical with pine-log walls, beamed ceilings, great open fireplaces. When we entered the little store, they were both busy behind the counter, but they hailed us. Beyond the store was the lobby, and here we plunged into a melee of introductions, hand-shakings, invitations to visit hometowns, and shop-talk: “Water flat at 5 this morning . . .” “Pink as Kokanee . . .” “Ever tried a live frog?” Remember old Izaak Walton: ‘Handle him like you love him!’”
Laughter.
Brad threw up his hands. “What in hell are Kokanee?”
Astonishingly, a big smiling man overheard him, and led us outdoors to the cleaning shack where Jim, the young dock attendant, showed us the salmon-pink inner flesh of a Rainbow. “Distinctive flavor, too,” said the man. “Maybe it’s from the lake’s fresh-water shrimp that’s part of their feed.” And he launched into a loving description of Jim’s secret marinade where the fish are cured overnight, followed by slight smoking the next day . . .
Killing us with kindness, our new friend accompanied us out to the Volkswagen, which stopped him cold. He goggled at its bulging sides. “Where in the hell were you headed?”
We hung our heads.
“Sunglasses and sweaters, all you ever need up here; oh, maybe a change of clothes, if you boat much; but even in your birthday suits, Ella and Joe would cope. You’re among friends!” A Pied Piper, he got us back to the store and the Stuarts who had hysterics while he piled the counter with groceries, canned stuff, candy, tobacco, both Eastern and Western beer, fishing and hunting licenses, tackle and bait, gasoline and white gas—even jackets, denims, boots. “And a snack bar, too!” he wound up; “and all three other resorts the same—and prices no higher than in town!”
At this point Ella interrupted him. “You see,” she confided, leaning across the counter, “Panguitch Lake isn’t just for fishing. It’s for vacationing, too—family vacationing.” . . .
All at once I realized there wasn’t a garish sign or neon light in sight. Ella read my mind. “None of us monkey with ‘Tahoe-type’ service. No commercialism spoils the natural beauty of this lake. We like old-fashioned ways—kids, families . . . No midnight brawls!” she glanced around. “But where did he go?”
Our Pied Piper had vanished. Just then we heard his Indian Love Call from the water. Ella grinned. “Would you believe that man’s a VIP from New York? You have to go through 3 secretaries to even see him, yet he spent all yesterday afternoon babysitting so some parents could get to fish!”
Which reminded me again. But even as I nudged Brad, the VIP banged open the door. “Got your boat ready?”
Brad backed away. “Uh—seasick.”
Ella sized us up. “Go ‘phone the Bohmfalks,” she said to her VIP, “Rustic Lodge is more sheltered. Water would be calmer.”
But seismic rumblings gripped Brad. “Let’s beat it. Greenhorns like us—fat chance with professionals gabbin’ of ‘soundings’ and ‘ephemerids’—”
We were just sneaking out the door when Ella caught us. She held out a book, an invaluable out-of-print history of the Panguitch area. “Help your story, won’t it? Mail it back any time.”
Such people! What a vacation spot! I was still marveling as the Volkswagen churned up the incline to the west. It wasn’t only with frost always a possibility, you sleep under blankets. Nor was it that despite comings and goings, there was such an air of tranquility—even the squirrels got into the act, especially the stowaway exploring my pantleg. True, the shallow streams were perfect for “kid-fishing”; and there were no poisonous snakes of any kind, no wild animals (unless you count a rare skunk), little poison oak or ivy. Of course the mosquitoes were blood-thirsty, but remembering the Williamson and Pepperling boys, I felt sorry for the bugs . . .
Rustic Lodge on the western shore was almost hidden by the trees. There was even a flower-garden overlooking the lake . . . The forests here make hiking a pleasure, and even arrow-head hunting, since these shores were once stamping ground for Ute Indians. For rockhounds, the whole Panguitch Lake area is a paradise, with its out-croppings of opal, jade, and agatized jasper. I wasn’t surprised that Betty and Brad had already disappeared.
Art and Evelyn Bohmfalk have owned and operated Rustic Lodge for 11 years. Like the Stuarts, their business is “repeat-business”: 4,500 guests so far this season!”
“What is it here?” I asked. “Can’t be just fishing—What makes it work?” . . .
The Bohmfalks laughed. “Well, a dozen years ago the Stuarts and us and Ruth and Doc Chamberlain of Beaver Dam Resort and the Lakeview folks got together an decided to create an oasis of sanity in an insane world.”
Just then Brad and Betty bumped the door open, faces radiant and arms loaded with what appeared to be plain old boulders.
“Welcome back,” said our hosts. “Ready for the boat?”
Brad dropped a boulder.
“But Brad,” I cried, exasperated—
Plainly this was it: Fish or cut bait. Brad fished.
For it was then, right then, that salvation appeared in the guise of Technical Sergeant Leland Reford of Nellis Air Force Base at Las Vegas, Nevada. Striding through the lobby like a conquering army, he perched on a counter stool and demanded a Coke. And the Bohmfalks exploded as one voice: “The Boy Scouts! They’re headed for Blue Spring Creek—that’s just the right fishing for you three!”
I swear it wasn’t five minutes until we were gnashing our gears behind a red truck stuffed with boys like Popsicles in a sack. We kept up even when the road turned into a dugway tilted like an eyebrow on a Neanderthal forehead. The Sergeant-Scout-Master had just loaded the coffee pot as we clambered out among the pup-tents, hot-dogs, and boys. He nestled it among the coals, and peered up at us. “What’s your problem?”
Brad swallowed his tongue. All of a sudden those two dozen Boy Scouts had turned into 10-foot Marines with jackrabbit ears and merciless risibilities. But give the Sergeant credit. The official interrogation took place out of ear-shot, but I saw Brad’s shoulders sag as he confessed the shameful truth. For the longest time nothing happened. Technical Sergeant Scout-Master Reford ogled us as if we were fugitives from a UFO. Then his black eyes squeezed shut and he doubled over in a howl of glee that almost chocked him to death. “Oh you babes in the woods!” he moaned. But he wasn’t in the Air Force for nothing. In a trice (whatever that is), half the Boy Scouts were up the creek while the other half assaulted a 500-foot hill.
Then Sergeant Reford cocked a forefinger at me as if it might go off. “We’ll start with you,” he said. “How can you write about fishing unless you fish?” So I threw back my shoulders like an Aztec Maiden led to the sacrifice, and marched. And thus it came about that I finally held in my hands a fishing rod, complete with line, hook, leader, and bait. But as I leaned over to buss the Sarge (which by now he had become), the darned thing behaved oddly. “Watch out!” he bellowed, motioning with his hands, “a fishing-rod isn’t a sword—or a gun—” (and as the fool thing hooked the cap off his head), “or a retriever of objects!”
Well. For another aeon he studied us. Was it my fancy that he sort of crumbled? At any rate, he sighed. “Do-it-yourself fishing,” he mumbled. “At the Blue Pool.”
After an hour of poking through jungles, we had earned an “at-ease” beside this bluest of blue water. Yet our Sarge seemed strangely jumpy. Never one to idle his motor, he decorated my line like a Christmas tree while we observed the ritual of dropping a penny to the bottom of this bottomless pool. This time a sinker anchored my line beneath the water so the fish wouldn’t know there was an idiot on the other end.
And then it happened. It happened to me! I thought I only imagined the tug on the line until the Sarge yelled at me to hang on. So I pulled back with all my might while Brad and Betty got behind and clutched my shirt. I hung on—and on—Moby Dick had nothing on me. And then—all of a sudden that magnificent creature slithered into my lap and I needed 20 hands. “He’s a whale!” I screeched.
You guessed. Et tu, Brute. One swoop, and Sarge had confiscated my Beauty and got out his measuring-tape. His eyes avoided mine.
You think he didn’t do it? Well, he did! He threw it back! And believe me, I was first at the Volkswagen. Wounded, winded, but resolved. Like Sam Goldwyn, I wanted only to be included out . . .
And yet as we drove home over the back-door route to Cedar Breaks (an 18-mile, 2,100-foot climb from Panguitch Lake over an unimproved road), a weird thing happened. Before, fishermen on nearby Navajo Lake had been part of the scenery. But now I saw in the deepest part of the lake, a man, casting, only his head and shoulders above the water. I went crazy. Didn’t that fool know it was cold? That he’d get wet? Watching him dwindle from sight in the rear-view mirror, I damned all the fish and fishing. And yet-he did look so peaceful—
Words I hadn’t ordered popped out of my mouth. “Brad, how soon can you take another week-end off.”
[1] The claim that Panguistch is a Ute or Paiute word for “big fish” is still commonly made. However, Rufus Wood has challenged that translation. “Panguitch was the name given to this lake and its outlet by the Pah Ute . . . The root pangui is similar to Shoshoean words of wide distribution for “fish” . . . The terminal tch is apearently locative—the place where.” Rufus Wood. Five Hundred Utah Place Names: Their Origin and Significance. Deseret News Press, 1961.
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