San Carlos Lake Arizona. We got snookered, I admit. What’s sad is that we were snookered all day long.
I think we have all struggled with a first trip to a new area. Not knowing the best route and the condition of the roads. With a lake for instance, you don’t know enough to be on the north, south, east or west side. Where is the best access to the water, where to park, launch the boat or where to find the rest- room. Bringing wives greatly intensifies each difficulty, especially the latter. We fortunately made this maiden voyage in the daylight.
San Carlos Lake is on the San Carlos Apache Indian Reservation, the second largest Indian reservation in the United States. This lake is one of eight in the area created by a dam for irrigation purposes. It was formed by the Coolidge Dam built on the Gila River in 1928. The 25 mile long lake is 75 feet deep in places, has 158 miles of shoreline and 19,500 acre feet of water, making it the largest lake in Arizona when full.
The lake has a lofty fishing reputation. Ten pound largemouth bass are fairly common. We were attracted by the great early spring crappie fishery with 25 fish limits running from 1 to 3 pounds. The state record was pulled from San Carlos which tipped the scale at 4 pounds 10 ounces.
Fellow Pendletonian Bill Cole, his wife Mary, Mrs. Groupe and I got an early start from Mesa which is 100 miles west of the lake. With a small raft and a couple kayaks in the back of my pickup, we left about 7:30 a.m. We failed to find the bait shop my tipster said we couldn’t miss. We were directed to customer service at a large isolated grocery store on the reservation. The anticipated access map and fishing tips were not forthcoming. The young Indian girl at the counter was skilled only at taking money. The daily reservation fishing permit was $10 each and they also charged $5 each to launch the raft and each kayak. That was about what I paid for the raft.
The lake is accessed via a maze of dirt roads bulldozed in the desolate rolling desert hills. The key word to that sentence is desolate. We could see the lake about two miles away, but spent an hour trying little roads which were dead ends or ended at the high water mark far away from the water. Finally reaching the water, we could see an armada of fishing boats about three bays to the west (about ½ mile away). Needing to be closer, we spent another hour driving until we stumbled onto the correct ridge road which took us to the action.
We hurriedly carried our boats and gear 50 yards down the very rocky bank to the water’s edge. Twenty five boats were fishing about 100 yards off shore. We only had anchor rope enough to be out about 50 yards. We tried John Deere green jigs—nothing. Then we tried the magic black, blue and purple jigs—nothing. The wind was picking up and waves finally began lapping over the stern of our little yellow raft. Defeated and dejected, Mrs. Groupe and I made a mad dash for shore—not so much to save our lives, but to save my marriage. Bill and Mary were able to navigate their kayaks through the rough water, but soon decided to join us on the shore.
We had a nice visit with one of the locals parked nearby. He was well equipped with an 18 foot boat, a 30 foot travel trailer parked near the water, a generator for each and 300 gallons of gas. He showed us the fifteen large crappie he had landed that morning. He pointed out the wind normally comes up about noon and settles down about 4 p.m. He undoubtedly filled his 25 crappie limit by the time the sun set behind the saguaros.
Every fish he had was larger than any I have ever seen in Agritimes Country. Next time we will line our ducks up in a straighter row!