Top ‘patriotic’ places to go fishing this 4th of July

Nestled in a remote stretch of the Albion Range south of Burley, an all-American angler finds themselves in a chapel of patriotic reverence. Like so many of the fishing spots mentioned in this story, one has to wonder: What fly-casting, worm-dunking red-blooded American first stumbled their way up a 9,000-foot mountain in their muck boots before greeting some unmarked, unfished lake? No sooner did that freedom-loving fisher unpack the cooler they, too, carried up the 9,000-foot mountain, attached a hook to their line, and commenced the timeless sport of baiting and waiting. 

As they did so, they listened to the shimmering needles of Douglas firs and the fluttering spades of aspen leaves. They heard the sporadic glurp of rising trout out on the water, none the which the least bit tempted by a bare tremble hook that got its bait picked as soon as it hit the water. The angler occasionally glances at the rod tip, hoping it bows to the unnamed lake. But nothing except the clouds drifting by and the frenzied swatting hands at mountain mosquitoes occupies this basin.

Just then, the angler’s pole dips once…twice…then dances wildly. The angler jumps up and does the same. After reeling in the 12-inch cutthroat trout and knocking over their beer in the process, the angler hoists the trout up, framed by a backdrop of clouds and tangled monofilament line and bobbers — a fisherman’s windchime. 

His heart raced just as it had during the climb up the 9,000-foot mountain. He smiles. Free from all the day-to-day responsibilities, the ticking of the work clock, the shrieks of feral toddlers and the scowls of disinterested teens. Free from the overgrown lawn and the leaking O-ring under the bathroom sink. Free from the one-act plays of dramatic friends and acquaintances. Free from all that. 

The angler yanks the pulltab off another can. “I think I’ll call this Independence Lake,” they say.

And that, as far as I know, is how the lake got its name.