December 20, 2024
By Ross Purnell
Each year, about 4 million people visit Yosemite National Park . Almost all of them stop to view Yosemite Falls, which at 2,425 feet lays claim to being the tallest waterfall in the United States. That title is, however, sometimes disputed as the water doesn’t drop that distance in a single line. What most people see from a distance is two tiers of falls: Upper Yosemite Fall (1,430 feet) and Lower Yosemite Fall (320 feet). Between the two—and hidden from the view of the millions of tourists who throng along the roadways, picnic areas, and trails—is the Middle Cascades, a series of vertical waterfalls that account for a drop of 675 feet. They are completely hidden from almost all park visitors due to the forces of geology and erosion. The Middle Cascades wind through a deep slot canyon that is so inaccessible and mysterious that it is visited by only a handful of humans each year. It has earned the nickname “Middle Earth” because it’s so deeply entrenched in the Sierra Nevada, it’s a place you can read about or imagine but never actually see.
The Middle Cascades would likely never be visited if it weren’t for a relatively recent sport called canyoneering. This is a sort of extreme hiking that varies in difficulty from popular hikes in slot canyons like The Narrows in Zion National Park, to highly technical roped descents in flowing water where rappelling is the only means of exit. In the world of canyoneering, “Middle Earth” is the latter.
On the nearby cliffs of El Capitan and Half Dome, all the rock climbs have a difficulty rating so fellow climbers can ascertain the level of challenge before they climb. Canyoneering has its own rating system for the same purpose, and it starts with a technical difficulty rating of 1 through 4. A 1 rating is a hike. A 2 rating is a difficult hike with scrambling and risks of slips and falls that could be fatal. A 3 is a technical canyon that requires rappelling and anchor-building skills. You might recall the movie 127 Hours, which tells the story of Aron Ralston’s epic in Bluejohn Canyon, where he became entrapped and cut his own arm off to escape. That canyon is rated 3A III. The “A” indicates it’s completely dry and the III means it’s a full-day adventure.
The Middle Cascades is the final boss level, an advanced technical canyon rated by ropewiki.com as 4C III R. The 4 indicates the highest technical level of difficulty, “C” means it contains constantly flowing water that requires special skills (most notably swimming and handling ropes in deep water), and the R rating means the canyon is for experts only, and has dangerous consequences even in the best conditions. An R rating means mistakes are often immediately fatal, and there’s little hope for a timely rescue.
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Why do I tell you all this on the printed pages of Fly Fisherman? You likely have already guessed the answer when I mentioned that the "C" designation denotes constantly flowing water. Flowing water almost no one can get to. Flowing water within the range of native coastal rainbow trout.
Rumor Mill Years ago, I heard from my friend Mikey Wier, who is a filmmaker, frequent Fly Fisherman contributor, and an ambassador for CalTrout. He planned to descend into the Middle Cascades with some rock-climbing friends because they heard a rumor that there were trout in the waterfall’s plunge pools. They planned a trip, but when the time came, the creek was flowing too swiftly to consider an attempt.
The route consists of six to eight rappels of up to 210 feet. The number of rappels is variable because in two instances, the waterfalls are only a 30-foot drop and instead of rappelling, you can choose instead to leap into the cold, mysterious plunge pool below. This saves a lot of rope management time, but also breaks all my rules about jumping from a height into unknown water.
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When you rappel, you must thread your rope through steel rings bolted or tied with a cord right at the lip of each waterfall. This is called the rappel anchor. When you slide down the doubled rope into the cold water at the base of the waterfall, you pull one end of your rope to retrieve it for the next rappel. You can’t position these anchors far back from the lip, as friction will prevent you from pulling the rope. If you lose your rope, you are stuck. You can’t go up or down.
Low flows are critical for making use of these anchors, as you do not want to be swimming in swift flows while trying to catch them as you most certainly will be carried off the edge of the waterfall. Wier made the right choice to cancel his plans when the creek was running high.
The Middle Cascades flow through a slot canyon between Upper Yosemite Fall and Lower Yosemite Fall. The slot is elevated high above Yosemite Valley. The only way to fish these hidden plunge pools is to climb up, and then rappel down the course of the waterfalls. (Bruce Lemon photo) But in the summer of 2022 I was researching an upcoming family fishing/climbing trip to Yosemite and ran across a YouTube video that showed a canyoneering descent of Middle Earth in more placid conditions . In one GoPro scene just a few moments long, an adventurous YouTuber exclaimed and pointed: “Look at all those trout! I wonder how they got in there?”
How indeed. How did they get in there? Or were they even trout? Did this guy on YouTube even know what he was looking at?
How could trout survive in the plunge pools perched high on a cliffside in Yosemite? Did they get flushed over the top from the upper plateau, and survive the initial drop of 1,500 feet? And how could they live in a waterfall environment when the thunder of the waterfalls in the spring can be heard miles away? Are there new trout coming into these pools each spring, or can they hide in the deep bowls and find enough food to eat and live there? It seemed impossible to find trout in a waterfall like this, but I thought that when I was in Yosemite, I would have a look.
Making a Plan I arrived in Yosemite National Park the last week of September with my son Carson, my youngest daughter Breanna, her boyfriend Cody, my longtime climbing partner Ben, and his girlfriend (now fiancée) Amy. We came to America’s most famous national park to climb and fish. The previous summer we did a double-sport adventure in the Wind River Range, and we like to recreate in places where you can scale a steep cliff one day, and fish in lakes and streams the next. Our group of five athletic young people and one wizened grandfather (me) spent days on classic rock climbs on Cathedral Peak, El Capitan, Glacier Point Apron, and Manure Pile Buttress. (On the summit of that rock climb, Cody privately asked for the hand of my daughter in marriage.)
In the afternoons we took our fly rods to the tumbling pools of the Merced near our campsite, where the crew quickly learned how to defeat drag in the tumbling boulder-filled pools, and catch wild browns and rainbows on attractor dry flies. Each day we looked in wonder at the wispy thread of Upper Yosemite Fall. In the spring, the torrent of water creates its own wind and weather, but now it just looked like a dark wet spot on the imposing granite cliff, accented by a faint white ribbon. We thought that if anyone could attempt a descent that season it would be this week. And it had to be us.
As in all fishing trips, logistics were an important consideration. For instance, when you launch your raft at the Spillway Boat Ramp on Utah’s Green River you must navigate a variety of in-river hazards and arrange a shuttle so your vehicle is waiting for you downstream at the Little Hole Boat Ramp. Every fishing trip requires a plan, not just a plan to catch the fish but to get there and back safely. I’ve used camels, and rode horseback for two days to get to rivers in Mongolia, but the logistics of getting into these plunge pools were above and beyond anything I’ve tackled previously. It was all self-supported, unsanctioned, and unheard of. We had no idea if we would even find trout, couldn’t find any reports online of someone
Carson Purnell (blue shirt) on one of the final late afternoon rappels, with Lost Arrow Spire—one of Yosemite's recognizable landmarks—in the sunshine behind him. (Ben Annibali photo) In order to descend into the Middle Cascades via rappelling, we first had to get to the top—confusing terminology because the top of the Middle Cascades is immediately below the spectacular Upper Yosemite Fall. This is the magnificent waterfall people see from miles away, but few people ever make it to the elevated terrace where the water lands after falling 1,430 feet. The most direct way to get to this terrace is by rock climbing the 400-foot cliff immediately below it called Sunnyside Bench and then scrambling upward with our ropes, rock-climbing equipment, and our fishing gear to begin the descent into the slot canyon.
By rock-climbing standards, Sunnyside Bench is one of the easier rock climbs in Yosemite National Park, but it’s still 400+ vertical feet of roped climbing wearing a harness and rock-climbing shoes—and I’ve never scaled a cliff before with a fishing net and rod tubes strapped to a waterproof backpack. It didn’t feel especially nimble.
We knew we’d be swimming in cold water after each rappel, but the air temperatures were pleasant for October. The waterproof bags were for electronics, rock-climbing equipment, food, and fly boxes. We carried no extra clothes because after the last rappel and the last swim, it was a short hike to get to the truck. Warm clothes would only help if we got stranded.
The first rappel into the slot known as the Middle Cascades (above) is perched high above Yosemite Village. (Ben Annibali photo) Real canyoneers use wetsuits for these types of descents, but we weren’t real canyoneers. In fact, we’d never done it. We were just fly fishers who knew how to rock climb and rappel, and we figured we could slide down wet ropes under multiple waterfalls, and catch some trout in the process.
Into the Unknown Our plan was to rock climb up the cliff band and then rappel down the Middle Cascades—and at first everything went according to plan. There was no rain overnight or in many days—a critical safety concern in a slot that drains the northern plateau of Yosemite National Park. Our group of six moved quickly and effectively up the cliff. I led all the climbing pitches and brought my son and daughter up behind me on a top rope. The other three climbed as a separate team with Cody leading (the “leader” climbs first and secures the ropes for the others to follow). The climbing was smooth—after many days in the park we were a well-oiled machine.
At the base of Upper Yosemite Fall we could stand directly under the falling water that was coming down on us like summer rain. We walked on clean granite slabs and imagined the pummeling force of a massive river falling here just weeks ago. We snacked by a smooth bowl of stagnant water that was about the size of a parking lot and figured that was the waterfall landing zone over the course of eons when the water came off the lip of the cliff above with an arcing trajectory. The whole granite coliseum was a testament to the battle between the geologic forces of uplift and erosion.
We had to search for some time to find rappel rings to drop us down into the slot. We were looking for something bolted into a rock face—and that would be easy to spot from a distance—but what we finally found was some flat nylon webbing threaded through two aluminum rings and tied together in a closed loop at the base of a boulder. We joined our own two 70m ropes using a simple overhand knot—commonly called the “European death knot”—and threw the ends over the precipice adjacent an otherwise impassable waterfall. We couldn’t see where the ropes landed due to the depth of the slot, and we couldn’t hope to yell to communicate due to the noise from the adjacent waterfall.
Ben went first with a Rocky Talkie, and planned to radio when he reached the bottom. If he found a safe landing and more rappel rings, we could presume we were on the right track and we would proceed. Like a cairn on a trail, the rings meant someone else had passed this way, and survived. If he found nothing, we were in the wrong place. He’d have to ascend the ropes, and we’d all have to admit this was a crazy fantasy.
But 150 feet down he found a small dry ledge with another set of rings—this time bolted into the rock face by someone who had come down there with a drill.
The plunge pool of Upper Yosemite Fall (left) is a stagnant pool in low-water conditions. (Ben Annibali photo) On the second rappel we descended into the waterfall, not beside it. Gravity took the ropes and the water to exactly the same place, and it became immediately clear why you couldn’t do this in higher flows. You had to tread water while trying to detach the ropes from your harness and your rappel device, and you had to swim with the end of the ropes to a place where you could pull one end and retrieve them. Luckily the waterproof backpacks provided some buoyancy. On that first of the wet rappels, I came down last, which meant it was my job to swim 40 yards while pulling one end of two 70m ropes through the rings far above.
The water was deep and cold, we were wearing helmets and hiking shoes, and my hands were busy trying to hang onto the ends of the ropes. If we lost our ropes, we’d lose our ticket out of there. Breanna—who came down before me—was a former lifeguard and had a four-year career as a collegiate swimmer, and at one point I must have looked desperate, because she kicked off her shoes and pack, and swam back to rescue her dad at the base of the falls where I was treading water and dealing with a snarl of rope ends that had twisted together in the churning water like the worst kinds of fishing knots sometimes do.
This first plunge pool was much larger than I imagined. The waterfall volume was quite low but the deep mysterious slot was filled with cold, clear water. I’ve caught trout in many lakes and unlikely beaver ponds that didn’t look this good. However, after all that swimming and commotion we couldn’t hope to find fish there.
Finding Trout In all of the deepest plunge pools where we had to swim, we didn’t see any trout. I imagine that when we splashed down into the water, the trout spooked under submerged ledges and into underwater caverns—whatever holes they used to survive the annual floods. But about halfway down the series of waterfalls, the watercourse was split by a cluster of boulders—some of them the size of cement trucks. In higher flows they would all be under the waterfall, but now the water spilled only over a channel on the right side of the boulders. We were able to do a dry rappel on the left side using the rocks as concealment, and were able to crawl past the left margin of the pool without disturbing it. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the red stripes and spots of rainbow trout as they created rippling circles at the surface. There were dozens of them. After we moved to the downstream end of the plunge pool, we dropped our bags at the brink of another waterfall and turned back toward the placid, undisturbed plunge pool that was positioned on a ledge between two of the cataracts of Yosemite Falls. We had confirmed the rumors. There were indeed trout. Now it was time to be the first to cast a fly here.
We brought two rods in tubes. One was only a backup because in close quarters like this, only one person could fish at a time. The trout were in perfectly clear, flat water and they were skittish. They surely felt vulnerable in the lowest flows of the year, where they were in plain view of ospreys and herons. I assumed there wouldn’t be much aquatic life given the bedrock strata of the waterfall, and guessed the fish ate mostly terrestrials blown in from the cliff walls. They were spooky because they were not used to human intrusion, but for the same reason they probably weren’t too choosy about fly patterns.
(Ben Annibali photos) I tied on a #16 Parachute Adams and limited myself to one trout. I just wanted to hold one of these unicorns. I then turned the rod over to the more enthusiastic fishermen among us—Carson and then Cody—while Breanna and Amy found a small window of sunshine on a suspended ledge to dry out and warm up. Carson and Cody both landed trout, and Ben as official trip photographer dutifully filmed it all.
The rainbows were spectacular, mature specimens ranging from 12 to 14 inches. I saw much larger fish in the pool, but as usual the smaller fish seemed a little quicker to the fly. I’d say they were native Oncorhynchus mykiss irideus, and I’m upset with myself for not collecting some genetic samples because I’m sure I’m not the only one who was and still will be curious about the origins of these waterfall trout. According to the National Park Service, coastal rainbows are native to the lower Merced River in Yosemite Valley, but all the trout in elevations higher than the Merced are likely descended from hatchery trout stocked in high-elevation lakes and streams sometime between 1877 and 1991. Their reasoning is that trout could never ascend any of the waterfalls that feed the Merced (Yosemite Falls is one of those).
According to this theory, stocked trout or their descendants fell more than 1,430 feet from the upper plateau and took up residence in these plunge pools. But after being in this place and swimming these waterfall pools, I theorize that these fish are like woolly mammoths frozen in ice—only these survivors of the Ice Age are still alive, and just about as isolated as a genetic stock can be. I like to believe they evolved right there after the ice receded and they’ve been isolated ever since. At one point the Middle Cascades were under the ice, and later just marginally above it. Whatever the case, it’s still fun to think about how trout got into the plunge pools of Middle Earth, with a 1,430-foot vertical fall above and a 320-foot vertical waterfall at the base. Both are impassable.
Hopefully those trout will always be there, protected in a fortress of vertical rock and falling water. The pool where we fished had cobbles and clean sand made from deteriorating granite in the tailout. This is where the rainbows could spawn. It had shelter, food, and cold oxygenated water. There were flying ants, some caddis, dragonflies, and many beetles and small hoppers. They could potentially eat their young of the year as well. In this one pool there was everything trout need to reproduce and thrive. In this terrain there could be no new trout moving in/out, no one had ever fished for them, and likely no one ever will.
After witnessing just a handful of these specimens, we put the rod back in the tube, stored the reel, and prepared for the next rappels. The sun had left the canyon, and the next swim became significantly more uncomfortable. Darkness was coming and soon we were all suffering from involuntary shaking—an early indicator of hypothermia. Our core temperatures were dropping.
There would be no more fishing today. Our hands became numb, it was cumbersome to thread the rope through the devices, and dangerously difficult to hold onto the rope during long wet rappels into plunge pools where we had to swim again and again. It was fruitless to even think of tying a fishing knot. The trout were already a cherished memory, and getting back to our tent site quickly became a survival priority. We knew this was one of the most dangerous undertakings we had ever committed to, and in all high-elevation or vertical sports, achieving your stated objective is only half the challenge. The other half is getting back down safely on your own power, which we did.
While we descended the wet, dark slot, we could see the valley floor below us was still bathed in warm evening sunshine. We hit the ground in fading light, and our bodies began to warm up on the hike back to the truck. Along the trail we got curious stares from dozens of tourists trying to see Lower Yosemite Fall in the evening light. We were soaked, carrying wet ropes and fishing rods, and they probably judged that we’d somehow got just a little too close to the waterfalls. They were right.
In closing, I have to advise readers of this magazine never to attempt the 4C III R canyoneering route known as Middle Earth. This story is not a recommendation at all, and if you don’t have adequate skills and experience, you would likely die or require a rescue. The National Park Service doesn’t want you up there. Yosemite Search and Rescue (YOSAR) doesn’t want you up there. And I think when you are hanging on a rope 210 feet above the first waterfall, you won’t want to be there either.
If you are an ardent fly fisher in Yosemite, you can catch 20-inch wild brown trout 40 yards from your parked vehicle. There’s no need to do this at all. It’s just a very curious story about the things some people are willing to do to catch a few small trout, and more importantly, a mysterious discovery of the wild and crazy places trout can survive and thrive—if we just let them.
Ross Purnell is the editor of Fly Fisherman.
