Fishing Yellowstone

 

Yellowstone! Fly fishing in the park with a group from Atlanta; I couldn’t wait. The drive from Bozeman was a Disneyworld, a fantasyland of blue sky, green mountains, and the brilliantly clear Gallatin River. We stayed in the little village of West Yellowstone, almost quaint at the time. Only the major road from Bozeman, running through town to the park entrance, was paved. Our motel was nothing to write about, but who cared?  Actually I did.  The two guys I was with snored, so that first night I asked to be moved.  I was given a room next door to myself, separated by an open alleyway. I could still hear them snore.

I thought I knew something about fly fishing. All the stories around fly shops in town about fishing the park left the impression you had only to hold your net out, and the fish would jump in. What a humbling experience. On Hebgen Lake my float tube, low on air, got me stuck in the mud. The Gallatin and Yellowstone Rivers produced nothing. Not even slam-dunk Cutthroats, the easiest trout to catch. On Henry’s Fork I could look down and see monster fish, which paid no attention to my fly.

One guy in another Atlanta group saw my plight and moved over to subtly instruct me on some of the basics, and eventually I caught a few fish. Together we worked the second level of Slough Creek where we needed the finest tapered leaders we had to avoid spooking the fish. On to a bend in Soda Butte Creek which we had to ourselves, we floated irresistible grasshopper patterns over native cutthroats. We became friends and fished back in Atlanta.

It was at least 3 years of annual trips before I finally learned to fish those western rivers.  My epiphany came one frustrating day on the Madison in a braided, tumbling stretch of water several miles downstream from the park. I had been blanked, and as I worked my way out of the river I tossed the fly in front of me to keep it from dragging. It settled in a shallow riffle just in front of the bank. Instantly, from an undercut, a 16 inch rainbow flashed and took the fly.  What had I been doing in the swift current of the river? The fish weren’t there wearing themselves out, I was.

The rivers were each different, and I had to learn them on my own, all the more satisfying when I could read them successfully. Tumbling runs of the Madison River outside the park gave way to quiet, slow water in the caldera of the park. One September morning I pulled up a fish in a lovely meandering section in a meadow, the translucent water a garden of aquatic plants. As I brought the fish in I heard the bugle of a bull elk behind me. He was a regal sight, standing with uplifted head, balancing his enormous rack of antlers. Then another stood to answer on the other side of the river. Visitors lined the road to watch as the two big bulls challenged one another with dueling calls. Humans don’t belong in that scene; I returned my catch to the water and quickly left.

On my last trip, my partner and I had pulled into the parking area of Slough Creek. As we walked over a slight rise to the well-worn trail I looked down to see a number of fisherman headed to the creek, and more coming back out. The only thing missing was a turnstile. I knew then I was almost to the end of Yellowstone fishing.

It is important for the uninitiated to understand that fly fishing for trout is an ancient sport and has always retained an air of elitism about it. Change is fiercely resisted by its disciples. And it is not always about the number of fish caught, not even close. It is as much about an unblemished wilderness, the scent of clean forested air, and how clear running water, and the solitude of the moment are important components of the experience. To feel like you have to take a ticket to get on Slough Creek, to see a newbie fashionista in a fuchsia fly vest on the Madison, to float the Green River in Utah, only to encounter a mile of fishermen standing a rod’s length from each other, and to witness the blatant monetization of the sport, well that sucks.

I once knew a secret about Yellowstone’s waters that tourists did not, and a privileged length of a North Carolina mountain river where John and I fished for nearly 30 years. I keep them close even now. There are gems that many dedicated fishermen have worked years to find and keep to themselves. Ladies and gentlemen, hold your secrets tight, it will not get better.

Grebe Lake in Yellowstone, A Cautionary Tale

There was a time when I was all about fly fishing, particularly in Yellowstone National Park. In the late 1980s you could book a room in West Yellowstone on short notice, and drive into the park with no delay at the entrance.  I was hooked after my first visit and soon found that I preferred to go alone rather than compromise my stay with others. But that led to a chilling experience.

In much of the park you can walk 100 yards from a parking lot and feel that you are in an unexplored wilderness.  Not many visitors were in the park in September in those days, and it was worth paying attention to your surroundings. In Grebe Lake, 3 miles in from the trailhead, Arctic Grayling had once been stocked, one of only a few places they were found in the lower 48 states. On the easy hike to the lake I counted numbers out loud to keep from surprising a grizzly bear. (Highly recommended.) One thousand is a lot of numbers to repeat, but it was a layer of security.

Grebe Lake was one of the few places I have had the pleasure to experience absolute quiet. A Raven did not just call, the sound pierced the air, clean and clear and it lingered. The lap of water at the edge of the lake was distinct, I didn’t have to try to hear it.

My goal for this trip was to reach the outlet to the Gibbon River, about ¾ of a mile around the lake. No sooner had I started to walk than I was shaken by the sudden movement of something very large to my left.  My first thought was grizzly, but an immense bull moose had been lying unseen, not 50 feet away. This enormous, humped creature rose, staring at me with eyes too small for its large equine head, supporting wide plates of massive antlers. I was frozen in fear. There would have been nowhere to go if 2,000 lbs. of muscle and bone had perceived me as a threat. I have always felt in that still world I could audibly hear my thumping heart from that near encounter.

The rest of the way around the lake was without incident, but my goal proved to be an impenetrable soggy marsh, and my fright had extinguished my interest in fishing for that day. I turned to retrace my steps. But on the other side of the lake, knee deep in the water near the trail, were now two bull moose, vying over the rights to a cow standing between them. It was September, the rutting season, and I was trapped, uncomfortably alone and vulnerable to these huge, excited animals. All I could do was watch this fascinating display of aggression by these bulls until, as quickly as it started, it was all over, and each went its own way. Timidly, and with a fluttering gut, I made it to the trail, so rattled I forgot to signal my presence to any bear as I hurried back to the parking area. It seemed to take forever to feel safe once again. Grizzlies, rutting moose, Yellowstone is not my backyard. The experience taught me a new lesson of respect for our place on this planet of dwindling wild lands.

Later that week I was standing in the Firehole River fishing a nice riffle when I noticed a migrant thrush on a riparian shrub. I couldn’t pick out the species at that distance, so I returned to the riverbank, laid down my rod, and picked up my binoculars - for the rest of the trip. 

Being 17

 

When I was 17, and had graduated high school, I had a girlfriend named Yancey.  She lived in an apartment with her mother, a nurse, who worked the day shift, so Yancey was home alone for the summer. I visited every day for most of the month of June, and I behaved. I am not sure Yancey wanted me to, but I did anyway, even though I didn’t want to either because she had big boobs. And when you’re 17 that is a big deal.

My parents were distraught over these visits, and one day a friend of my brother inadvertently dropped a rubber from his pocket on the floor at our home. Naturally I was blamed in spite of my vigorous protestations of innocence. Dick actually set the record straight and I was absolved of the crime. Nevertheless the wheels were in motion, and I was to be packed off at Mother’s expense to live with my uncle in her childhood home of Newport, Vermont for the rest of that summer of 1960. I was driven one morning to Columbia, South Carolina to catch the train north. We said our goodbyes and I climbed aboard. The interior of the rail car was dark, and I could see only eyes, all staring at me standing in mortified confusion. Shortly, the porter, seeing my problem, pointed me to the ‘whites only’ car and the train left the station.

I was given a down pillow to sleep on that night, but there was a hole in it, and feathers got everywhere. Sleep for this teenager, on his own for the first time, was out of the question.  When we finally pulled into Grand Central Station, I gathered my bag and found a sign that said ‘Information’.  I approached the clerk behind a window, busy reading a newspaper, and asked on which track the next train for Stamford, Connecticut would be found. He pointed to a train schedule on the wall behind him and went back to his newspaper.

In Stamford Uncle Wesley picked me up in his 1954 Ford Woody Wagon and delivered me to his home in time for dinner with my aunt and him, after which I promptly fell asleep. In the morning I was taken to yet another train. This one was a Budd car, a connection of three or four diesel self-propelled cars.  We rhythmically clacked and swayed our way north through rural and green New England until we reached the last stop on the line, Newport, where Robert and his wife Betty were waiting.

That was undoubtedly the best summer of my youth.  I was quickly guided to a warehouse job at Robert’s employer, Canadian Pacific Railway, for $2.17 an hour (union wages) unloading freight cars. No sooner was I there than I was taken under the wing of Armand Bergeron.  Armand was not one for civil discourse, often given to coarse expressions like  ‘shit on a goddam’ and colorful ones such as ‘balls on a heifer’. Pretty good for a native French speaker. I quickly forgot about Yancey and fell in love with a Canadian girl who was going into her junior year at McGill University in Montreal. We went swimming in the lake at night with Robert and Betty, and I took her to summer stock theater more than once.

In early August Robert, Betty and their two boys went on vacation camping in parks around the state. I moved over to my grandmother’s house for that week. My grandfather was not well at the time, and one night I woke to hear a thud in his room.  I looked in to find him under an open window.  He had gotten up to use his bed pan, dressed only in a nightshirt, and in his weakened state he had fallen. I called to my grandmother, and together we lifted him into bed. At 5:00 A.M. the doctor came and told us he needed to be in the hospital, a place he had never been in his life. I went to Robert’s home to get his bathrobe, but before I left my grandmother looked in on him, and he called to her: “Alma, I’m okay”.

Robert’s home was less than a mile, but I walked quickly and was back within 20 minutes. She was clearly upset, wringing her hands, and asked me to check on him. Upstairs, with trepidation, I went in and spoke to him; there was no answer. I lifted his arm, it was rigid, and his skin was cold. I had never seen a dead person before, and now I was staring at my own grandfather. He was 78.

In his retirement, during summer, John Wesley Wyman liked to putter in his ‘victory garden’, sit on his screened porch, smoke his Lucky Strikes, and listen to baseball. That day, Thursday, August 4, 1960, his bottom-of-the-standings Boston Red Sox won a double-header, but he missed it.

Yancey quickly recovered from the loss of my attention and eventually married Jack Jackson, from Jackson, .... Yes, really.  

Why I like E.B. White

He was an essayist in the earliest days of The New Yorker, but probably best known for his children’s books, notably Charlotte’s Web. He also published extensively in Harper’s and The Atlantic.  Andy, as he was known to his friends had no love for his first name, Elwin, which is why he is formally E. B. His nick name, bestowed upon him by his fraternity brothers at Cornell, channeled the president of Cornell at the time, Andrew White. You probably came across, or will, in college, the little volume of English instruction, The Elements of Style, by Strunk and White.  Strunk is the professor, White is E.B.

I am fond of telling people E.B. was my neighbor.  That’s really a stretch. He did own an apartment in Turtle Bay across 2^nd Avenue at 48^th Street from mine, but he had long since sold it, and passed shortly after I got there in 1984. One of his books, The Second Tree from the Corner, while academics have parsed deeper meaning from the title, is a reference to a tree in the courtyard of his apartment building. A leaf falls; a quiet, exact and natural event.

I think the thing that draws me into his world most is his farm on the coast of Maine. Here, with his wife Katherine and their son Joel, he found inspiration for many of his letters and essays. But it is as much the cast of characters around them; his dogs, farm animals, the mailman known to all by his first name, the little library, the foibles of a New Yorker adapting to rural farm life, and the empty boathouse where he escaped to write. No kids, no phones, no interruptions, no heat.

His body of work is comfortable, easy to read, and humorous, at times laugh out loud funny, like “Death of a Pig” for one. If you have read Faulkner or Joyce, both of whom can seem Sisyphean in difficulty, White is like coasting downhill. He uses plain English, well placed, and would never use a word like Sisyphean.  That is his gift; plain English, with each word perfectly placed, each sentence a puzzle he has solved.  Of course, like any author with a large body of work, some are are going to fall flat, and some will feel dated. Katherine, herself an editor of children’s books, would often get on him for neglecting deadlines in order to answer letters from readers, a vice in her eyes, contentment in his.

While living through WWII on his salt farm at Allen Cove (he had no interest in reporting from Europe), he fashioned himself a ‘foreign correspondent’ – reporting to New York readers from the coast of Maine. Even while suffering guilt at not being more involved with the war effort, he was deluged with grateful mail from troops overseas, anxious to read about life at home. He did play a role early on as part of a team that came up with Roosevelt’s “Four Freedoms”, which were introduced in his State of the Union address in 1941, preparing America for the inevitability of entering the war.

As I read over some of his work once more, I realize how presumptuous of me it is to write an essay about this master essayist, so if you will follow this link I will let his words speak for themselves.

https://gwarlingo.com/2012/writer-e-b-white/ (Read the PDF version.) 

Corporate Greed - A Primer

         In a New York second, after Trump was convicted on 34 felony counts in a New York courtroom, CNN and MSNBC producers were hard at work on new content speculating on his appeal, and would it be upheld, blah, blah, blah. The legions of TV lawyers arrayed across a set are as clueless as they were about predicting the trial itself. The true value of all this is, of course, useless, but that isn’t the point, viewership is, and satisfying corporate advertisers.  It matters not a whit how disgusted you and I are, or how intellectually insulted we might be about wall-to-wall cable coverage of Trump, it draws viewers, and advertisers must reach an audience. Forget morality, social welfare, news we need to know, it is all about earning a buck and satisfying the expectations of ownership. Such is the world of a market economy, and corporate greed in the sphere of public companies.. 

The term ‘free market’ is easily tossed around, but that is a misnomer because economies exist within a regulatory framework. And that framework permits corporate greed in spades. Of necessity. Meanwhile well-meaning individuals, and like-minded groups push back, usually to little avail.  Here’s why: There are two fundamental categories of business, private and public. Private business organizations are owned by one or more individuals and those principals make the decisions. If they don’t want the moon, they don’t have to try.

Successful ones, which wish to grow and prosper, get new financial capital for that growth organically (earned income), by borrowing from a lender, or by bringing in new partners. Good companies with great ideas often outgrow those sources to continue growth and make the decision to go ‘public’. After meeting stringent requirements and accounting methods, these businesses hire investment bankers to take them public. That is essentially raising new capital by issuing shares of ownership to new investors, and importantly creating a board of directors if one does not exist. This major change in strategy results in shifting the focus on future performance to the demands of these many new owners, which must be met - or else.

         Do you have an IRA, 401k, 403B or other retirement account, or a mutual fund, or own shares (or stock) in the company you work for?  If so, you damn well want the value of those shares to grow, don’t you? If one company doesn’t meet your demands, you can shift your money to another manager or other investments, thereby punishing the laggard by selling your shares on a stock exchange and maybe pushing the value of the underperforming shares even lower. Enough investors doing that, and the management team can get the axe – even original owners. That is the way public companies work. The bottom line for public companies then is maximizing shareholder value. Investors put there own money at risk, and rightly expect an opportunity at a return.

         Wall Street is the seat of the financial services industry in the U.S. and serves the vital function of providing buyers and sellers investment capital. It is often the punching bag for activists when there is a movement to push back against greed. I can assure you that social good is not an element of business plans. And when it comes to corporate largess for social good, it most often comes from a corporate foundation, not the operating funds of the entity.

Corporations must often exist in a highly competitive, ever changing market economy and need to do all that is legal to make every last dime to satisfy owners – of which you may be one. Otherwise an element of your future such as buying a home, educating your kids, or retiring, could be in jeopardy.

         My take on corporate America is ignore the stupid ads we are bombarded with, consider the new jobs that are created with economic growth we experience in the U.S. - unparalleled anywhere on Earth, the generation of individual wealth - which often funds our schools, colleges, pioneering health care research, and human dignity initiatives.  But, always demand corporations toe the line on their climate impact. With no excuses for the corrupt and narcissistic Trumps of the world, forget about the underbelly – greed.  The corporate glass is half full, not half empty. 

Killing Barred Owls

The U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service has proposed killing 470,000 Barred Owls over 30 years in three Pacific states in order to protect the Spotted Owl. Killing birds on purpose is a tough call. We have grown up in recent generations in which we protected birds. There are sanctuaries and laws, less hunting overall, and hopefully many fewer rogues caught up in illegal meat hunting, in superstition and rumor. I read over the blog ‘Conservation Sense and Nonsense’, a January 2024 treatise defending the Barred Owl’s invasion of the Pacific Northwest. I have to say I disagree with the premise that territorial expansion is Barred Owls is normal, ergo the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service should not be killing Barred Owls. I think they should be killing the invader, and quickly.

Barred Owl range expansion

I do agree that territorial expansion is a natural state. Successive generations of members of the animal kingdom will expand their range into suitable habitat as a method of perpetuating the species. And that is fine as long as each species occupies its own niche.  But what happens when two closely related species use the same habitat, the weaker of the two is a threatened species, and the more aggressive of the two has no natural predator to keep its population in check?

 Spotted Owls are not the only species at risk. There appears to be little research, and therefore it is almost unknown to the public, of the impact the owls are having on a cast of small owls: Eastern Screech Owl, Western Screech Owl, and perhaps Northern Saw-whet Owl. All of these owls can be found in habitat that is suitable to Barred. (Note that Barred Owls are not found in arid or scrub regions of the country, so those populations of small owls are safe.)

Each ring indicates a Barred Owl
territory  with a 1 km diameter

I can attest to the decline of the eastern species through my own work over five years surveying Eastern Screech-Owl populations in my home county. That was complimented by a master’s candidate working on her thesis at the University of Georgia, along the Chattahoochee River National Recreation Area of Fulton and Cobb Counties. Barred Owls are the only ones now to be found in otherwise compatible habitat for the screech-owl. They still exist here in Chatham County, but only in habitat such as second-growth pine forests, where Barred Owls are not found. They are even absent from the uninhabited barrier islands. Transient screech-owls in winter are occasionally caught by trail cameras, but they otherwise visit undetected since they don’t vocalize, and in my experience, don’t respond to playback.

I am not alone in trying to draw attention to this issue.  A correspondent of mine on Bainbridge Island just off Seattle has documented the precipitous decline of the Western Screech-Owls since 1990 – when the Barred Owl arrived. His paper can be found at:

 https://www.researchgate.net/publication/259928248_Recent_Trends_in_Western_Screech-Owl_and_Barred_Owl_Abundances_on_Bainbridge_Island_Washington

As of 2021, according to my personal correspondence with the author, it was rare to find this once relatively abundant little owl anywhere in King County during the annual Christmas Count.

Since populations of the little owls may appear otherwise stable no one is spending time or effort to study these pockets of decline - yet. There is also a lame argument that eventually screech-owls will find ways to adapt.  When? I do have some reports of both screech and Barred Owls being found on the same territory, but that point-in-time is not very telling. It isn’t indicating which way the populations are trending. Even though this problem has evolved from a natural North American species, as opposed to an introduced invasive species like the Burmese Python, with no natural predators, one must arise.  That higher order predator, for better or for worse, must be man. 

Eastern Screech-Owl Nestling - 2008

Note: May 26

I heard back from the writer of the referenced blog post. A little snarky, suggesting the invasion of Barred Owl on the west coast was really natural selection. Of course USFWS doesn't see it that way at this point in time.  The writer also suggested that the years of experience those of had witnessing the decline of screech-owls was 'speculative'. So I found what I could about this individual, looking for credentials. I found nothing. Simply an ardent preachy conservationist. 

Everyone Needs a Pewee

I have this fear of losing interest in my cherished pastimes and then having nothing I want to do; a sure sign that depression could take hold of an aging brain. My go-to activity for 45 years has been birding, but this spring has been the worst neotropical migration I can remember. I can count the number of transient migrant species I have seen on one hand. In short, migration has been a bummer.

An important component of birding for me has been immersing myself in the peace of a morning. I get up just before the sun, pour coffee and drive up to a one mile stretch of road, which at that hour is free. Free of the invasion of lawn blowers, motorboats, traffic, and other forms of noise pollution. After turning off the A/C fan in the car, I lower the windows and just listen. By stepping on the brake and engaging idle-stop there is only the woods and me. I now clearly hear the dawn chorus, the songs of the mix, and newly arrived birds. As a recordist I thirst for that now threatened free environment.

I may still be the only one in my state who regularly records bird song, and over the years I have accumulated all the right gear. When I traveled I used a lesson I learned from photography, standing on Glacier Point in Yosemite National Park, trying to get a decent shot of Half Dome. First visit, take in the whole scene. Go back again and work on your shot or your recordings, but only after you have soaked up the visual or auditory experience, and know where you want to go and when to be there.

Birds don’t sing to attract a mate during fall movement, so spring is the recordists’ moment. And there is one in particular that I need to hear; the simple up, then down-slurred song of a nondescript gray flycatcher, the Eastern Wood-Pewee. I don’t know why this bird, of all the others, is my tonic.  Bald Eagles, for all their majesty, have a rather wimpy call. Tiny, iridescent hummingbirds simply squeak. Thrushes, masters of beautiful song from deep in the green woods, are contenders to be sure, but when Pewees return, all is well. For me they are a jolt of adrenalin, a renewed spirit that gets me back in touch with a pastime I have had for almost half a century. I get my microphone and recorder ready to capture that sound, how many times now I do not remember. It doesn’t matter.