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.