PART I: Yellowstone Journals

Finally, a bed. Kelly, Wyoming is a very welcoming place post hours of after-work driving, and a dizzying snow storm. After the glam of Jackson Hole, Kelly is quaint and lovely and without fanfare. The small cabin where we stayed was on main street, perhaps the only street in Kelly, and after the night we had sleeping in was required. The ideal, was an early morning in Teton National Park, which morphed into a: "we're on vacation", and a sluggish diesel start to the day. 

The old knuckles from the cottonwoods waved to us in the chilly morning breeze on our way into paradise as we drove towards the mountains. I was prepared that morning, to be confronted with the palpable beauty of the Tetons. My dad told me when I was little, “the Tetons are the most beautiful mountains you will probably ever see.” At this point I am still in agreement with him, despite a more worldly view of them now. As the road curved gracefully to the north we were ready for the deliverance, only to be thwarted by a very dense cloud cover unifying the skyline at the foothills of the famous peaks. 

That would be the only disappointment of the day.

With little effort we were given views of an antelope buck dashing across the road which I had never seen that close before. A coyote, ravens by the unkindness, and the Snake River also came to see us as we slowly made our way towards Yellowstone. Part of the goal of this trip was to visit the waters I have heard so much about while working in the shop. The giants that lurked north of the border of Utah were curious to me, and I hoped to see them with my own eyes. The big waters have been legendary since my digital Oregon Trail computer game days of my youth: “Caulk the wagon and float across.” A stark contrast to the creeks I fish normally.

Along the bank of the Snake River a small trail flanked the shore and we wandered downstream following the currents, and skipping rocks from time to time. It wasn’t terribly fishy and with little bug activity we decided to press on towards Yellowstone. But not before looking hard to the horizon following the serpentine of the river, wondering about the journey that would take the passing currents to the Pacific Ocean one day. The watershed of this area is enormous, spanning Canada to Idaho, Wyoming to Washington. It is difficult to even comprehend the vastness and the intricacies of these rivers, and the life systems they support. From steelheads to wolves, these rivers provide deeply for the  creatures that inhabit this  area.                    

Yellowstone is somewhere I had been as a kid, and young adult. I have walked to the lip of Yellowstone Falls and looked down into the abyss below with terror, wandered the boardwalks in the geyser basin, and longed to keep the color blue that lives in the scalding water of the hot springs. The bubbling mud has delighted me, and the Grizzlies have scared me. But never had I looked at Yellowstone Park with the awe and appreciation I did recently. I am not sure what has changed for me. Perhaps being more interested in water and fishing? Perhaps getting older and more in-tune with awe and appreciation?

It is difficult to pinpoint- exactly what causes a heart to gallop so fiercely, when before it hardly stirred. But with the bison wandering through the meadows, and the snow falling from the pines, the steam from the out-breath of the earth was truly something.

Towards the end of the day, after exploring Old Faithful, and every other turn-off for geysers en-route to the West Entrance, we arrived on the banks of the Firehole River. The blizzard had arrived full bore, my timing was a little off, which hardly mattered, I was going to fish in Yellowstone. 

After pulling up and turning the truck off, and stepping outside I wasn’t met with the quiet I was seeking. Instead I received skepticism and dismissal from a “hard core” group of fisherman, who HAD hit the baetis hatch and were proudly striding off towards their giant four-wheel drive and the Madison. I felt a sinking feeling for the river who would have to experience the same regard as I had by these men. I wanted to tell them about the joy I was feeling, and how proud of me I was for being brave and tough and willing to pull on my waders, lace up my boots, string up my rod, pull on my gloves, and try. But, they were busy with the bragging in ear shot, critiquing my timing, and I usually just go quiet in the face of such weirdness. 

With my rod and very little visibility I followed a trail down to the banks of the river, and slid in. The geysers were easy to spot in all directions, the fish were not. I swung soft hackle, not knowing what else to do in the snow, I had never fished like that before, and I was in such a state of happiness that all but the river faded from my mind.

I casted across the current and mended, feeling the pull of the line, watching the swing. I love fishing this way. It is peaceful, and subtle. The color of the moss on the bottom of the river, the arc of the currents, the snow, the knowing that there are bison somewhere, wolf somewhere, trout somewhere, all of it struck me as a waded out, fishing

I have never been quite so happy.      

After a dozen or so casts and mends, I started hearing a strange sound within my set-up, zip-zip-zip. My guides had iced up, not something I had ever experienced before. Intricate crystals balanced together inside the loop of the guides. It was beautiful, and quite cold. I had decided to fish across the river aiming for the far bank, letting my swing tempt a lurking under-cut dwelling trout. No luck. Which didn’t matter in the slightest. With the thermals keeping the water temperature warm, I was able to fish with feeling in my hands for longer than I would normally have. The late afternoon was magical, and multidimensional.  

With continuous ice in the guides and shivers climbing into my limbs after a few hours it was time to go. With it getting late, and a cabin in the woods still to find it was perhaps later then it ought to be for the adventure still ahead. I walked back up the car, the snow still falling. The roads would certainly be closed tomorrow, I remember thinking. I shook the snow from by wool sweater and brushed it off my hat. I had completed a dream, to fish the Firehole in Yellowstone National Park.

What a perfect day, regardless of my timing.

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