A New Yellowstone Season Begins

I have begun another season out in Yellowstone National Park. This year, I will be out here five months, late May to mid October. I arrived in the Park last week, and will camp/fish for almost a month before my summer job begins at the front desk of one of the Park’s lodges.


Firehole River, in the Park

Heidi won’t be joining me this season, once was enough for her. But, she’s flying out for two weeks in early July when we will celebrate our 40^th anniversary with a trip to Glacier National Park.

This is the earliest I’ve been in Yellowstone National Park. I planned it that way. The month of June is good weather, good fishing, and light crowds of visitors inside the Park. Wildlife is more active than in the heat of July/August, the long daylight of June provides ample time to enjoy being outside. The landscapes are beautiful; lush green everywhere, the wildflowers have begun to bloom, and snow left in the higher elevations of distant mountains makes for dramatic panoramas.

Bison a common sight at close range

Speaking of that snow, it is springtime snowmelt that can turn the rivers to chalk or mud in the Rockies. That has ruined many a fishing trip for anglers who come out this time of year. But, Yellowstone National Park's westside rivers, the Firehole and Madison, clear early. That was the case this year, even with a very heavy snowfall last winter. Though the Yellowstone River was running at flood stage and chocolate brown as I passed it in Billings on the way here 150 miles downstream, the Firehole and Madison were clear and fishable the day I arrived. That’s not to say that early June fishing in the Park is without challenges, as I will describe in future postings.

Until my seasonal job and dorm life start next month, I come into the town of West Yellowstone for internet service, an hour’s round trip. I will do so every few days, and hope to get a regular series of postings going soon. And for now, I'm using general delivery at the West Yellowstone post office (Daniel Keifer; General Delivery; West Yellowstone MT 59758). Mail, boxes of cookies, or trout flies you anglers would like field-tested will all be accepted.

 

Fishing along the Firehole River

My email address (dckeifer@comcast.net). If there’s anything in particular you’d like me to write about or have a question about visiting/fishing Yellowstone, let me know.

Western Maryland Trout Fishing; June 11-13, 2013

(Few visuals for this posting. My waterlogged camera did not recover from its dunking last month.  I’ve added a few photos off the internet.)

I spent two days in the Appalachian Mountains of western Maryland fishing the Savage River and the North Branch of the Potomac River. These lie along the border with West Virginia about a three hours’ drive from DC. The nearest cities are Cumberland and Frostburg MD along I-68. The East Coast is known for its heavily populated places, but this is not one of them. The trip at times had that end-of-the-earth feeling.

Mountainous terrain, Garrett County, Maryland

Weather and river levels did not cooperate on this trip. Soggy weather taxed my rain and camping gear. Severe weather including a tornado warning made for one rather sleepless night of camping. The river water levels were below their seasonal averages, which I suspect made the fish less active. Nevertheless, it was a fruitful trip discovering new trout streams and exploring a remote area. Both rivers are true tailwaters, born by the cold releases from impoundments with water temperatures in the 50s.

Savage River in Western Maryland

 

The Savage River is the main attraction. Though relatively small and short in length as tailwaters go, it is managed with special regulations and receives justified attention as a trout stream. Its physical characteristics are unusual for a tailwater. This river is steep gradient, boulder-strewn, nearly continuous pocket water its entire five-mile length from the impoundment’s outlet to its confluence with the North Branch Potomac.

 

Its narrow, heavily vegetated channel (mountain laurel makes tag alders seem kind of wispy) forces you to be very conscious of your backcast. The presence of didymo makes wading on slippery rocks tricky. But, the river’s reward is the fun of exploring and fishing an endless channel of pocket water. Even in low water level conditions, the amount of fish-holding habitat is impressive for a relatively small stream.

After the drive and setting up camp, I got to fish the first evening. Seeing a few rising fish in glide water pools and runs bolstered optimism to fish a dry fly, even though there were few bugs in the air. A blue wing olive fooled a pair of small brown trout; then nothing else. I switched to a brown comparadun in an attempt to imitate the larger mayfly that occasionally fluttered by.

Moving upstream, I came upon a huge, deep pool. Like most good trout lies, the best-looking soft water was on the far side and defended by a fast tongue of current midstream. This was challenging casting, guarding the backcast while beating the current seams. My best cast had less than two seconds of drag-free drift before the fast current jerked it away. On about the fourth of these, the fly was taken by a very nice trout. Netted after a spirited fight in the fast current, it was all of 14 inches. Fast-fading light and a ten mile drive back to camp ended the evening.

The next morning was clear and dry. Midweek fishing is great for reduced angler traffic, so I had my choice of locations along the river. Picking my way slowly upstream with wading staff, I learned to decipher how to read the river’s pocket water. From the road, the river looks fast, a continuous rush of shallow water. Closer inspection reveals pockets of slow water with surprising depth in between the cascades. Even in low water, this river provides plenty of cover for good fish.

I tried several dry flies to no avail. I reversed direction and began to swing soft hackles downstream in a general searching mode. Inspecting midstream rocks for insect activity, a bright green caddis that was pupating and nearing emergence triggered my curiosity. I switched to a similar-colored soft hackle I had tied for last month’s trip to the Delaware. The result was another nice brown trout, 14-15” long. But, other than another couple of dinks, that was it on down to my starting point.

I took the rest of the day to fish the North Branch of the Potomac. Finding it was the first step, no easy task. It took quite an effort in the mountainous, switchback terrain and with very poor signage. As the crow flies, it’s a distance of less than 4 miles; driving if for the first time took forty-five minutes.

North Branch Potomac River, Barnum WV

The North Branch of the Potomac, a tailwater below Jennings Randolph Lake, is very different from the Savage. It is bigger, a much more open channel with longer runs and less boulder-strewn. Once you find the as-advertised access point at the Barnum Whitewater Area, there is plenty of access from more than a mile of public land.

Where to start fishing was a total guessing game. It was mid-afternoon; bright and hot; no bugs in the air nor rises; no other anglers to go to school on. I tried swinging a wooly bugger for a while without success. The glint off the sides of a few fish working along the bottom of a deep run caught my eye, so I switched to nymphing below an indicator to get the fly down deep. I managed two rainbow trout this way, 12-13” with the fight of hatchery fish.

 

Calling it a success just to find the damn place and wet a line, I headed back to the Savage River for the evening. I chose a different access point this time. It was a poor choice with little good holding water, mostly shallow cascades. The evening yielded nothing.

Poor weather hampered the rest of the trip, including a restless, soggy night in the tent. It rained hard off and on through noon the next day, accompanied at times by thunder that forced me out of the river. I managed one decent sized rainbow trout. At least, it put up a good, tail-walking fight, unlike its hatchery brethren on the North Branch of the Potomac.

Leaving the rivers to drive home, I chose a route to follow the Potomac on its way northeast toward Cumberland back to the interstate. The small river towns of Luke and Westernport MD are classic Appalachia; tight, cramped, forlorn. A huge paper mill dominates the landscape (see www.newpagecorp.com). Logging trucks hauling to the mill and the Kingsford charcoal plant are constant. Tourism is completely absent; no wayfinding, fly shops or B&Bs here. The river’s presence is marginalized; no access points are heralded. I did see a number of river fishing boats trailering by, rafts not driftboats to navigate these boulder rivers. There must be a few access points to use them on the North Branch; the Savage is too small for them.

A small fly shop sits on the Savage River, Savage River Angler. It must be one of the smallest Orvis-endorsed shops around, but it has a pretty informative website: www.savageriverangler.com

This won’t go down on my list of best trout fishing trips. If I had my druthers, I’ll go back to the Delaware and Beaverkill Rivers first. They aren’t that much further away from DC. But, I haven’t chalked the Savage/North Branch Potomac off entirely. I suspect they might fish better earlier in the season, and with more water.

White River Trout Fishing; April 27-28, 2013

I flew to Arkansas for a long weekend to fish the White River at Bull Shoals with our daughter, Jenn. She lives in Fayetteville in the northwest corner of the state, home to University of Arkansas, Walmart, Tyson’s Chicken. It’s a two hour drive east through beautiful Ozarks country to get to the White River at Bull Shoals Dam, about mid-state and close to the border with Missouri.



Bull Shoals Dam; the lake above, the river below

This was our third fishing trip to the White River. Our first trip was in a February, and we froze our butts off. The other trip was in March, better weather but still pre-spring in the Ozarks. This time, spring was in full bloom. It is gorgeous country; rolling hills, high ridge vistas, cattle/horse grazing.

White River trout fishing happens in the tailwater below Bull Shoals Dam, a huge, towering structure (250 feet high, 2,200 feet across, the 5^th largest dam in the world at the time is was built in 1951). It is operated by the Army Corps of Engineers with everything in mind except fisheries management. Though the trout fishing is big commerce there, it doesn’t hold a candle to the mission of flood control and power generation. The water releases go up and down like a yoyo, and this instability adds a real complexity to the fishing. Fluctuating flows move fish around to find cover and to feed.

This is a textbook tailwater fishery. The ice cold, gin clear water provides trout habitat for nearly thirty miles downstream to the junction with the Norfolk River,  where another tailwater release boosts things again. Prolific aquatic insect populations including midges and sowbugs mean fast growth rates for the fish. It is supported by a robust stocking program of rainbows and browns.



Trout docks on the White River will rent you a johnboat w/ outboard

But, the fishing regulations for such a tailwater are anything but textbook. While there is a catch-and-release stretch of the river just below the dam, harvesting fish is the norm. There is a lot of bait fishing, and there are many so-called trout docks along the river where you can rent an outboard-powered johnboat to go anchor midstream and catch your limit.

Nevertheless, the flyfishing niche is firmly established on the river. The catch-and-release section is very popular. We fish each time with Ron Yarborough, a long-time fly guide on the river. Depending on the water releases, you are either wade fishing or drift fishing from Ron’s johnboat. Though there can be good dry fly and streamer fishing, all three of our trips have been fishing nymphs with indicator rigs.

Jenn and I always have a good time fishing with Ron Yarborough

Our day with Ron on this trip was wet, cool weather. Normally, that makes for good fishing; however, the water releases were constantly fluctuating throughout the day. We had to move around a lot to locate the fish.

Despite the difficult water conditions, we had good action throughout the day catching about two dozen rainbows; chunky, well-fed fish in the 12-13” range. The big brown trout that the White River is known for eluded us this time.

On Sunday, we did some sightseeing along the river and at Bull Shoals Dam. An excellent visitors center there tells the story of Bull Shoals. It was a big-time tourist destination for river float trips and smallmouth bass fishing through the 20^th century before the dam was built in the late 1940s. 



Saturday was a wet day on the river

Sunday afternoon, we tried our hand at wade fishing on our own right at the dam. It is a daunting sensation wading knee-deep just a hundred yards below a massive dam that holds back 3 million acre-feet of water. The water is a bone-chilling 48 degrees as it leaves the power penstocks. A broad shoal extending well out into the river channel allows for decent wading here.

I didn’t have the locally-tied sowbug nymph that was the go-to fly the previous day. But I did have a beadhead black midge that I had tied, patterned from previous trips to the river. Using small stick-on strike indicators and 6x tippet for stealth in the shallow, clear water, we landed several nice rainbows on our own and missed a few other strikes.



Typical White River rainbow

If you’d like more information about the White River, here are a few websites:

Ron Yarborough, fly fishing guide:  www.whiteriverflyguide.com

Fulton’s Lodge, our lodging: www.mtnhome.net/fultons/

Army Corps of Engineers, Little Rock District:  www.swl-wc.usace.army.mil/index

Catskills Trout Fishing; May 17-23, 2013

I spent a week exploring some of the storied trout waters in the Catskill Mountains along the border between Pennsylvania and New York northeast of Scranton. This is where Theodore Gordon gave birth to so much of modern American fly fishing in the early 20th century. 

Roscoe NY is the center of all this, where the Willowemoc joins the Beaverkill. Half a century later, two reservoirs were built for New York City’s water supply, creating tailwater trout streams on the East and West Branches of the Delaware River. Hancock NY is where these rivers join to form the Main Branch Delaware River. The two towns are about 25 miles apart.

Typical pool on the West Branch of the Upper Delaware River

Calling these waters trout streams is a misnomer. These are big rivers. The Beaverkill is 75-100 feet across in places; the branches of the Delaware approach 200 feet across in places. The river characteristics are unlike those of the streams in Michigan and Montana I am familiar with. Lots of gradient. All cobble and boulders. Long shallow riffles followed by equally long deep pools. A typical riffle/pool sequence can stretch for half a mile or more. 

The Beaverkill is great wade water with excellent public access for more than fifteen miles before it joins the East Branch Delaware.  The two branches of the Upper Delaware have good wade water too, but public access is more limited and the long distance between the pools favors drift and pontoon boats. 

This region is surprisingly remote. Though only 120 miles from New York City, population is sparse; towns are small; terrain is rugged; jobs are few. Bluestone quarries and forest products are the only noticeable economic activity other than the seasonal employment (fishing, paddling) from the rivers. There are multiple fly shops in both Hancock and Roscoe (which bills itself as “Trout Town USA”), so anglers are well catered to.



Mark prepares for assault on the West Branch of the Upper Delaware

A big reason for the trip was to meet my old outdoor buddy, Mark Kulchock, and catch up on life. Mark and I fished/hunted/camped in Michigan back in the late 1970s. He now lives in nearby Poughkeepsie NY. The idea of our trip suited his rekindled interest in fly fishing. We got to spend a long weekend together, then Mark had to return to work.

One benefit of my six hour drive north to the Delaware was rediscovering springtime. Lilacs were in full bloom, many trees were still budding out, and the birdlife was fantastic. Otherwise, the weather did us no favors. Cold, even downright chilly weather shut down the bug hatches for much of the weekend. Then, it abruptly turned around and soared to the upper 80s in just 24 hours. While we did see some hatches and rising fish, conditions were a constant roller coaster ride. Low water level in the two tailwater streams was another complication for the fishing. 

There are a lot of trout in these rivers. When bugs were hatching, it was astonishing to see so many rising fish. When they weren’t, though, lockjaw set in. We had virtually no luck with nymphs. Over the course of my week of fishing, I had much better success on the Beaverkill. I think the Delaware’s fishing really suffered from the low water levels; it remains a very intriguing river for me.

The fishing pressure was not as bad as I had expected (it being prime season and so close to major East Coast metropolitan areas). Saturday was crowded, the other days less so. Still, fishing pressure is constant, the kind that makes for selective trout. Add in the long, smooth water in the big pools where the fish get a good look at a fly, and it’s clear why these rivers are known to be difficult fishing.  

Early Evening at Barrel Pool, Beaverkill River

First success came Friday evening at an access point called the Barrel Pool on the Beaverkill. Consistent risers provided good targets. Then, it became a matter of finding the right fly and making a good enough cast to cover the distance and solve the current breaks. I caught two nice brown trout at dusk, using a Hendrickson emerger and a Dark Quill dun.

Other than a couple small trout and a few misses, we were shut out for the weekend. We witnessed an amazing amount of trout one morning on the West Branch apparently feeding on some diminutive spent caddis that was impossible to match. Worm dunkers at another access point on the West Branch caught several nice trout one afternoon. I hooked and briefly fought a huge trout that hit a nymph; it somersaulted out of the water before I felt the strike.



Good brown trout on a Dark Quill dry, Beaverkill River

My two best successes of the trip came from doing what I was told. While anglers are notorious for spinning yarns, I have also found it true just how much good information anglers share when you take the time to strike up a conversation.

One such episode began Monday evening. The spot I wanted to go was pretty busy, so I chose a new access spot. It was an absolutely gorgeous stretch of water...had it all to myself...but no bugs hatching and no feeding fish. The disappointing evening included a long drawn out conversation streamside with an angler who has fished these rivers for three decades.

Tuesday morning was more of the same...no bugs, no rising fish, anglers where I wanted to be. Tried a couple new places without success...tripped over a rock midstream and fell in, got my camera soaked.

With things going against me, I decided to at least get something in return for the conversation with the guy who talked my ear off the evening before. Go where he told me to go, I decided. He had given me a very specific set of instructions for fishing mid-afternoon at Horse Brook Run on the Beaverkill.

This Beaverkill pool yielded no fish...but great advice for next day

It turned into what is one of the best three hours of dry fly fishing I've ever had.

Horse Brook Run is a stretch of fast, boulder water above Cairn's Pool. It's very tough wading with strong current and uneven bottom. But, I'm pretty good at that using my wading staff from experience out West. It's all knee to crotch deep water, wide and about two hundred yards long. The guy told me to be there about 3PM, where to cross, and to throw a March Brown dry fly into all the pockets.

I wound up catching 4 large brown trout, all as large as or larger than that one I caught Friday evening. Three more big browns rose to the fly but turned away, one was huge. And, two nice brookies too. It was a spectacular piece of fishing. Right place, right time, right fly...what Jim Zyla calls 'when all the stars align.'

The other success came down on the Delaware mainstream at Kellams Bridge where I camped my last night. After setting up my tent, I went down to the river to see if I could figure something out for the evening.  There was one lone angler in a boat anchored out in the middle of a gigantic bend pool just below the campground. About 8PM, he gave up and rowed back to the boat launch.

Kellams Bridge, one-lane connection between PA & NY

We struck up a conversation as he passed. He said I should be fishing from the designated fishing access point over the bridge on the other side of the river..."it’s a world class pool", he said.

I decided I better follow his advice...what the heck, it sure paid off the last time I took an angler's tip.

It was deep dusk by the time I drove across the one-lane suspension bridge and walked down to the pool. Sure enough, I heard fish feeding actively. Night-time fishing is not my cup of tea, but this was my last chance of the trip to fish so I waded out and started to cast to the sounds of rising fish.

Little more than ten minutes of this, and I got a fantastic strike. A big thrash as the fish broke the surface, and the reel drag sang.  After a very nice fight, I landed a big chunky rainbow of about 16-17". That's the best rainbow on a dry fly I've taken in quite a while. It was a great way to end the trip.

If you’d like to read a little more about this trout fishing, here are a few good websites:

West Branch Angler, Hancock: www.westbranchresort.com

Beaverkill Angler, Roscoe: www.beaverkillangler.com

 

River Descriptions: www.flyfishingconnection.com/statenewyork

The Way Home: Down from the Mountains, Across the Plains

The fact that my Yellowstone season is truly over has sunk in. I look forward to the drive home. It will be a different route home (I-80 instead of I-90), the chance to see new territory. Unlike the firm deadline of new employee check-in last May, my eastbound timetable is carefree. So is the weather forecast which calls for fair, calm skies the next several days.

The first day is spent crossing Wyoming on a long diagonal along US 287. The drive down to Dubois last night from Yellowstone was just a down payment; it takes six hours to reach I-80 at Rawlins and on to Cheyenne in the state’s southeast corner.

Along US 287, east of Dubois

The landscape here is stunning! Panoramas composed of rock, cliff, and sagebrush stretch to the horizons. Trees cease to exist other than a narrow band of cottonwoods here and there clinging to the edge of a watercourse. This begins the High Plains of America, a vast expanse of land robbed of moisture by the Continental Divide lying just to the west.

Here, elevation matters. It alters the weather and determines the habitat. On the highway, it strains the engine and reminds you of the importance of good brakes. We are talking big numbers here. I pass through Lander, a respectably sized city where the elevation is 5,357 feet. A stone’s throw to the west lies Wind River Peak, cresting at 13,192 feet.

Wind River Indian Reservation, north of Fort Washakie

Already, I miss the rivers of Yellowstone. Granted, little is revealed about most rivers from behind the windshield rushing down a highway, yet nothing tempts me to pull over for a closer view. The first two hours of driving are along the Wind River, known for some good trout fishing. It must be known for that someplace else. It isn’t that Wyoming doesn’t have good rivers for trout. The Green River and Flaming Gorge lie to the southwest; the Bighorn to the northeast. Once on I-80, I cross over the North Platte, a reminder of some great trout fishing just to the south. For now, these are marks on my mental map, destinations for future trips.

The clouds entertain along I-80

It is sparsely populated, feels desolate. In surface area, Wyoming is equal in size to Michigan, approximately 98,000 square miles. Yet, just 570,000 people live here, compared to 9.9 million in Michigan. Without a doubt, it is a very different lifestyle from my Midwestern sensibilities.

Road Day One ends 200 miles into Nebraska at Gothenburg. I pitch my tent in the dark at the KOA Campground there. A town with some history, it lays claim to the birthplace of the Pony Express. I am up and on the road at sunrise the next morning, eager to press on.

Pony Express Mural, Gothenburg Nebraska

If the theme of yesterday’s drive was rock, today it’s corn. It is harvest time in the Great American Breadbasket. Nebraska is a beehive of activity. Combines are in the table-flat fields everywhere; tractor trailer rigs hauling the bounty to gigantic grain elevators; long freight trains on the move. The economic powerhouse that is America’s agriculture is palpable.

After Nebraska, it’s Iowa. Another 300 miles before this day is to end. More cornfields here, but these are draped over lovely rolling hills. Trees have returned to the landscape. Handsome oaks edge the fields, and stand in large woodlots. There are rivers here, hinted at by the contours of the rolling countryside. History markers at highway rest stops record their importance to the nation’s development long ago. Council Bluffs on the Missouri was a stop for Lewis & Clark. It is where steamboat commerce gave way to the railroads. The Amana Colonies chose the fertile Iowa River Valley as their home.

Darkness denies me a view as I cross the mighty Mississippi that forms the boundary between Iowa and Illinois. Road Day Two ends in Rock Island at another conveniently located KOA. I pitch my tent and call it a night, well satisfied with my progress home.

Campsite in Rock Island Illinois

The romantic part of this road trip is over. On Road Day Three, the Midwestern landscapes of Illinois, Indiana and Michigan are well-known to me. I look forward to the hospitality of Tom Quail and Chris Booth to spend the next few nights. Then, I will rent a UHaul trailer to take furniture back to DC to set-up our new apartment.

Final Four: Last Day, October 18th

After more than five months in Yellowstone, I am down to my last day. By evening, the fly rods will be packed, the car pointed toward home.

Determined to make the most of the day, I get up and out of the tent before daybreak. The huge Rocky Mountain night sky stretches above me. The Milky Way and countless constellations arc over the craggy silhouette of the Madison Plateau to the south.

It is cold, the coldest night yet. The car’s thermometer says 16 degrees. I slept comfortably in the tent, but after two days of battling the weather, I am in no mood for another day of that. No, just savor this last morning; get to the fishing once the warming sun is well up.  I walk down to the river and back to build up some internal warmth, take in the dawning of the day, and savor the solitude. The dawn’s light qualities are magnificent. Not another soul contests my command over the Madison River at that hour.

A calm morning, welcomed after the past two days

I break camp before sunup, and head out. Confidence swelled by how yesterday ended, my destination is certain: back to that deep run at Talus Slope. I follow the advance of sunrise down Madison Valley, enjoying its warmth and the unfolding scenes. A herd of elk grazes casually near one of the meadow turnouts, posing as if on cue.

I come upon the morning’s first anglers at Haynes Meadow. A trio of twenty-somethings has staked out the inside bend where the river dumps into the deep run there. It is a great place to have breakfast (hot oatmeal, cups of coffee), watch their technique and enjoy the sun. It warms me as well as my wading boots that had frozen solid overnight.

The fishing begins

Breakfast done and boots thawed, I drive another half mile down to Talus Slope.  Time to go fishing, to pick up where I had left off, to enjoy casting in calm air after the nasty winds of the past two days.

In the good light of the morning and absent yesterday’s winds on the water, I now see what accounted for the rising fish yesterday afternoon. What I had thought was part of one long, deep run is instead a series of weed-covered mounds that form shallow shelves dropping into troughs. They create the perfect current break conditions for fish to surface-feed on such small insects.

Great way to start the day

Not ten casts into my fishing, I have the first strike. I land another big rainbow despite a couple of dives that tangle the line in those weedy mounds. It isn’t even 10 o’clock in the morning, and I already feel dialed into the fishing.

For the next hour, I have another half dozen or so good, hard hits.  But, no hook-ups. Content at first to miss a fish or two, eventually the string of misses drags upon my confidence.  Slowly as these things do, the error of my ways sinks in.

Landing the second fish yesterday, I had noticed it was hooked by the trailer hook. It was an extra hook I had tied into the streamer’s long tail in a prior season in order to cure the streamer’s tendency to miss fish.

Using hemostats to release yesterday’s fish, that hook had broken at the bend in the shank. It didn’t seem like a big deal at the time, but the loss of that hook is having its consequences now. All the missed strikes yesterday afternoon and this morning are now explained. Hooking this morning’s nice fish was a fluke.

I switch to a different streamer and resume fishing. But, the magic is over and the bite with it. It is approaching 11 o’clock. Perhaps the sun is now too bright, or the pod of fish has moved further up the river. Against the backdrop of 163 days in Yellowstone, though, it doesn’t matter. The Madison River in mid-October is now permanently etched in my mind.

I turn back toward Madison Junction, and then south toward Old Faithful. My plan for the day calls for using the afternoon to explore the Lewis River, known like the Madison for its fall brown trout fishing; and then to camp for the night at the campground there. It will put me nearly two hours in the direction of home.

Turns out, it isn’t the best plan. Every new trout stream is cloaked in a veil of secrecy. It takes time to uncover just the simple logistics of where along the river to begin fishing…more time than my fast-fading last afternoon in the Park will allow.

Lewis River's Outlet from Lewis Lake

The Lewis River doesn’t make discovery easy either, falling away from the road as it does and out of sight. I finally find a little-used footpath that takes me to the river at its lake outlet. On the fishiness-per-hour scale, I go from the top of the graph back on the Madison, to the bottom here on the Lewis. I get in about an hour of good fishing time, that’s all. It is not totally fruitless, however, for I now have the measure of the Lewis. It is a gorgeous river. There is not another angler in sight despite the peak of the fall season; and I now know where to begin to fish it next time I’m in Yellowstone.

My plan for camping turns out to be no better than the fishing. Touring the Lewis Lake Campground, I find not another camper in sight nor the amenities that make Madison Campground so pleasant for late-season camping.

The season ends.

Abandoning the plan, I head for the Park’s South Entrance. The picnic area just inside the entrance provides a fitting place to take off my waders for the last time. Ted and I had fun fishing the Snake River from there several times. At 4:15 pm, my Yellowstone season ends.

Nothing destroys an outdoor buzz faster than the dull dashboard stare at oncoming traffic and endless asphalt. The Yellowstone feeling quickly ebbs with the light of the day.

It is cold and dark…that’s all…when I find a cheap motel for the night in Dubois, Wyoming. The next few days will be measured by number of miles driven rather than number of cast made. I’ve been a lucky man living a blessed life…five months living and fishing in Yellowstone National Park. It is time to go home.

Final Four; Day Three, October 17th

Today started with great promise. A bright, crisp morning, and I had slept another comfortable night in the tent despite temperatures in the 20s. 

Madison Junction under sunny morning skies

The lack of wind was a welcome change from yesterday. Little did I know that wouldn’t last long.

The day’s promise deepened after my conversation with Tony, a campground neighbor up from southern California here for the big run-up trout. One key difference between Tony and me, though. This is his 44^th year coming to Yellowstone for the fall season. The ink on my own Trout Bum certificate smudged in his presence.

Tony spoke with the certainty of knowledge gained from all those years. His gaze was that of a pilgrim in the promised land. As if my big fish from yesterday weren’t enough ignition for the coming day, his photos of big fish from his trips past did me in. They were living torpedoes; submarines. In an instant, I comprehended the difference between 20-inch fish and 25-inch fish; why Craig Matthews in his book recommends a 7 weight rod and 1X tippet for this time of year on the Madison River in the Park.

Tony also shared a few fishing tips worth their weight in gold. Tips I have never read/heard about in all my Yellowstone research, yet which corroborated with what I was experiencing on my own fall fishing in Yellowstone. Time was just about run out for this trip, but I resolved then and there to come back another year and put his knowledge to the test.

Don’t ask me what he said because I won’t tell you.  No “kiss and tell fisherman” here. Come with me some year, though, and I’ll show you. I am this certain of the fall fishing in Yellowstone.

Deep run at the bottom of the Firehole

To the fishing. I started again at the Firehole/Madison confluence just below the campground. My euphoric state soon withered. For although I had talked to Tony, the fish had not. To no avail, I spent the morning diligently working the river with streamers. Noon was upon me far too quickly.  I narrowly missed a strong fish at the head of Junction Pool. On the very next cast, I lost my entire leader rig right up to the fly line on a deep snag.

Discouraged, I walked back to the campsite for lunch and to re-rig. Doubt birds began to circle overhead. Was yesterday just a fluke? Had the return of bluebird, bright skies put the fish off? Had sheer timing put me on top of a pod of run-up fish at just the right time and place yesterday?

This was my last afternoon of my Yellowstone season…my 9^th inning; down one run and nobody on base.

I decided to go back to old reliable…Barns Pool. I knew it wasn’t going to be pretty. I would have to contend with other anglers. Now too, the wind was picking up significantly making casting difficult in the wide-open sagebrush spaces of the Park’s western boundary.

Or so I thought.  Easier said than done. 

For a dozen miles along the Park’s West Entrance Road, the Madison River remains in view. Each turnout along the way beckons the angler, “fish here.” Driving along, it sunk in that this was it. My Yellowstone season was ending. It would be a long time before I would fish this marvelous river again.

I drove past mile-long Elk Meadow and Big Bend; past the Elbow Pool and Mt. Haynes. Finally, melancholy got to me. I wanted to be fishing, not driving. Seeing the parking lot empty, I turned into the turnout at Talus Slope. Premonition was at work as well. Something in my angling data bank had sparked my desire to “Fish here!”

Oh, but the wind. Yesterday, it was strong. Today, it howled. I am sure it was gusting to over 40 MPH. Any other day, I would have set it out. But, today was not any other day.

Bright, windy afternoon at Talus Slope turnout

The radiant Rocky Mountain sun plus layers of wool and fleece offset the wind chill. My 7 weight rod and intermediate sinking tip made casting feasible. There was no finesse to the casts, just swinging the streamer on quarter-down casts and letting the current do the rest. Despite the weather and my lackluster morning, I began to fish

The Madison River at Talus Slope is gorgeous trout water. Weed beds carve deep channels and gouge out pockets; fast water bordered by slow; a rough bottom made uneven by slabs of ancient volcanic rock. Even buffeted by the cold gusts of wind, I marveled at the beauty of this river.

I didn’t fish long before I got a strong strike. Good pulls even on the 7 weight. Growing practiced at fighting bigger fish, I freely let it run against the drag and walked it downstream. I slipped the net under a big Hebgen rainbow, a gorgeous fish in a different way from its smaller brethren or even Great Lakes steelhead. These big rainbows are dark in the face, swarthy; their mouths more steely and vicious. I mentally made a note that this was my best rainbow of the season.

Strong rainbow, the best of the season

Spirits rekindled, I resumed fishing the run. A small brown trout soon followed. Confidence swelled, I reached for my streamer box and switched to the big-eyed mouthful of a streamer that had worked yesterday. ‘If the big fish are here, I’ll give them something big to chase’, so went my reasoning.

The late afternoon sun had fallen behind Talus Slope. I walked three hundred yards back upstream to take advantage of the shadows on the water and to be able to work the sweet spot of the run.

Stepping back into the stream, something on the water caught my eye. Despite the wind’s chop on the water, gusting in my face and ears, and despite the poor light conditions, I spotted them…rising fish! The slow head-and-tail rises of big fish! Unbelievably in those conditions, the big run-up trout were feeding on a hatch of tiny blue wing olives. Oh, the marvels of Nature!

I felt like an alien being. There I was, barely able to stand the conditions despite all sorts of paraphernalia; while there were the trout, comfortably finning in their climate-controlled parlor, eating hors d’oeuvres.

Switching to dry flies would have been ludicrous in these wind conditions. I stuck to swinging the streamer. Rather quickly, I hooked and landed a second big rainbow. I had that fisherman’s feeling of finding your groove.

Another chrome-pink beauty

Over the next hour or so, I had four or six more good strikes on the streamer. But, missed them all. I played them according to textbook, resisting the temptation to set the hook quickly on the belief that the fish strikes first to stun, then comes back for the kill. The textbook version didn’t work for me.

Nevertheless when sundown came, I felt really good about the day. Two more big, strong fish. Multiple chances at others to end the day. And, I had once again withstood the adversity of the weather.