August

For the life of me, I couldn’t find my fishing license. It was stowed in one of those little plastic wallet sleeves- my seasonal Montana license within a little paper sleeve from the True Value in Red Lodge, as well as an expired daily Wyoming permit and my folded up-Yellowstone license. I doubted I’d ever actually get stopped and checked, but I couldn’t in good conscience fish without one. Plus the plan for today was to fish Slough, and if there was anywhere in the Park you could expect to be stopped, I figured that was it.

We needed beer and other sundry goods anyway, so Jake, Cain, Winders and I drove over to Gardiner. I dropped Cain off at Mammoth, so he could take a look at the hot springs and some other touristy stuff, while Winders, Jake and I went to the fly shop and grocery store.

It was early, eight or nine or so, and the three of us bought a fair stock of beer, as well as a couple steaks and some andouille for dinner that night. It was to be epic. We wandered over to Park’s and got flies and floatant, and I inquired as to whether it was possible to get a replacement license. Apparently they couldn’t do it, I’d have to go back into the Park and find a license dealer there.

Off we went, picking Cain back up in Mammoth and heading through the Lamar Valley to Slough Creek. My new plan was to drop everyone else off, then drive over to Tower and hope there I could procure a replacement license. Off they went, fishing, and I headed to Tower. The nice man behind the counter there explained that the Yellowstone license system was still entirely paper-based, so I’d either have to drive back to Old Faithful to get a replacement license or buy a new license there at Tower. I did the latter, and the ink wasn’t even dry on the license before I headed out the door, to meet up with everyone back on Slough Creek.

Fished Slough again, and it was quite boring. Windy, crowded, more of the same- the only redemptive quality of the crowd was to bring out some women- bored women sitting in lawn chairs reading novels as their husband/fiance/boyfriend fished poorly. That wasn‘t so bad, most everything else was. I was so pissed after I rounded the third bend and there were already a half-dozen anglers there that I took off upstream, determined to find at least some meager solitude.

I walked up above the campground and found my consolation. I walked upriver to some cataracts and pocket water, pretty, but not particularly fascinating. I walked overland through the campground, looking for water in the way of a spigot as compared to for fishing. I wound up finding the campground manager, an outgoing older man who asked how the fishing was. He told me the spruce moths were on up above the campground, that he was headed over to Gardiner to pick up some new flies, as that’s all the fish would take. I smiled.

I had read about spruce moths in John Holt’s books on flyfishing Montana. He’d written, in passing it seemed, about the potential for big spruce moth falls on Slough Creek. I hadn’t paid much attention to it, figuring the chances of it happening while I visited were practically nil. But I walked up the creek and there they were, hundreds of tawny-colored moths flying erratically and flopping onto the water en masse. It wasn’t a blanket hatch by any means, but the surface of the water was pocked with pale bugs, and big fish were rising methodically, wandering around the pools sucking them under at will.

But just like t he day before with the stoneflies, I had no moth imitations. I had elk hair caddis, and they caught two, and I had some Goddard caddis, which worked better, but nothing that the fish couldn’t resist.

Most amusing was the pool right above the campground. I was on the bank, watching a big cutt wander around the pool eating moths, occasionally casting to him but otherwise just fascinated watching him. A SUV pulls up and two teenage boys, twins, about fourteen, flop out, fly rods in hand. Mom and dad pull out a blanket and watch them from the bank, with a couple glasses of wine.

One was Jacob. I’m not sure the other one’s name, but he was much more into it than Jacob. Jacob sounded much more interested in ensuring his brother’s failure. Jacob was a little shit. I didn’t like Jacob. I listened to them bicker and argue and curse for half an hour, leaving after one of them had spotted, crowded in on me, then blew that big cutthroat I had been working with.

I headed farther upstream, leaving the pool to the boys, and was re-rigging when someone said hello. It was a guy, in his early twenties, bedecked with a spinning rod, asking how I was doing.

I told him, and he sort of sheepishly asked “Can I buy some flies from you?”

He gave me a twenty, and I gave him a handful of hoppers and humpies, as well as a couple PMD’s I had bought at Parks, and which had rose a few fish. I felt a little bad, though, as most of my productive flies were already lost, so I really gave him only a few I’d feel comfortable fishing myself, the rest were sort of my second string.

I fished on up until dark, raising and missing a few fish on Goddard caddis until I broke the last one off, before heading back down through the campground to the cars. Paul and Kyle were already there, and I went down and fished to a big cutthroat I’d noticed in the pool below the gravel lot earlier in the afternoon. It rose to a dirty-yellow spinner imitation, but I didn’t hook the thing.

We all met up in the dark and had a beer, hanging around the cars and waiting for Dave and Jake to wander in. A ranger came by and checked our licenses, the first time that had happened in the Park, and we talked about fishing and the fire to the west, fish management and college. Back to the campground we went, and Jake, Winders and I fixed our meet and other goodies in the rain, drinking a bit too much before becoming bored with the dampness. We crashed as soon as we crawled into our sleeping bags.