August

We headed off to Slough Creek, it was pretty uneventful. Crowded- everywhere you turned there were already 3 or 4 people fishing. And windy- not as windy as last year, but still tough to fish in. I was skunked, and wound up casting patiently to a nice-sized cutthroat for two hours. He bit, twice, but I never brought him to hand.





















Towards evening we headed over to Soda Butte Creek, on our way back to the campground, and stopped and fished. It was nearing dark, and fish seemed to be rising everywhere to small, yellowish-colored mayflies. I tied on a # 20 parachute Adams, and in quick succession caught a half-dozen fish while everyone else hemmed and hawed. I gave Jo a fly, and she got into fish, then Paul, and he caught two or three. We fished until we were in the dark, catching innocent, stupid little cutthroat- all from thirteen to fifteen inches. It was delightful, and I was giddy hauling in fish after fish.

August

Today, the Gibbon River- arguably my favorite river in the entire Park. From the road it doesn’t look like much- it’s pretty, a big, wide, calm, meandering meadow stream in the massive Elk Park area. But when you get up to it, you realize it’s far more. Tremendously undercut banks and thick vegetation beds, incredibly clear water and shy, spooky trout. Even the little ones are nervous. It’s fun, gorgeous, textbook water.

But I’ve never caught a fish there. Some sort of voodoo which I can’t seem to shake. I can get fish to rise, I can get fish to bite, I just can’t get fish to hand. For two seasons now I’ve tried, and for two seasons I’ve failed. It’s a weird sort of masochism, I suppose- I keep going back because I’m a sucker for humiliation.

We parked along the road and hoofed our way to the water- Jake, Jo and I working upstream while everyone else fished down. I got a couple hits on black ants and caddis dries, as well as some serious hopper looks, but nothing really incredible. Jo got a couple hits, but nothing. Jake slayed them, as he typically does on this water, mostly on Cherynobl Ants. He even hooked up with a big brookie, he put it at somewhere between fifteen and eighteen inches.

I’m incredibly lazy on this river- watching the water, watching the fish, musing at the grasses, wondering how far the woodline is, wondering if that’s a bear or an elk or just a stump way out in the meadow, wondering about the old, extinct geysers that pock parts of the stream bottom, showing tubs of crusty, strange rock. I suppose that’s part of the reason for my epic failure- it’s such a pretty place, it seems like such a shame just to pay attention to the fishing.

But I do want to catch a fish there. Someday.

August

My own personal D-Day- I was to go to Billings to pick up the rest of the crew. The plan was to meet them at the airport at 8, so I got up around 5 and took off through Yellowstone.

No time to take pictures, but it was gorgeous- the sun rising behind me, fog over the Lamar valley, buffalo milling around everywhere and pronghorn cruising along near the river. I made it to Gardiner in 50 minutes, then headed north to I-90 and on to Billings.

I got to the airport about ten minutes late- no biggie. Winders, Jake, Paul, Cain, and Jo were all there. Dave, and his Bronco, were to meet up with us as well, but he was hung up somewhere in the Dakotas. The six of us hung out, shot the shit, and mutually agreed it was time to find the Old Chicago, grab some lunch and beer.

We had to wait a half-hour in the parking lot for the place to open, making us look especially pathetic. But the pizza buffet and the accompanying brew made up for that. We spent a good deal of time there, eating and drinking, until our appetites were sated and the conversation was stale.

Dave was nowhere. Well, he was somewhere, somewhere near the border of North Dakota and Montana. But he wasn’t in Billings, and he wasn’t at the Old Chicago. We waited, and waited, and decided it’d be best to take off without him, make it to Gardiner, and meet him there.

So we headed back to Livingston and bought groceries and, more importantly, beer, then headed south towards Gardiner, where we picked up fishing licenses, flies, and shot the shit with the folks at Park’s fly shop. Great people. Dave was still nowhere to be seen, so I left a message telling him we were going fishing somewhere around Gardiner, and that we’d meet up with him in Gardiner in the evening when he got to town.

We picked Indian Creek, an moderate-sized stream right off the road that’s positively loaded with eager brook trout. I figured we’d get the skunk out of the boat early, especially since Cain and Winders had done very little fly fishing. Plus a mess of brook trout for dinner would surely be a good beginning to a week of fishing. So the six of us- Jo, Paul, Jake, Winders, Cain, and myself, set out.

Easy stuff- bushy attractors and dumb trout. And not much in the way of fancy gear- most of us were wet wading in shorts or swimming trunks and sandals, a sorry lot of anglers indeed. But we caught fish, a lot of fish, and the skunk was officially out of the boat.

I think we kept about eleven total, the biggest probably twelve or thirteen inches. Nothing phenomenal, but a lot of fun, and a great way to start the week.

We headed up to Gardiner in the dark, watching elk eyes in the headlights. Waited around and Dave showed up, then we were off to camp. Got there, ate our trout, drank some beers and got re-acquainted with each other. The whole crew. Delightful.

August

Fished Slough Creek for a bit, though the wind was killer. No fish brought to hand, so I moved on.

I instead went up to investigate Tower Creek, a brook and rainbow trout fishery near, oddly enough, Tower Store and Tower Campground. I figured the steep valley of Tower Creek would help cut some of the wind.

It did, and I caught fish- picking pocket water for spunky ten inch rainbows and brookies. It was fun, dapping bushy dries behind boulders and pools, some not much bigger than a kitchen sink, and pulling up bright little gems of fish. Shame I didn’t bring my camera. I fished till dark, catching a couple dozen brookies from four to twelve inches, and one rainbow about ten inches long. Beautiful.

I got back to Cooke City hungry, on the prowl for a big, greasy burger. I wandered around the main drag, peering into windows and looking for such sustenance- but all the places had a half hour, forty minute wait. I was impatient.

I did, however, wander across the street to a quiet little establishment with a green awning advertising burgers. I slipped in, and immediately realized why the place was so vacant- it wasn’t a burger joint at all, but a mid-class place seemingly owned and operated by a handful of beautiful women with thick eastern European accents. I, on the other hand, stank of fish and sweat, and hadn’t shaven since God only knows when.

It didn’t prevent me from eating a heaping plate of chicken alfredo. Content, I went back to my campsite and slept.

August

Settled in at Soda Butte Campground, near Cooke City. It was cheap, their was a toilet and water, scenic- and it had bear boxes. Plus it was close to three of the better waters in the Park- Soda Butte Creek, Lamar River, and Slough Creek. I was able to get a gorgeous site right by the creek and set up all the tents, pulling out and storing some of the other gear.

The only downfall to the campground was road construction on the Beartooth Highway, which could lead to delays of a half-hour to forty five minutes trying to get into the Park. From there on, though, things were golden.

Once settled in, I ran down to Soda Butte and fished for a bit, exploring the water. Didn’t catch anything spectacular, but gorgeous scenery and a few little cutthroats to share the day with.

August

I didn’t set up a tent, again. Instead, I slept in my sleeping bag, on the picnic table. I woke up around 5:30, time to go.

Was at the West Yellowstone gate by 6:00, and breezed through. The plan was to get a Yellowstone fishing license at Old Faithful, then fish my way up the Gibbon River to Gardiner, where I’d stop in at Park’s fly shop, and look for campgrounds for my group. But the nice older man at the gate informed me the general store at Old Faithful doesn’t open till eight, nor did the road from Madison Junction to Gardiner, as a result of road construction. I’d have to do some touristing.


I was at Old Faithful by 7:30, and milled around snapping pictures of the geysers, hot springs, and other features. Didn’t see anything fascinating in the way of wildlife, nothing big, just some ravens and eagles. Got my license and a bite to eat, then headed north.

I didn’t wind up stopping at the Gibbon, instead fishing the Gardiner River at Sheepeater cliffs. Nothing spectacular, just some little brook trout. I did get to watch a cow and calf elk for quite some time, though, which was nice.

August

That was the first time I’d heard wolves. Like, genuinely, in real life, heard wolves. They didn’t sound close, but I heard them. And that contributed to the loneliness, to the feeling of utter desolation.

That the day was the last of the unplanned was sending pangs throughout me as well. The realization that from here on out, things were more or less regimented- I was to go to West Yellowstone, I was to go into Yellowstone, I was to go to Cooke City and Silver Gate, I was to go to Gardiner, I was to go to Billings. The fishing was still up to me, but the destinations were now concrete. It made me, in some strange way, uncomfortable.

But I did wake up early, my car covered with a rime of frost. I watched the sunlight peter over the hill and down to me, all the while munching on a pop tart and an orange. I didn’t bother fishing the dink lake again, just headed back down the gravel road and over the mountains.

I had wanted to stop and fish a small stream for big cutthroat, reports I’d heard said the fish surpassed the magic 20 inch mark. But the same reports said access was terrible, and landowners were assholes. No matter, I could never find the stream anyway.

Instead, I made a cannonball run up the mountains and down into a little tongue of Idaho, right to Henry’s Lake. It was fun seeing in the early morning, though I had no desire to purchase an Idaho license and dick around there. I smelled. I was headed to West Yellowstone.

By eight in the morning I had made it to the Slide Inn, on the Madison River. A very cool shop owned by Kelly Galloup, purveyor of the Sex Dungeon, Circus Peanut, and other big-fish flies. I had been introduced to the Sex Dungeon the spring before, and thought it was a beautiful, fishy thing. It was neat going to the shop, seeing all the flies, all the experiments, like a fly-tying mad scientist. I bought some tippet and some Gatorade, then was on my way.

I made my way around Hebgen and Quake lakes, took a wrong turn, then wound up in West Yellowstone. Strolled around downtown, visited the various fly shops, and partook in lunch, did laundry and grabbed a shower before going and finding a campground at Baker’s Hole, on the Madison River.


I talked to Jake and Paul, who I were to pick up along with Kyle and Eric in less than a week. Friday, to be precise. This was the only concrete date on the whole trip: I must pick them up at the airport in Billings on Friday. Until then, I had time to play.

Everything I’d read about the Madison stated it wasn’t much of a summer fishery. Most of the big fish moved in and out of the river during the spawning season, spending most of their time eating in Hebgen Lake. But Jake egged me into going fishing that night, saying he had looked it up, and there was supposed to be a caddis hatch.

I did, and there were. Caddis- when the wind would die down you’d see them clustering around eddies and the margins of streams, and the whole river was alive with mouths- making the great sucking sound of a hatchery raceway at feeding time.

fish were about the size of raceway hatchery trout, too. All rainbows, none greater than about six inches. I had two pulls that felt like more substantial fish, but wasn’t able to see them, much less bring them to hand. The most eventful moment was when I was tying a fresh caddis on and hear an enormous crash in front of me, like an anvil hitting the water. I looked up, and I was eye to eye with an osprey at about twenty feet, as he carried off a dainty little rainbow. Awesome.