With a little help from a friend

I was really feeling down the other day, so when a friend asked if I wanted to wake up at 5am to go fishing in Yellowstone National Park, I figured it couldn't hurt.

Around 6am that morning, while Brady was grabbing a sandwich for lunch, I read an e-mail that said that a road in Yellowstone had closed due to a fuel spill. I asked Brady if that would affect our day, and he said, "Yeah, that's the road we're taking."

So we drove down the valley cursing anything and everything -- gasoline, truck drivers, YNP maps, roads, combustion engines -- while trying to figure out a plan B. Yellowstone has a ton of fishing options, but we had a quick decision to make. We could still go to our original location, but our drive time would triple. We could go somewhere else that would still be good, but it wouldn't be the specific goodness we'd yearned for.

We ultimately planned to do the long drive around, but the ranger at the gate had some intel: we could get closer to our original target, on the original route, than we'd read.

So we drove as far as we could and started hiking, fishing the promising water while looking for trout to cast to. And after a couple of hours and a few miles, we'd actually arrived at our original destination. 

And so had the fish. And because the road was closed, other people did not. Most days, we'd literally have seen hundreds of people here; this day, just each other.

Float a stonefly nymph or Pheasant Tail under an indicator through the buckets and hold on. I was grateful that a different friend had advised that I bring my 5-weight Sage Z-Axis switch rod, that fishes more like a 7-weight. We took turns netting, snapping photos, and bumping fists. Twelve or 13 large native cutthroat later, we figured we'd head back before the bears got us. 

My feet were blistered and my legs were tired but I was smiling. The healing power of fishing was apparent that afternoon. That's what friends are for, I guess.  

Like a kid

Maturing in your late 20s while discovering fly fishing in Montana makes for some incredible days and better memories. Every hatch is new, exploring desolate fisheries, so many high fives, grip-and-grins, views, reminiscences ... But over time, the excitement can actually start to wane. Careers take precedent, kids need nurturing, and life "happens." The roaring inferno dwindles to a glowing ember. 

But this past Monday, a friend helped me rekindle the flame. 

On the outskirts of Yellowstone National Park, we found challenging but good fishing for rainbows, cutthroat, brown trout and whitefish up to about 17 inches (except for the alleged 21-inch cuttbow Brady claimed to land). As we were leaving, we circled back to the holes where we'd started while dark clouds expanded over us.

"That's a green drake," I said. We weren't expecting to see green drakes, but as Brady was telling me earlier, it can be bay-nay-nays when green drakes are out. But they're generally a late-June/early July thing, and this was August

"Ooh, that's another, and there's another!" he said. 

Fish exploded around us like cannonballs from afar. Like a hailstorm. I was well into my next knot before I realized that I hadn't been this excited on the river in years. The fish were not so dumb that they'd eat anything, but after 20 minutes when the hatch ceased, we had landed three beautiful trout, including a marvelous down-river-chased 18-inch cuttbow.  

Within minutes, as the overhead lightning blew up and the rain down poured down, we slogged back to the truck. Then toasted, and smiled all the way home.

Then on Friday, another friend and I went to investigate a rumor that access was allowed at a private-land gate, that would let us on a section of river that is basically off limits. But it was well-posted, and while you could esoterically argue that the placement of the posts implied access is actually allowed here, we decided that it wasn't worth it. We traipsed back to the public access and fished upstream for a couple hours, finding a handful of hopper-eaters. But my heart was pounding like it was 2010 thinking about the opportunity to get on that upper stretch. 

I'm so grateful to feel that joy of fly fishing in Montana like I hadn't in years. The forced free time afforded by COVID has presented an opportunity to relight a fire and feel like a kid again. At least for a few minutes among these anxious days. 

Say what you will about 2020. Some days, it's pretty fun. 

Silver linings (with orange slashes)

Go home 2020, you're drunk.

But amidst the illness, anxiety, unemployment, and unrest, there exists opportunities for us to recapture some small goodnesses. To take some time to breathe and have an excuse to simplify.

I've found myself nerding out on my dust-covered entomology books, reading about the nuances of pale morning duns, and how they swim and hatch and what eastern mayflies they're related to. Last night I dug up my corny old fly fishing DVDs and watched Kelly Galloup and Denny Rickards chase trout on Ennis Lake, and Gary LaFontaine and Dick Sharon goof off on the Big Hole and Upper Clark Fork. I've even been tying some flies - leeches, Princes, chironomids, Clouser Minnows - and actually enjoying it.

Friends and I have more time to social distance on the river, and to visit some places we haven't for years. On these trips, it feels like we're unmarried 20-somethings again, without the pressures of adulthood.

During the aforementioned escapes, I feel good and hopeful and grateful - feelings that have been elusive this year. I'm given confidence that we're going to be okay, with a little help from public land, clean water, and wild trout. And looking forward to more silver linings. 

Cooney on ice

I’d forgotten how scary the sound of ice settling is, and how slippery a frozen lake is. That little ice shanty over there has to weigh more than me, right? It'd go down first? Phew... I grew up in Minnesota, but haven't fished "the hardwater" for probably 20 years. 

I recently took a road trip to Cooney Reservoir south of Columbus, Montana. Cooney is known as an excellent walleye fishery, and also has rainbow trout and good-sized yellow perch. What they don't tell you is that it's well within view of the Beartooth Front and is absolutely gorgeous. 

Hoo-tee-hoo!

So I borrowed some gear, bought some worms and minnows, and scoured YouTube and online fishing reports. Excitement was high.  

But so was my alert level. My dogs wouldn't follow me onto the ice, and I made frequent trips to terra firma so I could breathe. I felt better upon hearing the hardwater continue to pop without me, and  before long, a couple of friendly retired actual ice fishermen showed up, giving me confidence that I wasn’t probably going to fall through. The ice, as measured through my hole, was indeed about 10 inches thick. 

Fishing was "slow." I read a book, admired the mountains and took in the moment. 

Later, a polite 82-year-old struck up a conversation about the fishing. His best morning on Cooney involved catching four 10-pound walleyes, and his biggest ever was about 13 pounds - a testament to Cooney's potential. But he hadn't had a single bite in the past two winters. (I moved on after the conversation devolved into why I wasn't afraid of eternity in hell...)

It seems no one is catching fish on Cooney this winter and no one knows why. I also didn't get a single bite, but I got a sense for Cooney Reservoir. And a reminder of the experience of ice fishing.