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.
