Man versus feet, at Heart Lake

I hate my feet and they hate me. Our dysfunctional relationship was never more apparent than our recent backcountry cutthroat pilgrimage in Yellowstone National Park. I mangled them and they let me know how they felt about that. 

But my feet and I made enough peace to experience some of the best dry-fly cutthroat trout fishing a human can have at Yellowstone 's Mosquito Office: Heart Lake. 

I'll be brief for now:

The mosquitos were real bad. A photo exists of about 70 (no joke) suckling on my hapless shoulder. 

No one got eaten by a bear. We, including one party member who (carefully) seeks out bears for videos, didn't even see one. 

It was superb. Classic, cutthroat-trout fly fishing for specimens from 15 to 20 inches (and truly few smaller).  And we got some lakers. More to follow in the new edition of the Flyfisher's Guide to Yellowstone National Park, due out in a few years. 

A true delight. 

Still water. 

Ant eater.

 Bye Fishia. 

Gotcha. Or did you get me? 

Look at that vermiculation. 

An Angler's Coming of Aver-Age

 In the grand pantheon of the angling obsessed, I’ve liked to think that I’m among the fishy. I grew up out-angling my peers, I owned books, had magazines subscriptions, fish-emblazoned clothing,  and regularly fished alone. I decided I wanted to be a fishing writer at age 13 and I wanted to do all the kinds of fishing for all the species in the world. I even had a Babe Winkelman poster on my bedroom wall. I fished for whatever lived where I was, by whatever means necessary.

So... heavy... 

But as I age, I'm starting to accept my averageness (it’s okay, I’m good with it). And I question if I’m even in the top 25 percent of the fishing population in terms of obsession. The more books and articles I read, the more people I see on the internet living their fishing dreams, the more people I meet in person in the Yellowstone area, and the more anglers with whom I fish, the less fishy I feel.

I went steelheading in Idaho and all I caught was this lousy sucker.

But that’s okay. Imma still fish when and where and why and how I see fit. Imma still try to write and photograph as circumstances allow. Imma stop competing and trying to prove that I’m fishy, and Imma be happy with all of that. Because it turns out I think I’m a pretty average angler (and human, really). Most of us are. And that’s okay, if not fantastic. Coming to terms with average-osity is part of aging for many of us, and I’m just now maturing to that realization and acceptance. And honestly, it feels good to let go.