My life is composed of rhythmically timed events. Long before the sun has even burned the haze from the mountain tops my alarm sounds and the day begins. Lunch is always from 11:30-12:30 and more times than not I’m in my car by 5:00 and heading for the sanctuary that I call home. How often do you say, “why not”? To be honest, I say it far too few times. When my brother-in-law and I added up the costs of an Elk hunting trip out west and we decided it wouldn’t be possible right now, I suggested we do a fly fishing trip to Yellowstone instead. The costs are far less, we love the fly fish, and the scenery is magnificent. Since he works for a car rental company and can get a sweet deal on a rental, I thought to myself…..”why not?” I’ve always talked about driving cross country and this would be a great opportunity to do so.
When I told my brother Patrick about our plan he decided he would also like to come along. So the plan was set; three guys, a rented mini-van, and 4000 miles of total driving. Sure, that sounds like a great plan. I won’t bore you with the details of the drive other than to say it was long…..it was very long. When you have driven and you think you MUST be getting close, you’re not.
We arrived at Roosevelt Lodge around 3:00 p.m. on Sunday. As soon as the door was opened we realized we may have to rethink our planned sleeping arrangements as the small rough rider cabin certainly lived up to its name. We were happy to be there and our mind had already switched to fishing so there was little time to debate about the shoebox we would call home for the next four nights. We unloaded our bags into the small cabin and headed out to find some water to fish. I knew of a spot that was very productive during my last trip to Yellowstone and drove us out to the Lamar River and the pool that was once my honey hole.
We arrived to find the water all to ourselves and we made our way across the sage filled meadow to the stream. The plan was to squat on this section of the river and wait for a hatch to bring the fish to the surface. The hatch never happened and we didn’t get so much as a look at any fly we threw. 
The next morning we made our way to Park’s Fly Shop to inquire about the streams that were fishing well and to buy some local flies. Pink hoppers seemed to be the order of the day so we paid for our flies and headed out to the Gardner to fish. We had some trepidation as we made our way down the hill side and a Big Horn Sheep watched our slow decent, but finally we settled in and fished below the high bridge not far from Mammoth. I had several fish rise to my hopper and one leapt from the water but missed the fly altogether. James struck first when he pulled a beautiful brown from the stream and only a few minutes’ later claps of thunder and strikes of lightning forced us to scale the bank back to the van. We headed back to our cabin to regroup and allow the storm to pass.
Tuesday morning brought new hope and we were on the water by 10:00. The Soda Butte meanders through open meadows in the Lamar Valley before it empties into the Lamar River. Bison roam the meadows and as tame as they appear their cattle like appearance is misleading. Bison account for the majority of the injuries in Yellowstone to visitors each year. As the three of us tried to fish a deep run of water a bull bison slowly approached. He stepped closer and closer through the sage until he was at the water’s edge. He didn’t stop there. He proceeded to cross the stream and sent the three of us up the hill like mice running from a cat. His only intent was to inform us that he was the dominate male. I think I can speak for Patrick and James when I say, his point was well taken and we concur.
As James paced the bank he noticed a large Cutthroat feeding in a seam of water right beside the bank. I tied on a size 16 Pale Morning Dunn (PMD) and James guided each cast. “No, a little more to the right” he explained. Several casts later and the drift was perfect, the fish rose and took the fly, and my rod bend as he thrashed. Then in a flash he was gone. Shortly after this I heard my brother Patrick yelling that he had a fish on. Given this was Patrick’s second attempt at fly fishing I couldn’t have been any happier for him. We all continued to fish the Soda Butte and the three of us all caught fish. It was a late day and when we arrived back at the cabin to prepare dinner it was nice to have the smell of fish on our hands. 
That evening we sat on the porch of the Roosevelt Lodge with a stogie, a sip of bourbon, and simply relaxed. The conversation wasn’t about the stresses of work, the worries about our children, and the problems of life. We talked about the fish we caught and the ones we should have caught and in the cool night air we simple enjoyed each other’s company and shook off the pressures we brought with us. We talked about God’s mercy and grace and we felt alive!
We decided we would do some site seeing and drive to the thermal areas of the park on Wednesday but not before we fished. At 6:00 a.m. I was awoken by a slight chill in our cabin so I thought I would get coffee going and start the day. The sun was already shining bright as I made my way to the bath house to get ready for the day. Eventually Patrick and James gave up any hopes of sleeping in and we were back on the road driving back to the Lamar Valley. We decided to fish the Soda Butte once again but on this trip we ventured upstream before the stream enters the meadows of the Lamar Valley. We parked, put on our waders, and added additional layers before heading to the water. The sky had gotten overcast and I was glad I remembered my fleece sweater.
The run of water we settled in was tree lined on both sides and a deep run of water cut its way through the center of the stream. Almost immediately the Cutthroat gave away their position as they fed on small insects on the far side of the stream. A few casts later and we were all catching fish in this section of the water. I’m always amazed at the number of fish that can inhabit a small area in a stream. As we headed down stream to a gently flowing pool the strikes slowed but we managed to continue pulling fish from the water.
The run of water we settled in was tree lined on both sides and a deep run of water cut its way through the center of the stream. Almost immediately the Cutthroat gave away their position as they fed on small insects on the far side of the stream. A few casts later and we were all catching fish in this section of the water. I’m always amazed at the number of fish that can inhabit a small area in a stream. As we headed down stream to a gently flowing pool the strikes slowed but we managed to continue pulling fish from the water.
We fished until lunch and made our way to the western side of the park and the thermal areas. It was my first time in this area and I don’t recall a time I have seen more “trout looking” water than the Fire Hole, the Gibbons, and the Madison. Unfortunately the water temperatures had already risen to an unfishable level but perhaps one day I’ll be back in time determine if these waters live up to their reputation.
Thursday brought our last day of fishing and determined to catch dinner we made our way to Tower Creek for some of the Brook and Rainbow trout its waters held. It was a warm day and we all decided to wet wade. I settled in behind a large rock that had created a log dam on this beautiful little stream and within a couple casts I had my first fish in hand. The small Brook trout looked to be the same as those in the Smokies and I had serious concerns as to whether the entire population was this size. If they are, I thought to myself, we better come up with another plan for dinner. A few casts later and I had my first dinner sized fish; a rainbow that fell for the lure of my pink hopper. Within a quarter of a mile of fishing on this stream we already had enough fish for dinner and the pressure was off. All other fish caught were bonus fish for fun and this little jewel willingly gave up quite a few fish. When we had all felt it was time to leave we started taking note of the bushes of wild berries all around us among the deadfall. I could recognize the wild raspberries but there were two other types that I had never seen. This entire area would be a berry buffet to any bears that happened to settle in for lunch. When I am fishing I generally think of nothing but the perfect drift with the perfect fly and a perfect strike. Perhaps this is a character flaw, but it is also why I fly fish. On the hike out we were much more “bear aware” and we were all doing our best “HEY BEAR” to alert any bears to our presence. Luckily we didn’t see any bears and we decided to clean our fish on the stream side before heading back to the cabin at Roosevelt Lodge to cook them.
Patrick decided one more cast was needed and with it he brought to hand the largest and more vividly colored Brook trout of the day. Like pioneering men who passed through this land a hundred years earlier we held our chin high as we made our way back to the van with our bounty in our hand as if our families depended on our angling skills for dinner. James seasoned the fish and started dinner and within an hour we sat in the shade of a tall pine and enjoyed trout that had only hours earlier been swimming in Tower Creek.
There is a draw to this place that is unmistakable. The wildlife you see makes you feel more alive and serves as a reminder that there was a time when the west wasn’t tamed. As we prepared for our last fishing of our trip we decided we would try some of the advice we’d been given on the Soda Butte by two other fishermen and he headed out.
We’d had the joy of catching Cutthroat but now we wanted bigger fish. So, just as the advice we had been given suggested I scaled the rocks where the stream makes a dramatic turn and I nymph fished with my strike indicator set at five feet. It was only a few minutes before I missed my first large Cutthroat but when I adjusted to the difference between the current and a strike I was landing fish soon after. I caught at least six fish from this small steam of water, none of which were less than 16”. As the sun hung low over and the overcast sky darkened the valley before us, we heard a lone wolf howl on the hill side just behind us. His howl was answered as to grant us one last memory of what had been an amazing week.