Yellowstone

Lewis River, Nez Perce and Soda Butte Creeks, the Gibbon and Firehole into the Madison, the Gardner River into the storied Yellowstone.  There’s a lot more to see in Yellowstone National Park than the rivers. But when you’re a fly fisherman, and one who has never really been ‘out west’, it’s difficult to look beyond them.

Lewis River -to have been there with the explorers 200 years ago!

We entered the south gate of the park on a sunny, 50 degree day. It wasn’t long before we were climbing mountains, driving through passes and looking down on unutterably beautiful waters. We had hit it perfectly, with fall in full splendor and winter literally only a day away. There was almost no tourist activity – much too late in the season, I suppose. The only humans we encountered were rangers and the occasional angler. Our first sighting of wildlife was an American elk casually crossing our path with little acknowledgement of our existence.

Just an old six-by-six

We didn’t fish that first day. The sense of discovery and awe were just too powerful. And Yellowstone is so immense that we had to throttle back our scurrying around just to catch the a bit of the real scope of nature found there. So we dropped in on the more familiar attractions that first day. National Parks are not dog-friendly places – leashes only and no farther than 50′ from any parking area. So with Bear and Georgia scribing nose tracks on the windows, we had to be selective about where we took them. We pulled into an empty parking lot at Old Faithful. A construction crew was busily pouring new concrete walks, scurrying before the coming storm. To our delight, a ranger saw the dogs’ sad faces in our truck and told us to feel free to take them on the tour of the hot springs where dogs are normally forbidden.

Hot Springs and Lucky Dogs

Boiling Pots

Muddy Stuff from Down Around Hell

We spent an hour at the Old Faithful hot springs, but left just minutes before the next scheduled eruption. It was getting late and we were an hour’s drive from dinner and a night’s sleep in West Yellowstone. As we drove westward through the Madison River valley, we came across a herd of bison crossing the road. We sat for 10 or 15 minutes just watching them slowly cross like they owned the place.  (And not a single vehicle pulled up behind us!) Two juvenile bison kicked up their heels and harassed the older animals until one old bull chased them away.  Bear and Georgia sat spellbound looking out the window at the beasts and blowing their own versions of buffalo snorts.

Bison!

In a Trance

After the bison had cleared the road and we were finished our gaping at them, we drove west in failing light and under very black skies.  Within minutes, lightening seared the valley and the flashes recurred frequently. We squirmed with a feeling of vulnerability as our truck was the highest object in the valley. As I sped up to get back into the woodlands, it started snowing – heavy snow mixed with hale and gropple. I dimmed the lights to improve my vision of the road and slowed to 25 mph. It was totally dark when drove into a grove of pines and we were feeling a bit safer when, through the white sheet of snow, a gigantic, furry, brown ass-end appeared in the windshield with a tuft of tail cocked to the right. “Bison”, Molly screeched just as I swerved the truck to the left, then back to the right. A massive head and horns swished passed  the passenger window and barely missed the outside rear-view mirror. ‘Are there more beasts?” my brain raced. “Is it another herd?” There were no more animals. We were most fortunate. That outrageous price I had recently paid for a new set of Michelin truck tires suddenly became worth every penny.

West Yellowstone was very sleepy when we arrived, our limbs and eyes worn-out, but still giggling about our close bison encounter. We gassed up the truck, found a good meal, and settled into a pet-friendly motel for the night. Before bed, the dogs ‘went outside’ in six new inches of snow. The next morning, we found a nice diner for breakfast, then headed for Bud Lillie’s Trout Shop. It was closed for the season.

Come a Little Earlier Next Time, Won't You?

There are so many adventures I want to share about the remainder of our Yellowstone visit, but both you and I probably don’t have time for all those details. Basically, we turned our attention to the rivers and ‘sampled’ the fishing up through the Park. Many of the storied rivers were dressed in their winter capes, winding beautifully through meadows of grass and willows. It was just warm enough to keep your guides from freezing up. Here are a few scenes:

Just Beyond the Confluence of the Firehole and Gibbon

The Madison, downstream, with Elk

Firehole

Chilly Morning

In the north of the park, the Gardner River, spawning grounds for big browns, before its confluence with the Yellowstone

Many strikes, Many misses

So what’s on my mind, now that time has passed since my personal voyage of discovery? Getting back out there, for sure. My sampling of these rivers’ trout demands a return with a more fitting engagement with them, their cold water and vast skies. Perhaps a week or two earlier next time around, and with a more open itinerary.

West Slope Cutthroats and Such

Riding the roads, hiking the trails in Glacier National Park was stirring, especially for those whose eyes are always alert for rivers. On the west side of the park, we crossed the north fork of the Flathead River and despite the rainy/snowy weather, Molly and I could not resist casting our lines in the pool below a long, bubbly rapid.  In moments, Molly was into fish and lost one after another as I tried to figure out what kind of fish she was hooking.  Finally she got one near her feet and we saw the colorful slice under its jaw.  I stepped downstream and on my first cast, hooked and landed my first west slope cutthroat.

Just a Small Fry, but Beautiful

A Welcome First

Molly at Play

We played around Glacier for a few days, then struck out south for Idaho.  Our fishing adventures there are really too numerous to detail here, but here are some of the highlights.

South Fork of the Payette

Valley Creek in Teton Valley

Hemingway's Choice, Silver Spring

Hemingway spent his later years in Ketchum, ID and loved Silver Spring for its excellent duck hunting and huge but impossibly skittish browns and rainbows.

Next installment, a stroll through Yellowstone.  And then we’ll get back to Labrador and brook trout.

Thanks for following along.

 

For many years,

I have been thinking of just leaving after camp was over and visiting friends and famous rivers across the US. This was the year. My travels have taken me to the far corners of our land.  Florida was first, a visit to my brothers winter home in Florida.  He treated me to golf at the Sawgrass Stadium Course – a real treat to walk where so many of my golf heroes have found fame and fortune.  I don’t play much golf anymore.  The warm months of my years are spent in a wilderness void of development, especially golf courses. For those of you who have watched the Players Championship through the years, I did manage to hit the island green of the 17th hole in regulation, pin high and just twelve feet left.  But missed the putt and wrote a 3 on my card. A par on the 18th brought my total to 93 from the tips, not too bad given that I lost eight balls in the assorted water hazards.

High and Dry

The end of September brings a close to the Maine fishing season on most waters. I traveled north to fish those final 2011 days on the upper Magalloway, an annual treat for the past thirty-one years.  The trout and salmon were there in fair numbers and rose to my fly just often enough to keep me from dreaming all the days away gazing at the fiery fall maples that lean over the banks of those storied Maine rivers and streams.

Home Waters

The Jersey shore was next, a trip down for the wedding of a dear friend who chose wisely his lovely new wife, but somewhere lost it for sufficient time to invite me to play my guitar at their wedding.  The Sunday after the wedding was a beautiful day spent walking the mostly deserted beaches with the dogs.  Bear ran after the terns and pelicans as they dipped into the face of the incoming waves ‘fishing’ for their meals.

On the Beach

Then back to the woods of New Hampshire for several days of walking the autumn woods with my pups and oldest daughter, Molly.  She is the director of a girls summer camp there and we helped her close her camps for the year.

Walking the Edges

There’s more. A lot more. Molly and I packed my truck with camping gear, fishing gear and dog paraphernalia, then headed west to visit my other daughter, Kate. She is Molly’s twin sister who lives in Sun Valley, Idaho.  We haven’t arrived there yet, but we’re getting close. Tonight we are sleeping in a pet-friendly Marriot in Missoula, Montana having just spent a few days in Glacier National Park.  Wow! Amazing! We timed the visit perfectly. The aspens, larch and cottonwoods were indescribable shades of yellow and gold against the dark green of the softwoods. The rivers ran clear over ancient stone. Primeval cedar forests dripped with the clouds’ wetness. All this beauty spread before magnificent mountains whose folds were white with glaciers whose existence is now threatened by the warming climate. After taking in the beauty of the park, we fished the forks of the Flathead River where I hooked and landed a couple of dozen west-slope cutthroats. Beautiful trout from waters I’ve only dreamed of fishing until now.

Glacier National Park - Trout Stream

Highly Fishable

Holding Hole

Cedar Forests

Aspens and Tamaracks - Autumn's Peak

Bear and Georgia - Mountain Dogs

Cold Waters

Crepuscular Rays

On the way out west, we drove from the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont through the Adirondacks where we spent our first night.  Then we drove on to Niagara Falls, a natural wonder that I had managed to avoid to date, but one that seemed irresistible when passing so close on a sunny fall day. It was truly worthwhile, despite the human congestion.  Molly, the dogs and I romped on the beautiful lawns and dawned our ‘Maid of the Mist’ complimentary raincoats to shield the wind-driven mist from the falls.

The Honeymooners

I Apologize for this Seriously Touristy Photo

and This One, Too!

Plunge Pool

The next couple of days went by quickly as we drove through the less interesting highway miles through Chicago, then on into Wisconsin and Minnesota. We slowed down a bit in South Dakota and took in the Badlands and the Black Hills. We camped in a National Park campsite that offered about 200 camp sites. We were the only takers that cold night and spent the evening in the tent planning our fishing for the following morning.  We fished a couple of beautiful streams and managed to catch one small rainbow in a pool backed up by a huge pine deadfall.

Now it’s on to Ketchum, Idaho to visit Kate for a week or so.  We plan to catch up on her life out west while the three of us camp in the mountains and fish some of the rivers around her side of Idaho.  I will report on those adventures when I return.

So bear with me for another couple of weeks while I continue my personal voyage of discovery. I will post lots of reports about the 2011 Three Rivers season including the brook trout successes of many of our guests.

(Note:  I wrote the above post two weeks ago, but could not post it due to my electronics deficiencies.  I am home now and have so much more to post, but need to get this out today. More to come!)

Pictures Heretofore Unseen

Something really unexpected happened this past summer.  Ann and Brad Taylor came up for a week of fly fishing.  They are an interesting, outdoors-loving couple who live adventurous lives, particularly enjoying travel to remote, unsullied places.  Their first day in camp, I saw that Ann was carrying a nice camera and could sense she was quite comfortable with it.  What I didn’t know (but was to find out later) was that she has an artist’s eye!

Ann, Brad and guide Quentin Venture Out from the 5th Rapids Outpost Camp

Early this month, the morning after Ann’s DVD arrived in the mail, I got up at 5 am, made a pot of Matt’s Coffee, and slid in to my computer’s driver’s seat, ready for yet another typical visual adventure from a Labrador summer past. But what downloaded was over 600 truly amazing shots of the Taylor’s trip, photographs the likes of which I have never seen before. Now I get photos from dozens of guests each season. I even take a few myself. And because folks typically send their best few shots, many of the pictures are beautiful. All are deeply appreciated. Most feature, as you would expect, big fish and wild rivers with the occasional sunset thrown in.

Ann in the Boreal Forest

Ann’s pictures were inspirational.  As I screened them, I would often get to feeling a bit manic, quickly clicking to the next frame, and then the next, only to hit the back button thinking ‘Whoa, did I really see that?” Digesting Ann’s catalogue, dozens of future stories rushed through my head – the long road from Baie Comeau to Labrador City, wildflowers of Labrador, savage pike attacks, waterfowl, anatomy of the boreal forest – and on and on. (OK, big bright brook trout, too!) The pictures would tell the stories – I would just have to add a bit of BS here and there.

The Long and Winding (Baie Comeau) Road

Attack!

Bright Reward

So with their blessing, the Taylor’s pictures will add depth to our web site as we do our typical re-build each fall.  They will help describe tales of Labrador on this fishing log and bring witness, adventure and understanding to all who visit here.

Thank you, Brad and Ann, for your patronage and the beautiful visual chronicle.

Team Taylor

Back Home from Camp; So-long, 2011

It’s been so long since I posted here that I forgot my sign-in name and password – had to look them up!  My forgetfulness should be no surprise, however, because my brain is racing – cluttered with fishing stories to tell; with memories of interesting, gracious people and their angling adventures; with powerful, cold-water fish, both gained and lost. I drank two glasses of wine (two good glasses)  just so I could sit down here and write this post.

So get ready.  September will be a month of story-telling about Labrador and our secret world of big, river-bred brook trout.  (And a few more bottles of merlot).

Pour yourself a glass. It’s good to be home.

Railings or Eight Pounders? – A 2011 Report

Which would you rather hear about, the new railings on the log addition or the plethora of eight-pound-plus brookies netted so far this summer?  Probably the brookies. But you’ll have to wait for pictures until late August when I return from camp.

Dave's Railings

That leaves the railings.  TRL Friend extraordinaire Dave D. from Melrose, MA again came up early in the season for what we call ‘work week’.  Dave has had his hands (literally) in so many of the projects that make Three Rivers Lodge a neat place – the chimney and fireplace in the “Tilt” (the log addition to the dining lodge); the floor, panelling, roofing, etc. of the Tilt; boardwalks, finish woodwork, etc., etc.  This June, one of Dave’s projects was adding railings to the front porch of the Tilt.  His handiwork produced not just your average railings, you see.  These rails were selected from twisted tamarack trees grown in the local woods. The green wood will dry through the summer, then be sanded smooth and sealed to match the adjacent logs.

The Tilt Porch

And a word about those eight pounders.  Well, they have been plentiful and with the guides carrying digital scales these days, these big brookies are not born of excited imaginations. It looks like 2011 will actually exceed 2010, a year that was our best “catching” season in thirteen summers.  I’ll try not to sound boastful, but there is no doubt in my mind that our drainage system is the finest brook trout river in the world – that would be the whole, wide world.

Robins’ Return

June 30, 2011:  The robins returned today.  This peninsula in a northern lake must have something good going for it (‘aviarily’ speaking) because two pair of robins showed up this year.  I’m thinking these birds must be a new generation because the males are a bit larger than the fellow who has been here for so many years past.  And the four of them are spending lots of energy checking out the entire peninsula – every perch and clearing, even the alders along the lakeside.  Their exuberance is annoying to the two resident Canada jays and incites the occasional spat.

camp robber

The robin pair that has spent so many summers with us habitually fed in the clearing in front of the Winter Camp.  Grubs, probably.  No worms this far north. They had favorite spots for nesting – secret, hidden boughs for their rearing nests and conspicuous trees for the diversionary nests.  They preferred tamarack to black spruce.

robins in the bonsai

marking forage

This year’s robins have shown no preference for those old, familiar spots. And they haven’t been seen in front of the Winter Camp either. So I must wonder if the old ma and pa have passed on, absorbed by nature’s cycles.

here to stay are the new birds

On second thought, perhaps they were just weary of the long flight to this old north woods home and are spending their golden years down south, perched on a dogwood bough in the sweet pine woods of north Georgia.