Slough Creek Meadow

 Summer is slipping through our fingers quickly. Daydreams of cutthroats chomping down on foam flies will soon be just that, a daydream. Knowing this, when I heard that my coworker Kellen was fishing with his dad Fred, I scribbled down some notes; and with a few early morning texts shot back and forth we found ourselves on the trailhead into Slough Creek. Summer seems to fly past each year, leaving the fly-angler with months of blue-lining, trip planning, and fly-tying for the next season. Kellen and I were determined to close our fists and hold onto those last grains of summer magic the greater Yellowstone area has to offer. 

  Fred and Kellen have drank their coffee and munched their breakfast, but the anticipation for the day ahead has left me with an empty stomach and cold fingers. We put on our packs and strapped on bear spray. The crackle of sand and gravel sounds into the hikers ears, and the crisp morning air chills the arms and face. Bears eventually work their way into the trail conversation, then bison and moose. These huge animals are all too common in the park, with those blank stares and heavy coats. If we're lucky we’ll see some of those herbivores left over from the ice-age and hopefully they’ll stay about 100 yards away from us. 

 It didn’t take long to spot one. We drop into the Slough Creek meadow. A lone Bison Bull is ahead of us, lumbering down the trail, preventing our progress any further. His nostrils emit steam and his occasional glance back towards us helps us keep our distance. As the burly beast slowly meanders off the trail into the meadow, Kellen, a fisheries wildlife and conservation management major swings the conversation to fish. Yellowstone Cutthroat, our target today, then goldens, greenbacks, bonneville, and on. We’ll catch ‘em all, one day. Fred knows a creek with goldens, maybe I should check it out next summer. I’ll tell him about a good backpacking trip into the Thorofare where he should try to get big Cutts; and the angler’s transaction is complete. A spot for a spot. 

 Kellen and Fred set up their camp for the night-permit required-I have to work tomorrow, so I choke down some much needed cheese and crackers and douse my cinnamon ant with Fly-agra as they do some quick camp chores. I’ll be hiking out alone today. 

 Grasshoppers lazily bound out of our way, parting from our trail as we marched down to the rivers edge. The meandering creek with deep slow pools looks lifeless at first, but don’t let Slough creek fool you. In its depths long and limber cutthroats have their eyes up to the surface, looking for a well placed meal and watching for a careless shop kid walking too close to the bank. From the high bank, you can watch some of these natives cruise their pools, rising to some microscopic meal trapped in the water’s surface. After a few minutes of admiration. My first cast at a spotted and stalky trout spooks it, and it zips down underneath the cut bank underfoot. Botched. 

 For the next two hours, our flies are refused and ignored by the creek’s inhabitants. Out comes the zebra midges and the TBS. Alas, none of these offerings seem to be enough. The river is filled with fish, but they know our tricks. What can be done? Is summer over already? Will my future hold only streamer strips and cold fingers crimping splitshot onto ugly bobber rigs? It’s noon now. 

 But we don’t surrender, every pool we advance to allows us to try a new tactic. The ants, the tricos, the midges don’t work. At last, lunchtime finds us feeling like our day is wasted. I tie on a big yellow foam hopper, in hopes that with a dropper, I can coax up at least one today before I leave. 

 I look over my shoulder at Kellen, walking my way. I glance back at my fly on the far undercut bank just as a mouth closes down on the hopper. Instinct takes over. The cutthroat shakes its head slowly back and forth, over and over, until the fish slowly spins itself upside down, flashing with a golden yellow body and fiery orange fins. Kellen, the fine fellow he is, nets the fish. A sigh of relief seems to come out from our little expedition. 

 And there it was, our knots were pulled tight and the flies shared between us. Our last great summertime trip was going to fish hoppers, high and dry. From then on the last of the day was spent stack mending, dry shaking, and watching as the cutthroats rose, or refused, our foam monstrosities. And for a few hours, it was summertime still, with the sun beating down and the grasshoppers buzzing in the sagebrush. 

 The day’s lesson was this: keep the hook in the water, no matter how hopeless or unlikely it seems. Summertime isn’t over, and for those willing to work, explore, and put in the time, there is still a fish out there for you, willing to make your dry fly vanish in a swirl. Take a day and grasp at the last fine moments of sunny skies and wet wading.

 Kellen, Fred and I parted ways, and I began the hike back to the truck. A bear lumbered across the open meadow in front of me. The bison had moved along to the riverside. And as the sun sank behind the hillsides, I chatted with some forest service volunteers, John and Deb. Good people, but that’s to be expected on the trail. I ran out of water a half mile from my truck. Dusty, thirsty, and my gut twisted with hunger, I stumbled back to the parking lot content with the day. 

Hope you finish your summer just as content as well.

-Orrin Jones