Memory in the Mist
A merger of past and present in the mind of an experienced angler.
Occasionally I wonder if my fondest Madison River recollection is the result of an overactive imagination.
Driving into the Park from West Yellowstone, I push aside any nagging suspicions about my subconscious as I slowly ease through a series of roadside turnouts, looking for my old fishing hole. After my fourth excursion into the river, I’m certain of one thing—28 years is a long time, even in seemingly timeless Yellowstone. A river still parallels the road, and I just passed a small herd of bison; but honestly, I don’t recognize much else in the Upper Madison Basin. Decades of harsh winters, runoff, the relentless growth of trees, an occasional forest fire, and some manmade changes to the highway, collectively overwhelm my flickering memory.
According to my recollection, it was a balmy day, clear and calm. The exact month eludes me, but I do remember that the weather was pleasant. I may have worn a light jacket but nothing heavier. I don’t think there was anyone else fishing near me, which suggests a weekday.
Back then, I was nymphing and tying my own flies. I had not yet discovered that trout often prefer small flies, so whatever I was throwing, it was undoubtedly large and probably weighted. Forced to commit, I would wager that my offering was a stonefly, a hare’s ear, or a prince nymph.
The next turnout parallels the river for several hundred yards. This time I stop my truck to take a picture of a wading bull elk. I wish I had a few photographs from that sublime day long ago, but I was busy catching fish.
When I look away from the elk, I notice a guide and his client, knee-deep in the current, oblivious to the elk upstream. From the guide’s casting motion, I can tell he is teaching the intricacies of streamer fishing.
“Unrefined.” The word makes me smile. That’s how angling friends described my casting way back when. I don’t recall snagging any streamside vegetation, a detail I surely would remember, because, in those days, I also dreaded knot-tying.
The guide hooks a nice trout on the swing, immediately lowers the rod tip, and feeds line into the current, allowing the fish to escape before his customer’s attitude shifts from impressed to irritated. More dormant memories surface.
I remember that the spot I fished that day was close to the road, where the river narrowed and formed an elongated pool. I targeted the calmer water below the rapids and hooked a whitefish, my first catch on the fabled Madison River. I was thrilled and, in retrospect, probably admired the fish more than was warranted. Within minutes, I landed a second fish of the same species and a third. When I eventually drifted my fly the length of the pool, I was rewarded with a nice brown, just above the tail-out. I discovered that I could make a single cast, mend the line, and slowly walk the length of the pool. It felt like cheating, but it worked.
Several trout and innumerable whitefish later, the bite slowed. A cheerful voice behind me intoned, “It looks like you’ve caught them all.”
“Unrefined.” The word makes me smile. That’s how angling friends described my casting way back when.
Startled, I turned and made eye contact with an older man standing on the slope behind me. Before I could respond, he added, “You must have found a school of fish pushing through here on their way upstream to the Gibbon or Firehole.”
I nodded, took a step back from the water, and tried to process the stranger’s insights. The cynic in me wondered if he was being helpful or had other motivations, such as taking my spot.
Noting my hesitation, he continued, “In my opinion, the fishing is better further upstream.” Reluctantly, I loaded my gear and departed, but not before I stored those idyllic few hours in a mental vault that seems increasingly inaccessible.
Back in town, and walking slower than I did 28 years ago, I enter one of West Yellowstone’s coffee shops, place my order, and take a seat. I’ve decided that tomorrow I’ll search downstream, across the border into Montana, for my long-lost fishing spot.
A few minutes later, my coffee and scone arrive. I’m sampling the latter when a young lady enters the shop and strides toward the counter and waiting proprietor. Because I’m still thinking about the Madison River, I miss the initial part of their conversation, but I’m more attentive when the younger woman raises her voice and proclaims, “It’s just sitting out there idling, with the windows down.”
Still savoring the delicious baked pastry, I pass my right hand across my vest pockets and frown, unable to locate the truck keys.
