Author: Steve

Gary Kring, my office next door neighbor, who also happened to be in
Yellowstone, stopped by with his family for lunch. Ken and Chris and the
kids left.
We have been fishing Soda Butte Creek for 12 to 15 inch fish. Fished
upstream. The fish were small. Fished the meadow below the campground.
The fish were bigger, but none bigger than 12 inches. Fished the lower
meadow, a couple miles downstream, from the butte down toward the Lamar. That’s where we encountered “The Fish”. It was the perfect setup; a swoop
of current flowing into a curving pool. We could fish it from a gravel bank
on the inside of the curve. A bubble line flowing right next to the cut
back on the opposite side. A bubble line is a good thing. If you get a
bubble line flowing though a pool, that’s where the fish line up to feed on
whatever floats downstream. There he was, right up against the opposite
bank, rising to snack on something off the surface, then dropping back down
to wait for the next morsel. It was almost too easy. Almost. There was
another, stronger current flowing right into the middle of the pool to
complicate the drift. No bubble line there, just a stronger current. There
were fish in that current too, but I couldn’t see them. The fish I wanted
was under the bubble line. Here is the problem. To catch the fish, the fly you cast has to dead drift
right down in front of his nose. If the current catches the line, it will
drag the fly, and no self-respecting trout will respond to it. The
challenge is to get the longest dead drift possible so you have the longest
opportunity to fool a trout. In this case, I needed to cast my line across
a faster current to reach the slower current my fish was feeding in. Before
my fly had a chance to drift very far, the faster current would catch the
line and drag the fly. If I could cast to the right place, I needed about a
two-foot drift. I made a couple casts that were slightly off, but not so
bad as to spook the trout. Then I hit right where I wanted: two feet in
front of him, directly in line. All I needed was for that fly to make it to
him before it started skating across the surface. It drifted. It drifted.
It worked! It was so subtle. If I hadn’t known exactly where that fish
was, I would never have caught him. The fly drifted down to him. He rose
slightly. I never saw him take the fly. He never broke the surface. The
fly just disappeared. I gave the line a tug. He was on it. He stayed on it. I landed him fifty
feet downstream. He’s not the biggest fish ever, but he was the big fish of
the day, and for the Yellowstone Park part of the trip. A 17 inch
Yellowstone Cutthroat. The next day it rained, and Soda Butte Creek blew
out. That muddy brown thing flowed into the Lamar and blew it out. It will
be days before either stream clears up again. Timing is everything.

Bill left early in the car for Pebble Creek to get us a campsite. I
followed with the motorhome. North to Mammoth Hot Springs, then right,
across the whole top of the park to the northeast corner. Pebble Creek
Campground. Nice place. Remote. Small. Only thirty sites. Quiet. No
generators allowed. Scenic. Pebble Creek runs into Soda Butte Creek. Soda
Butte runs into the Lamar River. The Lamar runs into the Yellowstone. The
Yellowstone flows north into Montana, and joins up with the Missouri, which
runs north and east to join the Mississippi. We fished Soda Butte Creek.
It holds Yellowstone Cutthroat Trout. Lots of them. Some very big. Bill left. Judy arrived with our tow car. Ken and Christie and the boys
arrived and set up their tent. We all hung out. Some of us fished. Bears. Bears are not uncommon here. This is Yellowstone. There are
supposed to be bears here. Mostly, they’re black bears. Black bears are
good bears. They follow the rules. If you do everything you’re supposed
to, you’re practically guaranteed to be left alone by them. Grizzly bears
are something else. They do whatever they want. Ken and Chris have been here for several days. Tonight, after smores, the
kids had gone to bed, and we were sitting around the campfire in the dark
with Ken and Chris. Ray, the camp host came by to talk. Thumper, the
grizzly bear, has been spotted out in the meadow heading our way. He has
been in the campground before, but his last time in the campground, he got
trapped and carted off. Now he’s wearing a yellow radio collar. He has
been spotted in the area by the bear watchers. He was last seen down by the
butte a couple miles away. Judy and I just spent four hours this afternoon,
fishing right there. Ray wanted to be sure all the tenters were being
careful to follow the rules for camping in bear country. No food. Nothing
that could be considered food. Nothing fragrant in the tent. I asked why the bear was named Thumper. He is named Thumper because of what
he likes to do to tents. Ray said not to worry. Two out of the three tents
were in the back country. Of course, the other one had to be here in this
campground at site fifteen. Ken and Chris are in a tent. They were leaving tomorrow anyway.

The camp at Pebble Creek.

The first campsite at Pebble Creek wasn’t completely level. Or we could entitle this “The Bounder Achieves Liftoff.”

The next morning we’re off to Indian Creek Campground inside Yellowstone for
some brook trout fishing. We have a routine. Bill heads out in his car first thing, to get us a spot
for the motorhome. I stay behind and get the motorhome ready for traveling,
then follow. We were figuring out how long it would take each of us to get
from West Yellowstone to Indian Creek Campground inside the park. We agreed
on how long it should be, but allowed that these things always seem to take
longer than you expect. That leaves me wondering: if it doesn’t take longer
than you expect, does that mean you didn’t get what you expected? Rags misses his dog, and told us so over and over. In fact, he missed his
dog all night long last night. Today, he decided we needed separate
vacations. I don’t know why, but once he got the idea into his head, he
just couldn’t stop talking about it. Finally, I let him have his way and
delivered him to the veterinary office in West Yellowstone. They promised
to take him to their kitty hotel in Ennis, about sixty miles north, and keep
him there for a week. I don’t know why the cat was so anxious to get away
from me, but I have his best interests at heart, and if he’d rather be in
Ennis, it’s okay with me. Got a great campsite at Indian Creek. Fished the Gardiner for brook trout.
Caught about a hundred. They’re small and easy to catch. It’s kind of like
fishing for bluegill. The biggest fish we caught was seven inches long. We
have heard stories of bigger brook trout further up stream. The next day we went off in search of the elusive ten-inch brookie. We
hiked in to fish Indian Creek and Panther Creek. Caught about a hundred.
The biggest one was nine inches; just starting to look like a real fish.
Armed with this additional experience, we went back to the campground
fisherman network. It’s not hard to get fisherman to talk about the fish
they caught that was just bigger than yours. We got directions to a spot
reputed to hold twelve-inch brook trout. Time to move on, though. We’ll hold on to this new brook trout information.