We went up the Stillwater River into the Beartooth Mountains. Past Sioux Charlie and Frenchy’s meadow. Beyond Cutoff Mountain. Further than I had ever gone. Until we reached the valley where Slough Creek flows down into Yellowstone Park. Vibrant green pine saplings blanketed the earth beneath tall grey sticks the fires left along the slopes until they reached the high edges of rockslides and steep granite. When the wind blew wildflowers in the grasses swayed and made fleeting purple waves in the pastures. We were alone. I was twenty years old, and thought I knew how special it was. Knew how small I was in the mountains. How precious that time was. Now I understand it was more than I could have known then.
I was twenty-two years old when I put the chapel spires of the USAF Academy in my rearview mirror for the last time, pointed my burgundy Volvo North, fly rod sticking out the window, and set out for the Rocky Mountains with my best friend in trail formation.
It is one thing to not catch fish while nymphing. It is another to be hooking up all day and then come up short on a great spot.