FIRST GLIMPSES OF WYOMING

Two days into my Wyoming trip and I’m wrought with self-pity that I don’t live here even worse that it’s my first visit. Taking 8 years to complete a bachelor’s degree, finding out you’ve knocked up a chick and taking more than your share of semesters off trying to "get it together" a.k.a. working or hopefully fishing your butt off carries those kind of consequences. At least the chick was cool and by graduation you’re balding, broke and helplessly in love. Your bride even got you a $150 tying vise for Christmas (what romance) seemingly raking the money from thin air, the same way she did for gas money to take this trip.

As fishing luck has it, my wife’s best friend Sara happens to live within reasonable distance of Jackson Hole in one of the small towns on the fringe of the Wind River Range (another strategic location). The 12 hour drive to her place consisted of 15 potty breaks for our 3 year old and the drive in actuality spanned upwards of 14 hours. The night of our arrival I meet up with Sara’s ex to discuss fishing plans, a socially dubious venture in which I quickly establish myself as a neutral party. His name’s Jerry: a Michigan native driven west by employment opportunities and a quest for new surroundings as well as past due child support and the long arm of the law. During his and Sara’s stay with us over the holidays a year ago, we quickly became drinking pals and plotted against trout all across the western United States. And here we were, on our way to carry out our first mission.

“It’s about a three beer spot” Jerry says as we turn onto a dirt road headed for my first well known river. We quickly crack our twelve ouncers, and begin to trace the road along the river. A beer deep and we stop so he can show me the site where a lost snowmobiler was found in the spring, still half frozen, the body was well preserved he says “what with the cold weather.”

“You don’t %$*# around out here in the winter.” “I stick to the groomed paths or at least really close, if you get lost out here in the snow, you’re a done deal.” It’s late September and I can already feel the chill in the evenings. I glance at the trucks built in GPS, we’re approaching 7,000 feet elevation. The first snow would fall a week later but I’d already be long gone.

The spot ends up being 3 and a half beers, which is just fine with us. “Try hopper/droppers and don’t worry a whole lot about your leader, they’re not very shy in this section.” The river is slow, smooth and somehow archetype western, just like the magazine pictures of my childhood, I’m mesmerized by the entire thing before I remember my one liter canister of pepper spray and the fact that I should keep an eye peeled for Grizzlies. Jerry wades with a .44 and l liken this to a kind of Wyatt Earp flyfisherman as he offers me a pinch of Copenhagen.

For good measure I spit a black gob of tobacco on my size 6 Dave’s hopper. “Cast along the weedbeds, they’re usually just sittin’ in there.” Just as I’m hearing this he’s already into a nice brown. I cast up ahead and miss an aggressive slash. A few minutes later I fall into a rhythm and hook a small brown that reminds me of my son’s flailing legs during a tantrum at a gas station two days prior in Park City. The defiance ends in much the same way, his with the realization of a car seat buckle, and the fish with the finality of a net. Not that I usually net smaller fish but I wasn’t about to take any chances on my first Wyoming trout.

“Oooh #!7t” I hear from downstream. You should’ve seen that fish.” Jerry’s eyes are climbing out of his skull. “Hook one like that and you’ll be in the local paper” he says in half jest. I’ve seen copies of the local paper and with a population of about 400, about as conservative as it gets, it’s more like a passionate editorial forum where any willing member of town can rant about just why the country’s going straight to shit. Not exactly my cup of Beam but still I keep a lid on my politics in the state where Dick Cheney on a moment’s notice can have the secret service block off popular parts of the Snake River whenever he feels like fishing, sounds like executive privilege gone haywire to me.

More fish come to net and I keep looking for bears. A group of Antelope wearily tread the shore on the other side of the river. “I’m going after an elk next weekend” Jerry mentions, “I’ve never hunted one before but a couple guys I work with know a good spot. Too bad you’re leaving on Friday.”

“Yeah.” I manage not wanting to think about going back to work on Saturday.

Two day’s later and I’m Yellowstone bound. Sara drives with hell bent fury and we pass pods of antelope that are within 20 feet of the highway. My wife’s all nerves, having totaled a Cadillac in high school when a deer jumped into the road. I try to imagine what a 4-Runner would look like after hitting one of these hoofed roadblocks, at least the vintage Cadillac’s have a 300 foot long hood. My son has stayed back with Sara’s family, making the venture a much needed getaway especially for my wife. With nothing better to do I pry into the cooler and crack my first beer. Sara whose lived in Wyoming for longer then she’d like to admit begins bitching about the out-of-staters whose influx has begun to affect Californialike laws and regulations, not so different from my home state, where smoking has seemingly become the country’s greatest menace.

As we roll through Jackson, Sara points out various locales of party days past. We hit the grocery store for some last minute things and seeing a sushi bar and gourmet coffee stand, I’m instantly anxious to get back to the Wyoming countryside. We enter the park by 4pm having stopped to watch a moose in the Tetons. From here on we stop every few minutes to see the sites and so I can empty my bladder. I even pretend to see a buffalo in a tree riddled spot that looks perfect for hiding my great white hope from the tourists. I’ve put an impressive dent in the cooler by the time we arrive at old faithful.

We hit a pub in West Yellowstone that night for food before finding our motel. The beer has enlivened my quest to fish the Madison the next day. I ponder hangover potentials before I slam two tall bottles of water and fall into an anesthesia like coma until morning.

Morning arrives and here we are at the fabled Madison. Fish casually slurp mayflies off the surface as the sun bends just right onto the water, invigorating the day as the mornings chill begins to dissipate along with the condensation that rises picturesquely off the water before vanishing into the blue skies of the fabled American west. I’m rigged up with the perfect fly and delicately place the dry 3 feet above an 18 inch rainbow. Right? Yeah, the first part about the flies and the sun. My first cast on the Madison could have qualified for the NBA’s slam dunk contest. I not only put down the 18incher, but all the other fish within a 12 foot radius. And what about the fly? Two sizes too big.

Eventually I came around and just as I was landing my first fish, the hatch of course died out and it was time to switch over to subsurface tactics. No problem. I decided to let a size 14 modified hare’s ear do the dirty work. I took my share of 12-14 inch rainbows. My wife who was fishing just downstream, started yelling about a “nice-ass fish” that refused her Prince at the last minute. I had to have a look, my wife needs me I thought to myself, after all, how could I ignore the necessities of matrimonial duty? When I saw the fish in question, I guessed about 20 inches. Not the biggest fish in the river but undeniably nice and a more inviting prospect than a 14 incher.

I watched 10 or so drifts with the Prince before she regressed. “Alright, go ahead.” I decided to ignore the reluctant nuances in her voice. “Are you sure? I mean—” “Just do it.” Ladies and gentlemen, the cast, the drift, the flash in the riverbed, the hookset. I’ll admit I felt kind of bad, it was really her fish. But marriage requires teamwork and self-sacrifice right? From this day forward you’re no longer two human beings but instead one. These sentiments were quickly put on hold as my reel began to cry out in a spinning anguish. The fish was a screamer. 19 inches? 17 and a half. Famous water will do that to a anyone and that’s why I brought a scale. You can’t be too careful about these things.

When the girls mentioned food, I noticed I was pretty hungry too. We headed for the cafeteria at Old Faithful. The stop including the gift shop put a serious dent in my wallet as my wife seemingly picked up enough trinkets labeled either Yellowstone or Old Faithful to start our own little Yellowstone themed flea market stand. I guess revenge really can get served on ice. She let me get a fly fishing magazine though, only to realize a mile down the road that this rather famous publication had dropped the dime on another one of my favorite lesser known rivers. Hurray for Karma.

We pulled up to the parks south entrance with an hour of fishable daylight. I rigged up and ventured out alone to fish the illustrious Snake. It fished well too. Two drifts in and fish on. Over the course of 45 minutes I caught about 25 fish. Yeah that’s why I’ve been reading about these rivers all my life. Walking back to the ride, I kept an eye out for bears as I pondered calling my boss and saying I’d been attacked by a deranged moose and under the tragic circumstances, couldn’t be back to town for at least two months. The jingle of my shiny new Yellowstone nail clippers (the one my wife convinced me to replace my ceramic nippers for) quickly reminded me that as good as the fishing was here, a relatively impoverished family of three cannot roam homeless through a Wyoming winter. Credit card bills were calling. So be it.

The drive home was filled with anguish and reluctance. I felt weepy, my buddy who gauges all of his friend’s emotional states by what he reads on tampon packaging would have said I was having a heavy day and told me to get over it. Determined to carry on and hopeful since my wife told me we could come back next year, I pushed on the accelerator over the long flat highway that headed for home, saddened but all filled up too having experienced some fine Wyoming fishing. I figured I might even be able to fish my now not-so-secret spot after work the following night.