More Yellowstone content to warm you up on a cold winter’s day…
We finally started fishing on Tuesday. It was a long drive (we left Huntsville, AL on Saturday morning), and I was itching to get to it. I picked a spot where I thought everyone could catch a few fish and the casting wouldn’t be difficult as I was the only truly experienced fly fisher on the trip. The Virginia Meadows stretch of the Gibbon fit the bill. The brookies here are tiny, and I’m sure they get hammered, but it’s a great place to wet a line. The meadow is beautiful. The river here looks like a meandering spring creek. One interesting twist to fishing the meadows, especially early during a wet year, is that grayling occasionally wash down here out of Grebe Lake. I wanted one badly, but it didn’t happen for us this time. My father did catch his first trout on a fly rod, a tiny brookie that somehow choked down a size 10 grasshopper pattern. I’m not sure how many we caught. Didn’t seem to matter which fly we presented. We all used different patterns. We did have some wind which delighted in pushing a fly line into the tangled grasses at the last moment. We were glad of it though because it kept the hordes of ravenous mosquitoes at bay. The photo is of Dad fishing the tail of a riffle. I tried to capture the S-curve of the stream, which I did, but I’d like to shoot it again from a higher vantage with a longer lens to compress the scene.
Below are a few more shots from the morning’s fishing. If you’ll notice in the photo of me and Dad, I’m not wearing waders. This was a strategic decision. For one thing, you don’t need them for this stream. For another, it wasn’t hot, but it was warm enough that I didn’t want waders if I didn’t need them. The general idea was to stay on the bank and keep my hiking boots dry. We hadn’t been fishing five minutes when I hooked a little brookie and immediately plunged into the creek to land it, out of instinct, I suppose. I hope it was instinct and not unadulterated stupidity. Either way, the result was the same: I spent that evening around the campfire drying out my boots and socks.