I was fishing in Yellowstone just days ago. Searching for trout and grayling while Goldeneye and Rudy ducks fed within casting range of my fly rod. My feet ached from the cold water but I didn’t want to move. Stepping out of that lake meant the trip was over. The fishing rod cased. Wading shoes packed away. Mountain views gone. Replaced by asphalt, obligations and responsibilities.
Heading back to reality after any trip is never easy. This wake-up call was just plain brutal. In five days we fished Montana, Idaho and Wyoming. We floated 30 miles of the Snake River. Slept under the stars. Crossed paths with a bear, moose, elk, bison and a Labrador that almost met his maker. We partied like we were 21 to welcome Mike to the ranks of the soon-to-be-married. What took months of planning was suddenly gone in an instant.
I know its cliché. Damn it. But words hardly describe the feeling of fishing in the mountains. If you’ve been there then you know what I’m saying. If you haven’t fished there…fix that.