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Yellowstone's first day of fishing season dampened by overflowing streams By RICHARD WESNICK Editor of The Gazette A wife rolls over in bed as her husband pulls on jeans, shirt and boots and gathers rods, waders and other gear in the half-light. "What's it like outside?" she asks sleepily.
 Gazette photos/ RICHARD WESNICK The Firehole River was well beyond its banks on opening day. The main river channel is beyond the trees that can be seen in what is now mid-stream. He pulls back the curtain covering the small window in the cabin at Old Faithful Lodge, peers into the mist and replies, "Not bad. Should be a good day." A typical male lie. She grunts something unintelligible, snuggles back under the covers and dozes off. Instinct told her that the darkness was not entirely attributable to the early hour. If the sun is not to be seen by now, it will not be seen at all this day. Gray-black clouds were dragging their bellies over the hills, anxious to unload the cargo they'd hauled for a thousand miles or more to Wyoming.
It was opening day of fishing season in Yellowstone National Park and all the omens had to be ignored no matter how obvious. Too many preparations had been made, too many memories of previous opening days had been conjured up, too many hopes had been raised for the telling in years to come. Opening day, whether on the Firehole or any other water with a closed season, issues a summons more powerful than any court's and it must be obeyed. Steam from the geysers and hot pots near the Iron Bridge and Muleshoe Bend rose straight to the low-hanging clouds, probing for weak spots, jabbing holes here and there to help drain the over-filled nimbus monsters. The gray tint of steam and the darker hue of the clouds blended into one, as if stirred together on an artist's palette. By 9:30 in the morning, the occasional sprinkle turned into a drizzle, then a light shower, then a steady downpour, adding even more water to the already bloated rivers and streams. A few rainbows - a very few - were taken that morning before reason returned and visions of hot coffee and warmer surroundings took control. The rod and reel were wiped clean and stored away, the boots and waders were stripped off and tossed in the back of the car and the heater was turned up to Warp Drive. With the wipers playing tag across the windshield, we headed west, away from the scene we'd been drawing in our minds all winter. Two weeks before opening day, the hills and meadows of Yellowstone had been covered with snow and the rivers had run clear, low and blue. Today, the hills and meadows were bare and the snowmelt had run down to gorge the rivers. They were high, fast and murky. Only the most foolhardy fishermen waded in deeper than their ankles. In many areas, boots and waders were needed just to get close to the river's former shoreline. The signs were there all the way to Yellowstone, if you chose to observe and heed them. You could see them at Livingston where the Yellowstone River was at flood stage. At Gardiner, the Gardner River was rampaging white water. The farther you traveled into Yellowstone, the more evident the scope of the spring flooding became. Indian Creek was the size of a hundred creeks, the Gibbon River covered the fields below Norris Campground. Elk Park and Gibbon Meadow had turned to lakes. The water funneling over Gibbon Falls defied description. The Gibbon, the Firehole and the fruit of their union - the Madison - searched for new boundaries, blurring any distinction between rivers and meadows. In some places, where the land is low and the rivers are high, even the main channels could not be identified. At the swan refuge on the Madison, a pair of nesting trumpeter swans was helpless against the rising water. On Friday, the threat was obvious as the Madison slowly but steadily climbed over the islands and vegetation surrounding them. Anxious bird watchers stopped and stood along the road throughout Friday and Saturday as the Madison inched upward until the nest stood alone, a tiny, lonely oasis completely surrounded by an ocean of water. The male finally was forced to surrender to the tide, but the female sat on the nest with the bravery, devotion and instinct that nature endows on those who must carry on the species. Hundreds of hearts went out to her, but no one could turn back the Madison that day - or any other day. The ageless lessons were whispered again last weekend, repeated for bird watchers, anglers and tourists who traveled from afar to drink in the indescribable beauty that we call Yellowstone. Nature holds the reins here and guides us, sometimes gently with falling rain, sometimes violently and without compassion, sometimes with a purpose that no mortal can ever understand. There are few places on earth where we can come so very close to the faces of nature and look them directly in the eyes. Sometimes we may not like what we see, but we're not in charge or in control here. Sometimes it's best to look the other way and avoid nature's gaze when she glares back too intently. On this day, when the rains become too intimidating, there are other - and drier - diversions than an opening day on the Firehole. I drive to West Yellowstone and pull fishing guide and outfitter Bob Jacklin away from his fly shop. Over lunch, he talks animatedly of fish and fishing, and points out a mounted golden trout on the wall of the restaurant. It was the first golden he ever caught, 35 years ago when he first came to Yellowstone country. With rain falling steadily, Jacklin suggests taking a ride down the road to Idaho where it, too, is opening day. At the Outlet to Henry's Lake, the rains have abated slightly and we watch anglers cast over the redds and pull in 18- and 20-inch cutthroat that average 2 to 3 pounds each. The cutts are in their spawning runs, navigating through the picket-posts of fly rods dotting the narrow stream. One young man lands a beautiful specimen, lays it in the grass on the shore and yells over to us, asking if we know the size limit. The temptation is great to say, "It's catch-and-release here, son." But he obviously knows better. We give him the answer he hopes for: keepers must be under 8 inches or over 16 inches. His smile widens; his catch is big enough to keep. Farther on down the road, with the rain falling hard once again, Jacklin stops at Big Springs, the "official" start of the North Fork of the Snake River. On the small bridge, we lean on the railing and look down 15 or so feet to watch a couple dozen large rainbows do an aquatic dance through the clear, shallow water and over the gravel bottom. There is a pair that runs 30 inches each, and probably more than 12 pounds apiece. Jacklin is excited. Other lookers are amazed. I am stunned. These are "look-and-release" trout because the spawning area is closed to fishing. Sometimes nature needs a little help from man, and if man is wise, he will give it without question. Nature will always return the favor with memories of 30-inch rainbows, red-slashed cutthroat on an Idaho shoreline, geyser steam rising to caress the clouds on a rain-sodden day, a rainbow lashing out at a bead-head nymph on the Firehole, and hot cups of coffee with friends to chase away the chill of an opening day in May.
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