Fish Stories

EMIGRANT, Mont. — A trout is a very nervous creature, says "The Orvis Fly-Fishing Guide." Early in July, flying into Bozeman, Mont., along the frosted crest of the Rocky Mountains, I could empathize, because I was about to test my nerves against theirs in the fabled trout streams that drain the northern precincts of Yellowstone National Park: the Madison, Gardner, Gibbon, Lamar and the mighty Yellowstone, the longest free-flowing river in the Lower 48.

Inside the 2.2-million-acre national park there are 400 fishable waters, including meandering creeks, ponds and lakes where, after being duped by fly-fishermen, most fish live to be duped again because, thanks to conservation, catch and release is largely the rule. The fishing season lasts from snowmelt in late May to first snowfall in October, and the average size of trout landed in the park is about 14 inches--lake, brook, brown, rainbow and the native cutthroat trout, known for its incredible gullibility. Studies have shown that the average cutthroat gets hooked 10 times a season, and that some are so dumb they land in a net three times a day.

So, despite the fact that I'd only done a little fishing before, and never with an imitation fly (versus a real insect lure), the odds were with me and against the trout. To strengthen my advantage, I booked a six-night guided fly-fishing package at Hubbard's Yellowstone Lodge ($2,080, not including equipment rental or van transfer from the Bozeman, Mont., airport), one of about 40 lodges endorsed by the well-known fishing outfitter, the Orvis Co.

Hubbard's is perched on the shoulders of the Absaroka Mountains beside 85-acre Merrell Lake, 17 miles north of the park in the Paradise Valley of Montana. To say the least, a river runs through it. The Yellowstone River, which gets lazy after its chute off the 7,000-foot Yellowstone plateau, and oxbows through the valley until it turns east to meet with the Missouri River near the North Dakota border.

The overhead compartments on my flight were full of rod bags, and when I landed at the little Bozeman Airport there were fishermen practice-casting on the lawn. At the baggage claim, I was met by my guide, Phil Gager, a junior majoring in history at Colgate University in New York. He was tall, diffident and dangerously cute. This did not seem a good sign, because I was serious about the cutthroats, and unlikely to learn anything from a 20-year-old.


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