Rolling clouds crested nearby mountains, blocking the sun, and leaving my approach to the river in shade. I pulled a wool hat down tighter, and watched the clouds. Like any trip to the river, I enjoyed every moment I stood near rushing water. My nose was a bit cold, however.

I had driven past this river stretch many times, yet it had been about a decade since I stopped to fish. Last time, I caught many trout, only a few Whitefish, and was able to relax in a riverside hot spring. This time, the fish were not hungry.


Looking downstream, you can see the mist from the tributary hot spring on the right. I was too busy fishing and freezing to stop and relax in the springs. The sun was far below the western ridge, and I had yet to catch a fish. How does that happen?

My guides were freezing on every fourth cast, and darkness seeped through the valley. My time on the river was about up, and I was about to go home fishless. This has not happened in a long time. In fact, I'm not sure when the last time was, I have not caught a fish on a fishing trip, no matter how brief (I usually don't quit 'till I catch one...). Not that I have to catch a fish. I just really like to catch them when possible, you know.

In my fish drought, I had switched to many fly patterns styles, and none produced. I fished through most of the water surrounding me, and caught nothing. I switched back to my Marathoner pattern, which I started with, but cut after not having luck. My fifth cast at the far end of the hole -- about 60 feet upstream, plopped in to a good-looking hold. My strike indicator stopped and sunk down, but I ignored it. Yep, ignored my bobber. It had been indicating my flies getting tugged by so many boulders, that I had given up on reacting. After my indicator stayed oddly put, I lifted and felt a fish tug! But, my slovenly hook set left me fishless. I could feel the fish twist on pop off the fly, through the sensitivity of my Sweetgrass, 3 piece, pent.

I cussed a little.

Then, I cast back to the same spot, ready like a mountain lion watching a cottontail emerge from its hole. Instantly, I felt a pause, set the hook, and this time...

I was secured to a beautiful trout! It was a brilliant sensory awakening to be fighting this native fish on a cane rod. Just perfect.


Yep, a native Yellowstone Cutthroat trout that thought my Marathoner delivered by a Sweetgrass rod was irresistible. Or it could see the icy tears streaming down my cheek because I was not catching fish. Hard to tell.


A kiss and a release (after I slipped the Marathoner out, of course). Check out that orange slash!

And that made me happy.


In Wild Waters,

Zac Sexton

The Meandering Booboy

P.S. I do remember Christmas day and that I may not have caught a fish then. However, that was many trips ago, and I tend to repress such depressing memories....