Wrong Trail
Every natural object is a conductor of divinity ...
- John Muir
Yellowstone had long been on my bucket list..a nearly mythical place that never quite left my mind. Yet for a number of years I put off going, saying "next year ".
Suddenly (it seems) through life events I became acutely aware that tomorrow is never promised. So this year plans were made, equipment was gathered, and guide books were read.
It has now been a week since we returned to the "real wold". I have intentionally postponed blogging to spend time contemplating all we experienced in Yellowstone. Many things in my head are clamoring to be shared, yet I feel a hesitance at the keyboard this morning that I can't quite place. It is almost as if there is a fear that writing about it will break the spell. I hope not.
So for now, I will share just one of our adventures. It begins with the seed of adventure planted years ago with a phone call I received from Dave Sweet, of Cody WY when I was president of our local Trout Unlimited chapter. Dave was leading an effort to restore the Yellowstone Cutthroat trout population (the native trout in the Yellowstone Lake ecosystem) which had been decimated by the introduction of non-native Lake Trout in the 1990s. The unintended consequence of that introduction was a 90 - 95% reduction in the population of Yellowstone Cutts.
Dave educated me about the issue (view the video here ) and asked if out chapter would help with some of the financial burden of the restoration effort. Thankfully our chapter board of directors were very willing to help. But Dave did more than solicit financial assistance. He fanned an ember of a desire to visit Yellowstone into a small smoldering flame. He offered to show me around when I visited, and even suggested a place to fish...Slough Creek.
Slough Creek thus became the holy grail of Yellowstone for me.
When we first arrived at the park, we visited all the well known tourist attractions; Old Faithful, the mud pots, prismatic pool, and my favorite, the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone. Th upper and lower falls are indescribably gorgeous, and must be seen. But Slough Creek was never far from conscious thought.
When the day for fishing the creek finally arrived, we drove to the Lamar Valley through herds of bison. Literally...they cross the highway when and where they want, with glacial speed. Crossings almost always include a stop in the middle of the road to stare down the closest vehicles. Because they can.
We arrived at the Slough Creek campsite, geared up, spoke with a camper. Then I promptly led us to the wrong trail.
This is quite embarrassing to admit, because I had a perfectly good guide book "Catching Yellowstone's Wild Trout: A Fly Fishing History and Guide" (thanks Chris Hunt) that I had poured over for weeks. Likewise maps (what man is without a map? )
Details are important. Little words like "park at the trailhead" vs. where I parked at the back of the campground can be crucial. PSA - where a journey begins matters. Both trails would eventually lead to the same place, but were radically different in their degree of difficulty. Choose the right destination, trail, and trailhead. It can prevent a lot of pain and back-tracking in life as well as at Slough Creek.
The trail I took was to the canyon, not the meadows (our intended destination). Downed timber, boulder fields, and sheer cliffs awaited us. Did I mention mosquitoes the size of flying monkeys? I'll get you my pretty...
Blissfully ignorant of my error, we struck out from the campground. After a few hundred yards we still had a trail, but no recent footprints marked passage there. The trail quickly grew steeper and disappeared in a tangle of brush, so we bushwhacked for a bit.
Eventually I realized we were not in Kansas anymore, and the chances of us reaching the meadows that day would have to include a bit of mountaineering, which neither of us were up for.
We turned around to try to catch a few fish, and hopefully salvage the day.
As we were on the trail back, I turned to say something to Tammy and spied an elk rack resting high on a boulder. I could barely reach it. My guess is the bull had perished when the snow was deep, and the melt had deposited his crown atop this rough throne.
Its heft was substantial. To hold the rack and imagine the bull who had once sported it flooded my mind with thoughts and images. Most of all, I was thankful that the wrong trail can be the right path for a conduit to the divine.
- John Muir
Yellowstone had long been on my bucket list..a nearly mythical place that never quite left my mind. Yet for a number of years I put off going, saying "next year ".
Suddenly (it seems) through life events I became acutely aware that tomorrow is never promised. So this year plans were made, equipment was gathered, and guide books were read.
It has now been a week since we returned to the "real wold". I have intentionally postponed blogging to spend time contemplating all we experienced in Yellowstone. Many things in my head are clamoring to be shared, yet I feel a hesitance at the keyboard this morning that I can't quite place. It is almost as if there is a fear that writing about it will break the spell. I hope not.
So for now, I will share just one of our adventures. It begins with the seed of adventure planted years ago with a phone call I received from Dave Sweet, of Cody WY when I was president of our local Trout Unlimited chapter. Dave was leading an effort to restore the Yellowstone Cutthroat trout population (the native trout in the Yellowstone Lake ecosystem) which had been decimated by the introduction of non-native Lake Trout in the 1990s. The unintended consequence of that introduction was a 90 - 95% reduction in the population of Yellowstone Cutts.
Dave educated me about the issue (view the video here ) and asked if out chapter would help with some of the financial burden of the restoration effort. Thankfully our chapter board of directors were very willing to help. But Dave did more than solicit financial assistance. He fanned an ember of a desire to visit Yellowstone into a small smoldering flame. He offered to show me around when I visited, and even suggested a place to fish...Slough Creek.
Slough Creek thus became the holy grail of Yellowstone for me.
When we first arrived at the park, we visited all the well known tourist attractions; Old Faithful, the mud pots, prismatic pool, and my favorite, the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone. Th upper and lower falls are indescribably gorgeous, and must be seen. But Slough Creek was never far from conscious thought.
When the day for fishing the creek finally arrived, we drove to the Lamar Valley through herds of bison. Literally...they cross the highway when and where they want, with glacial speed. Crossings almost always include a stop in the middle of the road to stare down the closest vehicles. Because they can.
We arrived at the Slough Creek campsite, geared up, spoke with a camper. Then I promptly led us to the wrong trail.
This is quite embarrassing to admit, because I had a perfectly good guide book "Catching Yellowstone's Wild Trout: A Fly Fishing History and Guide" (thanks Chris Hunt) that I had poured over for weeks. Likewise maps (what man is without a map? )
Details are important. Little words like "park at the trailhead" vs. where I parked at the back of the campground can be crucial. PSA - where a journey begins matters. Both trails would eventually lead to the same place, but were radically different in their degree of difficulty. Choose the right destination, trail, and trailhead. It can prevent a lot of pain and back-tracking in life as well as at Slough Creek.
The trail I took was to the canyon, not the meadows (our intended destination). Downed timber, boulder fields, and sheer cliffs awaited us. Did I mention mosquitoes the size of flying monkeys? I'll get you my pretty...
Blissfully ignorant of my error, we struck out from the campground. After a few hundred yards we still had a trail, but no recent footprints marked passage there. The trail quickly grew steeper and disappeared in a tangle of brush, so we bushwhacked for a bit.
Eventually I realized we were not in Kansas anymore, and the chances of us reaching the meadows that day would have to include a bit of mountaineering, which neither of us were up for.
We turned around to try to catch a few fish, and hopefully salvage the day.
As we were on the trail back, I turned to say something to Tammy and spied an elk rack resting high on a boulder. I could barely reach it. My guess is the bull had perished when the snow was deep, and the melt had deposited his crown atop this rough throne.
Its heft was substantial. To hold the rack and imagine the bull who had once sported it flooded my mind with thoughts and images. Most of all, I was thankful that the wrong trail can be the right path for a conduit to the divine.
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Jimbo
Jimbo