This will be the first late October and / or early November that we haven’t make a pilgrimage to the banks of the Firehole for one last outing before (most of) Yellowstone closes to vehicular traffic during the winter season.
It’s of minor consolation to remember the Firehole is often shut down by this time of year anyway, the cold grip of late fall and in some years even early winter having pushed fish to warmer thermal pockets and the near hibernation state of a cold Yellowstone winter, though reports of decent fishing this week (baetis and some late Mahoganies I hear) have taunted cruelly the past few days.
We’ve become spoiled over the past few years to fishing year round when the itch gets bad enough; much of Montana’s (and the Northern Rockies) fine water is open year round. It takes a fair amount of effort to battle icing guides, numb digits and extremities as well as the other trials of winter fly fishing, though there’s an unusual solace in winter days spent on the water you have to experience a few times to truly appreciate.
That said, I must admit that standing in the Firehole on the last Sunday of the season is always a special time, knowing that the day spent swinging baetis soft hackles waiting for the hatch to come off (if the weather, water temperature and stars align just so) will be logged into a special memory folder that for some reason is far easier to recall than any phone number, meeting times or extended family birthday.
On those last of the season days we tend to linger over the familiar views a little longer and chat less amongst ourselves, listening to the murmur of the river the whisper of the wind in the trees a bit more intently. Packing gear at the end of the day takes a little bit longer as does the drive north from the riverside to Madison Junction and on to West Yellowstone.
The river of course may be visited during the winter via snowcoach (and every fisher who loves the Park waters should see it in its full frosted glory one fine winter’s day) though saying goodbye to this favorite water reminds me of saying summer break goodbye to a college sweetheart in the days before email, text messages and cell phones.
You knew she was out there somewhere and you hoped she was thinking about you, but the absence could be damned painful until you actually saw each other again. (Reaching out and touching someone with a phone call actually meant something special back in the day, as did a well-crafted, hand-written letter. Three by five image prints became treasures to actually hold in your hand and think about, not something to post to social media and forget about…).
When the West Entrance’s gates swing shut tonight it’s damned comforting to know the Firehole will be gurgling along all winter and into the earliest of spring days next year, waiting for old and new friends to wander back. The river and its residents enjoy a long interval of undisturbed peace, well-earned after entertaining hoards of tourists running on to Old Faithful and a fair number of enamored fishers.
Time apart really can make the heart grow fonder. Borrowing a closing phrase from TC – see you on the Firehole next May.
