I stand knee deep in the cool, gently flowing water of Nelson's Spring Creek. It is a beautiful and warm crystalline morning in the valley south of Livingston, Montana. I have a pretty good idea why they call it Paradise Valley. The sun has made it above the highest peaks of the Absaroka Range and is bathing the lowlands with warmth.
The heat is having the desired effect on the insect life in the stream. Tiny Pale Morning Duns launch from the water. Several large rainbow trout intercept some before they escape through the surface film.
The rainbow trout, at least 16 to 17 inches long, lie quietly in the clear, open water. They look like a squadron of submarines facing upstream waiting for the mayflies to drift into their ambush. Locking on a victim, a trout moves resolutely toward its target, rises to the surface and inhales the bug. The trout's eyes, jaws, and bright red gill plate appear above the water as the insect disappears.
I fumble in my fly box for a No.16 Pale Morning Dun, nervously tie it to the end of a 6X leader and move slowly and carefully upstream toward the feeding fish. I select a beauty that has been rhythmically picking off the emergers.
Our day began four hours earlier on the other side of the Absaroka Range, on the banks of the West Boulder River, exactly 15 miles east. Between here and there are large mountains 11,000 feet high with no direct road through them. It took us an hour and a half to drive around the north end of the range to get here.
My wife, Carrie, and I were out of bed early, like kids on Christmas morning, eager to get underway for our day on the stream. It was still dark in the valley, but the top of Martin Peak to the south poked into the glowing sunlight that was creeping down its pine-covered eastern slope. By the time we were having breakfast, the darkness in the valley had melted away. The river, below us and across the open meadow, sparkled in the fresh bright sunshine. A family of four mule deer browsed their way through the wet grass to their morning drink.
After breakfast we drove around the north terminus of the Absarokas via Swingley Road. It's a 45-minute drive from our lodge to Livingston, usually passing only two or three cars along the way. You understand the lack of traffic after the first 200 yards on this rocky, rutted, rough road. It feels as if your car is going to shake apart and your teeth are going to rattle loose.
But the beautiful panoramic views through the rolling ranch country make the drive worthwhile. The hay fields and pastures swoop down and then rise abruptly to the high peaks of the mountain range on the left. The deep valleys and rounded hills were carved out of the soft volcanic rock by melting glaciers and flowing streams a million years ago.
We surprised a black bear munching bright red rose hips beside the road. The bear jumped quickly into the ditch and beneath the rose hips bushes to hide. As we slowly drove by, we saw his black face and dark eyes staring out at us through the branches.
The morning sun shone flat across the hay fields making long shadows from the trees and haystacks on the close-cropped stubble of the freshly mowed fields. The backdrop to this incredible, breathtaking view was the rising slope of Elephant Head Mountain covered with pines and outcroppings of lava rock. A dozen pronghorns enjoyed the first warmth of the morning while grazing on a far hill.
We met our guide in Livingston and followed him along the Yellowstone River through the narrow canyon three miles south of town. As usual there was a strong wind blowing between the canyon walls that shoot 1,000 feet straight up beside the road and the river. The steep slopes of the canyon fall away into Paradise Valley that spreads south cradling the Yellowstone River.
Carrie is fishing 300 yards upstream. She and our guide are diligently pursuing a pod of rising fish whose heads are coming full out of the water as they gobble the hatching bugs. I assume those are the same species of mayfly that are tantalizing the trout which are the object of my anxious stalk.
Before I make my first cast the rainbow trout suddenly stop feeding and disappear. What happened? I am far enough away, down sun and moving too quietly to have spooked them. The mayflies have stopped hatching! The feast is over! The trout are ensconced in the flowing weeds along the edge of the main current. My stalk is over. Calmness returns to my body. I look for other activity.
There is movement on the far bank. I take a few seconds to make out a muskrat gorging noisily on the weed bed at the river's edge. He tears into the natural salad bar before him, working slowly upstream, then disappears beneath the water.
I move downstream, creeping delicately, trying not to stir up the bottom, splash water or cast a shadow on any spot that might hold a fish. Only the current against my legs disturbs the stillness. I see no fish rising, no bugs coming off, no fish holding in the clear open stretches of water. Quietly and carefully scanning the river, I'm jolted by a sudden clamor just above my head. Four sandhill cranes, six-foot wings beating, swoop over me and glide gently to rest on the grassy rise a hundred yards upstream.
Heart thumping, an echo of the cranes' wing beats, I become aware of another sound. Intermittent, it's like a suction cup being pulled away from a hard surface. I survey the water and find the sound coming from the edge of a floating mass of grass and moss that lays like a loose rug on the water beside me. Every few seconds the nose of a very large trout lifts the edge of the grass rug and opens its mouth to pick off tiny emerging nymphs that float along in the current. Only the white inside of the fish's lower jaw is visible as it picks off its prey.
There is no way I can catch this fish. It is impossible to float my fly down to the fish from the right because of the large rock protruding from the water. My line will surely tangle in the branch of the cottonwood tree just upstream and to the left of the fish. Even if I could get my fly to the fish and he ate it, my leader would snap like a thin, dry noodle at the first shake of his head.
I stand motionless in the water while my new found friend continues enjoying his morning meal. I marvel at the magnificent scenery surrounding me. It is like being in a museum of beautiful artwork. The high rugged mountain peaks of the Absaroka Range are splashed with snow from a recent storm. Patches of golden aspen appear among the green pine forest on the upper slopes. The red and orange leaves of the hardwood trees paint the valley. Rusty fall hues of foliage decorate the riverbank. All this is displayed below a brilliant blue sky.
What a wonderful place to be. I am living the truth of Robert Traver's declaration: I fish mainly because I love the environs where trout are found ... RWOL
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