Alrighty, Danl and John. Here's a little bit of the Slough Creek
report, as I remember it...

After 6 days on the Madison, I was ready for some new sccenery. Not
that the Madison wasn't great - as you all know - I just thought I see
the sights a bit, since the western clave was my first visit to Montana
since I'd started fly fishing, and fishing Yellowstone sounded too good
to turn down. And besides, I had great guides for the day - Danl and
Willie knew what we were getting into. Harry, like me, was in for his
first day on the Slough. Chas and Guy were going, too, so we thought
that if we could make it into the Second Meadow, we could take over the
whole place; rule the banks; own the holes. We agreed to an early
start.

6am and we were on the way to McDonald's in West Yellowstone. Two and
a half hours after we left the campground, and 3 (count 'em) Egg
McMuffin's later (thanks, Dan'l, for the extra protien), we were at the
trailhead. It wasn't quite what I imagined for a launch-point for a
back-country fishing adventure in the middle of the Park. Lots of cars
and horse trailers all around; and down the road, a barn and stables to
support the back-country ranch that uses the Slough Creek trail as
their only access to what is rumored to be one of the swankiest dude
ranches in the area. Granted, this was all in a typically
mind-blowing-ly beautiful valley - with the Slough winding it's way
south right in the middle of it all. The photographers lined up along
the road were taking pictures of who knows what. We were just ready to
fish. And it was heating up.

We'd been warned about mosquitos and heard that we needed to remember
the insect repellent. I chose to arm myself with both standard-issue
DEET and a giant tube of lemon eucalyptus repellent, both of which I
was glad I brought along.

Excited by the prospect of large, naive and rare fish, we started
hiking. It was 2 miles into the first meadow and another 2 or so to
the second. We knew we had some ground to cover, and I started off
humping it uphill in the shade which wasn't going to last long. After
passing several of the ranch wagons along the way, I made it over the
hill and started down into the first meadow. Now this was more like
it. Before me lay a spectacularly beautiful meadow surrounded by
purple mountains and filled with a dazzling array of wild flowers.
Other than the 2-track trail and a couple of old backcountry cabins,
there were no signs of civilization, and almost no people. A few guys
worked the pools at the bottom end of the valley, but the river seemed
to go on for miles before it entered the small canyon leading to the
second meadow. Before long,I caught up with a nice couple whose names
i forgot but who walked with me for the next mile or so.

Coming to what I thought was the pass between the two meadows, I
stopped behind the nice couple and figured I'd rest in the shade and
put my rod together while waiting for Harry, Willie and Danl, who
weren't that far behind, to catch me.

And boy, was I ready. I could tell I wasn't that far from the river,
and that once I'd got my rod rigged, we be fishing in short order. I
got my 5-piece 4wt assembled and dug into my pack for my reel and other
gear - which to my horror weren't there. Dumping everything out of my
pack, I was hit with the realization that I'd left my reel in the car -
at least 3 miles back down the trail. Before I could smack myself,
however, the nice guy ahead of me backtracked down the trail to ask
where I was planning to go next, and said he'd just seen a grizzly and
2 cubs lope across the trail and head into the woods in the direction
of the river. Great, I thought. No reel and the stream was guarded by
protective grizzly bear mothers. But I knew what I had to do. I'd
come this far... too far to not fish this amazing place, so I announced
to my new friends that I'd forgotten the only piece of equipment that I
couldn't do without, I repacked my bag and started back towards the
car.

It was only a minute before I ran into Willie, Danl and Harry who, to
their eternal credit, didn't raz me too bad. A spare reel was the only
thing none of us had and, since there was nothing else to do, I set off
at a brisk pace for the car, jogging all the flat and downhill portions
of the trail. A bit later, I passed Chas and Guy on their way in, and
soon came across a dozen or more fishermen on horseback headed in.
Perfect - the river was going to be crowded by the time I got back.

One of the guys on horseback said "where ya' going?"

Jokingly, I lied "well, I got an early start and already caught about
60 fish. It was getting kinda boring, so I'm headed back in."

I think that guy believed me. At least he wanted to believe me. The
look he gave me was priceless - hopeful anticipation that my fake
fishing report meant his groups was going to have a huge day. But I
couldn't sustain the falsehood, and had to make the best of the
situation. Laughing out loud, I confessed my brain fart, thinking at
the same time that one of these guys might be carrying an extra reel
they'd be happy to part with for the day. Collectively they groaned on
my behalf, wished me luck, and we were off in opposite directions. I
was still at least a mile from the car.

The second time around, the hike was much hotter and not nearly as
shady. But I made the entire round trip to where I'd turned around in
about an hour. Onle one hour lost, I though, wasn't that bad. But I
was hotter than hell and covered in sweat, flies and mosquitos.

Breaking off the trail, I tried to follow what I thought were the
groups' tracks through the grass which headed in the direction of the
river. Well, the river was out there, but between me and those
Yellowstone cutthroats was about a mile of boggy marsh. No wonder
there were so many bugs. This is what a headwaters looks like. Water
seeping up out of the ground, feeding the wildflowers and waist-high
grasses, and sustaining one of the densest populations of biting
insects I've ever encoutered in the west.

Eventually, I found the nice couple I'd been hiking with. This guy and
his girlfriend were parked on either side of a nice hole and both of
them were hooking into a fish about every 3 minutes it seemed. I
scrambled to get my rig together, tied on the grey drake I'd gotten the
night before, hopped in the river and immediately started catching
fish.

This was exactly what I'd hoped for. The water wasn't too cold to wet
wade, I needed a swim anyway, and the fish weren't being too
discriminating. Within 10 minutes I'd hooked 3 small cutts and one
18-incher on the dry. But the water was crystal clear, and each hole
offered a single oppoprtunity. Working my way upstream I found Chas
and Guy in short order, and other than my walking buddies, there were
hardly any other anglers within sight. I guess the party on horseback
was headed to the third meadow. Another time, I vowed to myself.

The rest of the day was beautiful. Other than being both hunter (of
the fish) and the hunted (by the biting flies), it couldn't have been a
more perfect day. From tall, undercut banks, I could watch huge fish
rise straight up from 10 foot-deep holes to gulp my fly as slowly as
I've ever seen a rising fish take a bug. While swatting horse-flies
off my neck between casts, I could see dozens of fish take their time
examining my fly.

Some time after noon, the fish seemed to stop feeding on the surface,
and Danl produced his custom streamer pattern that to me looks like a
wolly bugger with mange. Willile Danl and I all tied one on (a
streamer, that is) and started picking up hits. Walking downstream, we
found the couple I'd met earlier working a nice, deep channel. The
girl had one on as we approached, and we all stopped on the bank above
to watch her land a nice 18+-in fish. Her boyfrienb got the picture of
the day when he snapped a shot of her netting the giant cutt with
Willie, Danl and Harry standing on the bank above her, looking on.

My last fish of the day came when Willie pointed to a huge eddy pool
and said "we saw on in there last year that musat' been 3 feet long!"
I climbed up on a rock at least 8 feet over the pool and started
stripping line. With several huge casts, I had enough line to
completely cross the pool and from my vantage point, I could see the
fly hit just right in the edge of the deep water and start sinking. I
was stripping in the first few feet of line when a monster fish shot
out of the dsark, deep water and slammed my fly. From my perch above,
the fish looked huge, but when I landed it, it was just another fat 17
or 18 incher. No matter, it was the perfect fish to end the day.

Slogging through the bog on the way back to the trail, we all agreed
that we'd caught more than enough of those beautiful Yellowstone
cutthroats to make up for the hike in and the man-eating insects. And
even after my extra round-trip, I still felt I'd do it again. 14 miles
later (for me at least), we were back at the car cooling off and
opening a barley-pop. 2 hours later, and we were having yet another
mediocre meal in West Yellowstone. The next day we were to fish the
Yellowstone on opening day; but you already read about that.

What a trip. I'm still thinking of all the fish I caught, and the
friends I made. We'll surely do it again next year - but next time I'm
not forgetting anything!