Giant 125 year old Cottonwood trees line the banks of the Yellowstone River, raining their golden yellow leaves down onto the river.
We float through them, casting our streamers towards likely spots along the bank. The temperature is dropping. The light gray, cottony clouds crawl down from the sky, along the contours of the mountains, and finally envelop the river. The wind begins to swirl, and though just a hundred yards above the river it is snowing, it is sleeting on us. The sleet is extremely wet, but so cold you can’t imagine how it isn’t snow. We continue at our task, casting over and over, taking breaks to blow a little warmth back into our fingers hoping that the fishing Gods will recognize our discomfort and dedication, and reward us with something special.
Something that the tourists hope for all Summer long.. but seldom see. Something that the harsh conditions of the shoulder seasons seems to summon up from their layers, deep in the Yellowstone River. The old, gnarly brown trout that seem as prone to eating streamers this time of year as a toddler eating popsicles in the heat of the Summer. Something just clicks in their brains, and they suddenly have no tolerance for fur and feather covered hooks, sliding through their world.

Just weeks ago, when the sky was blue, and the temps were warm, these oversized trout would have had no interest in my fly… but today…today is different. I hear the all too familiar sounds of geese honking, as they pass overhead, unseen in the dense clouds. My fingers begin to lose all feeling and I worry I might drop my rod into the water. If fifteen years of fly fishing hasn’t taught them the muscle memory to hold on tight to this cork, then nothing will.
The sleet backs off for the moment and the wind dies away. It is snowing in the foothills all around us, but we are floating through a window in the storm. Moments ago each breath was seen as a puff of steam dancing around our faces.. but the bitter cold seems to have lost it’s grip. I let my streamer drift under the cavernous over hanging branches of a Russian Olive tree. Just as I begin stripping my line, I notice that it has looped around one of my boots. I hunch down and begin pulling the line free from the knot it has miraculously tied around my foot, and I feel something…the line has come taut out into the river. Still squatted down, I raise my rod upward and at the same time I strip the line hard with my left hand. Though I was caught off guard, my technique is flawless, and I know that I’ve set the hook well. Then as I regain my standing position, I find the line has gone slack. I’m exasperated and I look for explanation from my friends. I find them rosy cheeked and laughing hysterically. It doesn’t take me long to figure out that one of them had reached forward when I was consumed with my tangle, and pulled on my line. I smiled and shook my head, “Whatever you’ve gotta do to stay warm”, I say.

I pull my fly line back in, and haul out another cast towards the bank, and begin erratically stripping it back to the boat. The wind begins to swirl again, and now it is huge wet snow flakes falling on our shoulders. As the adrenaline from their prank subsides in my blood, my hands settled back into their frozen state. “There’s got to be a monster brown willing to feed down this next bank” I say…