Old Yeller, that’s what the locals call her… a beast of a river. Starting as a trickle of snow melt high in the Absaroka Range of Wyoming the Yellowstone River flows some 600 miles from start to finish. Undammed and unencumbered, she’s carves a winding trench through Montana’s countryside before dumping into the mighty Missouri just across the North Dakota border. Like most freestones, she has no rules or boundaries. She is a free spirit indeed.

The fish that take up residence in the Yellowstone are just as wild. They have to be to survive. Sporadic weather, fluctuating temperatures, and dynamic spring runoff all contribute to an ever changing, unpredictable trout habitat. Let no one tell you differently, a resident Yellowstone trout is a hearty fish.

My first encounter with the Stone was on a family vacation to Yellowstone National Park when I was just a kid. Through a twisted metal fence I stood watching her, alongside a horde of other tourists, as she plunged several hundred feet down a steep, narrow crevasse to a frothy white pool below. It was surreal. Now some 40 years later we meet again, only this time there are no fences…

The evening light set ablaze the surrounding mountain peaks like fire-orange embers inside an old cabin stove. Its warmth reflected in the stillness of the river for but a moment, then was gone. With a fly rod in hand, and my son at my shoulder, I made one last cast into a shallow riffle where the river formed a series of braids and dumped into a long narrow trough. Shadows ran long and wide from one gravel bar to another. Nightfall was upon us.

Jake and I waded back upstream to where our drift boat was anchored. Fighting back a chill I could feel the coolness of days end settle across the valley floor, and with it the reminder of change. The crispness of the air, the distinct smell of the river bank, all signs that fall would soon give way to winter and afternoon floats like this would be a thing of the past. For now though, we had 30 minutes of river left to float with maybe half that amount of daylight. Jake assured me he was familiar enough with this stretch of water to help me navigate safely to the takeout. I dug my oars into the soft mud and pushed away from the island. Pointing the stern of my boat away from the shoreline I back rowed into the main current. With one quick dig of my oars I reoriented us parallel to the bank and we were off.

Cottonwoods holding a remnant of color lined the river. They looked like skeletons dancing against the darkening sky. A lone, faintly lit house stood uphill from us. It marked our exit point. When it was time I maneuvered our boat river left and across the fast moving current. With one last push from the oars we slid through the shallows and towards the shoreline. Once at the boat ramp we gathered our gear and shared a story or two from the afternoon. Fishing had been tough. A small brown trout and a couple of whitefish were all I could put my name to. Jake’s catch number was not much better. Although he did get a 15” brown to net on a streamer. I must admit I had higher expectations. The Stone was known for producing big fish this time of year. Crowds were light, the water was low…  conditions were prime. Maybe the Stone had some secrets she wasn’t divulging?

Driving I-90 back home to Colorado I had more questions than answers as to why the Yellowstone had humbled me so. I’d just spent two weeks pounding this river every which way – streamers, nymphs, dries, everything really – but never dialed in. I’ve always prided myself in being able to catch fish anywhere if given enough time. I rarely look to local knowledge or a guide to figure things out. I like the challenge of figuring things out on my own. I’ve always believed rules that apply to one river, for the most part, apply to another – all things being equal in terms of weather, seasons, etc.

As I watched the barren landscape pass outside my window I thought about my above statement… maybe all things weren’t equal? Maybe the Yellowstone River was a breed of its own? Maybe the tailwater tactics I’d grown so accustomed to throughout the years were more of a hindrance than a help on such a wild and unruly river like the Stone? You see my tailwater roots run deep as a fly fishermen. Colorado rivers like the South Platte, the Taylor, and the Yampa are just a few of the classic tailwaters I’ve cut my teeth on. It was along these banks I learned that only the thinest tippets and most thoughtful casts had any chance of bringing a trout to net. While fishing the Yellowstone, I knew this river was different, but I don’t think I was truly embracing these differences. Maybe I needed to be reminded of just how unique a freestone river can be.

Sitting here writing this blog post I ask myself one question… “how might I change my approach the next time I fish the Yellowstone?” Well, of course it all depends on what season, but if I were to fish her again I would definitely take advantage of the things that make a freestone river so special. Since freestone trout, in general, are more opportunistic than tailwater trout, I would spend more time throwing streamers and big bugs, and less time with the smaller stuff. I would move faster, cover more water, and spend less time dredging holes… a handful of casts and I’m moving on. Most importantly though, I’d let go of my “tailwater mentality” and try and appreciate the beauty of a river that just might be the last of its kind…