Season Edition
 
 Building Your Own Leaders
Dying Fly Lines
Dying CDC Feathers
Adding Removable Studs To Your Felt Soles
Secret Dry Fly Floatant From Argentina
Midges In The Snow
Death Of A Spring Creek
12 Pound Rainbows In The Shadow Of Glaciers
Destination England
Hooking Large Rainbows At 6 Degrees
Catching Atlantic Salmon On Dry Damsels
In View Of Bacon Ridge
Casting With Wolves
The Ghost Of Old Faithful Inn
Summer On The Test And Anton 

 

   

In View Of Bacon Ridge

Bob Kloskowski

The snow continued to pile up on the sidewalk. It was mid February as I glanced out of the library window and thought about taking the snowblower out of the garage and putting it to work I had just completed the application for a Yellowstone National Park backcountry permit for August. Applications are submitted to the backcountry office and then are chosen in a random drawing. The dates for my backcountry adventure were flexible but my choice for a campsite was not. My favorite campsite sat on a small bluff just feet away from one of the finest meadow streams in North America. Just above the creek was an unusually featured mountain that appeared from a distance as a slab of bacon. To all that fish this area regularly the area was know as Bacon Ridge.
Ten miles from the trailhead along an old road was the only means to access this area. The first quarter mile of trail was the worse then it leveled off and was pretty easy going.
I had invited a few friends along for our trip this year. We all met in the parking lot at the trailhead to start our ten mile trek on this rainy August morning. It was about 9:30 AM when we started up the trail. The clouds were starting to break and the sun was peaking through. What looked pretty dismal on our drive over from Bozeman now looked good.
The fifty pounds of backcountry and fly fishing equipment felt heavy as we began our second mile. We stopped several times to remove our packs and give our shoulders a break.
The campsite was just as I remember and there was Bacon Ridge just above the creek. We stopped to enjoy lunch while filling our souls with the beautiful views. By mid afternoon our tents took their position on the bluff over looking the creek and we were ready to wet a line.
Terrestrials proved to be the preferred delicacy of the cutthroat trout that inhabited this wonderful creek. We fished beetles, ants and hoppers for the remainder of the afternoon. As we made our way back to camp a member of our party thought it best if he were to test the bear spray that he carried as it had been more than a year since he purchased it. Against the advise of others, Dave took out his bear spray, pointed it toward an open area and squeezed the trigger. Out shot a red stream of pepper spray which was partially pushed back into Dave's face by a gust of wind. For the remainder of our three days in the backcountry Dave's eyes were swollen and the only relief that he found was from a water soaked bandanna that now adorned his face.
Toward the end of our third day we noticed the weather changing. The wind had increased and clouds were moving in from the west. That evening the campfire felt good. As I zipped the sleep bag and prepared for the evening, I could hear rain drops on the tent which lasted until I drifted off to sleep.
Morning seemed to arrive very fast. It was our last morning in the third meadow and most of it would be spent packing. As I open the fly on the tent I was greeted with 2 inches of fresh August snow. Moose tracks were everywhere. The storm had apparently pushed the animals from the higher elevations and down onto the meadow floor. Shorts and "T" shirts which had been our choice of clothes for the previous two days weere stowed and polar fleece would be on the agenda. Our hike out in the snow would be as unforgatable as Dave's encounter with bear spray.
End.

 

 

 

 
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Copyright @ 1998, 1999, 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005, 2006 by Bob Kloskowski