Ox Bow of the Snake River Overlooking the Tetons

This September I went on my annual pilgrimage to Montana and Wyoming.  My close friend and fishing buddy and I have been going there since 1978.  Gosh that seems like only yesterday.  When we first began our trips we both lived in New Jersey and since then he’s moved to Colorado and me to Connecticut, but we still meet somewhere in Southwest Montana to begin our 10 days of trout fishing.

Our forays into the greater Yellowstone area have been for fishing, but when I think back on those wonderful days in the mountains I realize that hiking, camping, and photography were as much a part of our trips.  It was during these excursions I fell in love with landscape photography and realized only my legs would get me to places seldom trod by humans, and rivers and spring creeks filled with trout that had never seen an artificial fly.  My nascent photography had begun in this pristine wilderness.

We had days when we couldn’t fail to take a fish from the next pool or run, and just when I thought it couldn’t get better a bison would appear downstream, an eagle soar above looking for its next meal, or we’d come upon an waterfall rarely seen by humans.

Buffalo Fording the Firehole River

Gibbon Falls

To begin the last act of this wonderful drama a sunset or moonrise would light up the sky with glorious tones of yellows, reds, or dusky blues.  It was about that time I stopped saying, “Gee, I wish I had a camera,” and began loading my fishing vest with the additional weight for which SLRs and lenses of the 70s and 80s were infamous.  As you’ll see in these images my photographer’s eye and exposure skills were still developing, but having them to immortalize our backwoods adventures gives remembrance to those happy days afield.

We were there in June of 1988 fishing the lower Madison River when a hellacious thunderstorm swept through the region. The next morning we set out to fish Fan Creek only to witness the first of the Yellowstone fires set ablaze by a lightening strike from the day before.  We fished in the valley below but our concentration was distracted by the force of nature on the mountaintop partly from concern it would sweep down the slope but more so from awe.

From Gardiner, MT Looking South into a Firestorm

That same year we returned in September seeing fires wherever we went, the clouds formed by the smoke glowed red from the reflection of the blaze below.  Roads were closed by the park service as firestorms swept through regions of the park.  After they were reopened we’d pass through seeing the utter devastation they had left behind.  One such road took us through the aftermath of the infamous North Fork fire where we stopped to take a closer look.  There were only stumps where giant Lodge Pole Pines had stood and the ground was covered with a powdery ash.

Aftermath of the North Fork Fire

On our way back to the car I noticed a brown object that caught the glint of the sun.   The ash had turned cold so I bent down to dislodge it and held it in my hand, a beer bottle carelessly tossed from a tourist that had melted flat.  A fire’s intensity is hottest at the trees’ crowns, but the North Fork firestorm was so intense it had reached the molten temperature of glass at ground level.

We saw Forest Rangers, National Guard, Fire Fighters, volunteers from all over the US and Canada, Chinook and Skycrane helicopters doing their best to contain the fires, but it seemed there was precious little they could do to stop it.  It was only later that week when the first precipitation of the entire summer drought in the form of snow lowered the air temperature and suppressed the fires.  We were there to see the fires begin and now we were witnessing their end.

Snow That Put Down the Fires - Madison River

On one of our earlier trips we decided to hike to Shoshone Lake where the Lewis Lake Channel begins.  Both of us were much younger so our packs and camping equipment were modest being what we could afford.  We loaded up our soft-sided rucksacks with sleeping bags, fishing gear, food, and cookware with a tent that was nothing more than a rip-stop nylon tarp.  As I write this I can still feel the shoulder straps digging into my neck and back as the overloaded pack bounced up and down on that long seven mile trek.

Makeshift Tent Before the Snowstorm

As the hike progressed, heavy storm clouds appeared and by the time we reached our campsite we had little time to assemble the tarp into a makeshift shelter and just make it into our home for the night as the pea sized hail began to pelt our roof. The hail turned to snow as we dozed off into our evening slumber.

The next morning we woke to a thin coat of snow. Undaunted we dressed ourselves with our down coats and prepared breakfast.  I remember thinking the fire’s warmth was more comforting than anything I put into my belly that morning.  My spirits were dampened by the unpleasantness of the weather.  Despite that my friend talked me into suiting up for fishing and we strode off to where the Lewis Lake Channel was formed by the bone chilling waters of Shoshone Lake.

Fishing in the Snow

After an hour and a half of fishing we returned to the campsite. The weather turned to the better so we dried the tarp from the warmth of the sun, packed up, and repeated the shoulder jarring 7-mile hike back to the trailhead, our car, and eventually the soothing warmth of a motel shower.

The most spectacular moonrise I’ve ever seen was at the end of a day’s hike to an alpine meadow sampling the mid-sized cutthroat trout that wouldn’t ignore our hopper patterns.  As I sat on the back bumper of our car quenching my thirst with a much needed beer, the moon’s rim crested the darkening mountains to our east ascending into the night, illuminating the starlit sky with the biggest, whitest orb the heavens could hold.  Every crater, the Sea of Tranquility, and every mountain was so sharply defined you felt as though you could reach out and touch them.  Seeing the Kodak slides of the moonrise two weeks later I remember wishing I had had the photography skills to capture the brilliance of that moment.

Once we followed a primitive dirt road to its end where a topo map indicated we’d find the trailhead to a mountain lake.  When we got there I discovered I had forgotten to load my hiking boots into the car.  Again my friend persuaded me to make the hike uphill so we rigged up our fishing rods, packed our knapsacks, and I cinched the laces of my top siders tightly to ascend the one-mile trail to the lake.  The blisters that would follow were worth it because we found an alpine lake and spent the afternoon catching Golden Trout, a rare species that dwell at only 10,000 feet or above.  Their jewel-like reds and yellows reminded me of the special joy that nature offers those willing to put in the effort and suffer some inconvenience.

River Raft Rowing Frame

As we’ve both aged and gravity has taken its toll on our joints, our camping days have vanished, our treks are day hikes only, and Jack bought a river raft with a rowing frame, that allows us to enjoy more leisurely trips along Western rivers. He has a place in Glenwood Springs, CO and has me out there every year to while away the time on the Roaring Fork, Frying Pan, and Eagle rivers.

Mountain Creek Shadows

But like the inevitable migration of the lemmings, we still find ourselves in Montana and Wyoming every September.  There are so many trout that haven’t shared their glorious colors or danced with us at the end of our lines so we sojourn there, albeit more slowly.  The pace may have slowed, but the new 3-4 rhythm forces me into a time signature of “pause-observe-reflect…and shoot.”

Self Seeded Petunia on Main Street Gardiner, MT

I went to Montana this year ahead of Jack to enjoy four days of pure photography, undistracted by the lure of the river, rising trout, and throbbing trout rods.  As we know, midday is often the worst time for landscape photography, and this year we had flawless weather so the sun shined every day.  One day I took a break around 11:30 am and returned to Gardiner, MT for lunch.  After filling my belly with tacos and a soda (pop to those who live in those parts) I explored the little town’s gift shops.  I’ve been there so many times before but find there’s always something that interests me, a piece of clothing, locally made jewelry, or maybe a hat or two.  I got to chat with one of the shopkeepers after buying an elk bone wine bottle opener.  She was an artist and we began to talk about our love for visual things.  I told her I was a photographer out ahead of my fishing buddy so that I could get in a few days of uninterrupted photography.  We were about the same age so eventually the discussion led to retirement.  After I told her I had retired from a hectic corporate job two years ago but couldn’t stand the stereotypical notion of sitting in a rocker, reading a paper on the front porch with a yellow dog at my feet she realized she was talking with a kindred soul.  She too couldn’t imagine the idea of inactivity so bought the store to generate income and used the off-season to paint.  I listened to the excitement of how she kept her life going; growing and learning despite the inevitable obstacles that an aging body throws in our way.  Without thinking I blurted out, “Hey, you know; we’re all headed to the same place, but we can choose to do it with our feet or on our butts.”  She loved it so much she asked if she could use the phrase to make a T-Shirt for the store.  Without confirming with a ‘yes’ I simply said, “I take an extra large.” 🙂 The shirt arrived a month ago.

Off to Shoshone Lake

Photographers view the world in our own unique way sharing it with an audience interested in what we see.  So long as there is life in us we are always looking around the corner for the next breathtaking sunset or sweeping field of wild flowers or child’s precious smile.  The petals of an orchid are as interesting to us as it’s blossom and the moss on top of a rock as soothing as the water that rushes bye, and as long as there’s breath to take we use our feet to get there and not our butts.