The Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone
In view of recent events perhaps it is prudent for me to recall an episode that has been lurking in the back of my mind for more than 7 decades.
Many years ago, when I was a teenager young and vigorous, Donnie and I hiked on a fishing excursion down and into the canyon of the Yellowstone River in YNP. It was below the lower falls, and a terrible mistake. Our calves ached, but we persevered.
The mean-looking white water seemed tight as it swirled around the big rocks. I told myself that the river there was too narrow to carry such a volume of water.
A salmon fly hatch was out so we strung one on our flies. Every cast caught a trout that seemed to be abnormally angry. They fought in a fierce manner that was hitherto unknown in the annals of my fishing experiences.
After a few minutes of such predictably, I lost interest, and rested on a rock to watch Donnie suffer the same angst as me. We both were strangely uncomfortable and didn’t talk much.
After filling our canteens, we started out, not fully cognizant of what “out” entailed. It was tantamount to climbing the Washington Monument with loose rocks on each step. Our thighs resisted all the way up.
I promised myself that I would never trek into the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone River again, and I haven’t. f