Rick Crawford
As Benjy and I cracked open a couple of cold beers next to our car in Yellowstone National Park as the sun was about to disappear for the day, we realized just how lucky we were to have made it back to the car at all. It was June 2011 and my fishing buddy and co-worker, Benjy Duke, and I were spending the summer working for Wyoming Game & Fish as Aquatic Invasive Species (AIS) Inspectors while living in Jackson Hole, WY. Our days off always fell in the middle of the week, which was perfect for a couple of trout bums looking to explore the Teton Range and greater Yellowstone region. We had heard some reports from guides as we were inspecting their boats for invasive zebra mussels that the fishing could be pretty good during this time of year on the Firehole, so one day we decided to go fish the Firehole River in Yellowstone National Park.
We left Jackson at about 5:30 AM and on the drive we imagined what the Firehole would look like, and there was even a feeling of nostalgia as Benjy said he had heard stories that his grandfather had once fished the Firehole River. After about three hours, we arrived in a parking lot with no other cars or people, and from a distance it looked like we were about to fly fish on another planet. The brisk morning wind blew the hot geyser steam that was billowing across the river. If there ever was a place that you thought you actually might see a dinosaur pop out of the woods, this was it.
We were careful not to step in the bright orange and azul blue geysers that flowed into the river and can bring the water temperatures as high as 86 degrees fahrenheit as we hiked in to spend the day fishing. Benjy and I had some success in the morning catching 6′-12″ rainbows and as the day progressed we kept fishing upstream looking for new water and fish. The fishing slowed down mid-day, but by the evening a hatch started going off and the river looked like rain drops were falling due to the multitude of rising trout and we couldn’t keep the rainbow and brown trout off of our dry flies. It was epic.
Due to the excitement of the evening hatch we last track of time and at this point realized we were probably a couple of miles upstream and from our car. We also noticed that a herd of buffalo had started to graze on the other side of the river, but didn’t pay them much attention. The sun began to disappear behind the mountains, so we decided to head back to the car before it got dark. As we were walking we quickly realized the small herd of about ten buffalo that were grazing across the river a couple of hours ago had grown to probably fifty, and had crossed the river. We knew we were in some serious trouble and considered our options for camping if the buffalo didn’t move because they were between us, our car, and the cooler of cold PBR’s that awaited our return.
Well, we knew we didn’t want to spend the night without a tent or food, so we made the decision that we would very carefully make our way through the herd. I don’t remember ever having my heart further up my throat as we slowly and deliberately began taking small steps toward the parking lot and careful not to look any of the buffalo in the eye. We would walk about five steps, stop and assess the lesser of evils as we navigated and zig-zagged our way through the herd who were pretty spread out, but unnerving to say the least. If you have ever gotten close to a buffalo, you know just how massive these animals are, so we were praying that we wouldn’t be a headline in tomorrow’s Jackson Hole News & Guide that read “Two Anglers Gored to Death on the Firehole River.” As we got closer to the parking lot there was one last obstacle. A massive buffalo who was blocking our path with geysers on either side, so we couldn’t go around because the herd was behind us and geysers prevented us from going around. We had no choice but to walk within twenty feet of the massive beast to get back to our car.
It was dumb luck that we made it back unscathed, but I’ll gladly take being lucky any day over the week over being gored by a damn buffalo! I’ll never forget that day on the Firehole River in Yellowstone National Park, and I’ll also never forget the taste of the best beer of my life.