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There are times when fly-fishing takes on slightly bizarre, eerie shadings. Many of these occasions are out of kilter not because the taking of the fish is exceptionally easy or extremely difficult but because of other circumstances. Weird light, strange humans wandering around on the periphery of my vision, grizzly vibes humming electrically through the land. Today is one of those moments that seems to be a still-life study of some monumental truth that I can only glimpse along the outer boundaries of my perception. It's like I'm wearing a ball cap (Cubs, normally) and the bill is pulled down over my eyes so that all I can see is the ground directly beneath me and a little beyond. I know that there's more to the landscape but I can't glimpse it. It's frustrating and a touch maddening.

I'm casting to Yellowstone cutthroats in the wide oxbows and flats of the West Boulder River in the meadows of the Absaroka-Beartooth Wilderness, about four miles up from the trailhead. The trout eagerly grab a Gold-Ribbed Hare's Ear nymph or languidly take a size 14 tan Elkhair Caddis. They fight in a series of gradually shorter runs before thrashing their heads side-to-side as they come to me. The cutthroats are all more than 12 inches-some more than 16, even. Fat, healthy and radiating the purest of colors-orange, emerald, crimson, black, white, gold, bronze. Natural perfection.

At first, my hike coursed through a healthy forest of pine and aspen; alders and willows lined the banks of the river. Ravens and magpies called among themselves. After crossing a wooden bridge over the West Boulder, the trail switch-backed read more » Read more – offline – from the current issue; subscribe to FRR.