It is early fall in Yellowstone National Park. We are on day five of a seven-day pack trip into the Upper Lamar River in search of wild places and unfished trout. We hatched a plan that morning over cowboy coffee and bacon and eggs. Henry and Dave were going to saddle up their horses, and follow one of the wranglers four miles upstream to fish a small tributary of the Lamar River. In the meantime, I was going to lead the rest of the group to a petrified forest that Scott and Carolyn had stumbled onto the evening before, and meet up with Henry and Dave in the afternoon.

We hit the petrified forest by ten in the morning. The sun had just risen over the canyon wall, and warm, morning light covered the whole river basin. The Lamar River had eroded part of a hillside exposing a stand of trees that were covered up when the volcano that formed Yellowstone last erupted. Petrified trees and stumps littered a hundred yards of river bottom. After burning through several roles of film, the sound of hoppers singing in the breeze reminded us that our other mission of the day was to fish the deep runs and pools below camp.

As we headed downstream, Henry's voice crackled over a walkie-talkie that he had left with our group. The radio had a five-mile range, but the rugged canyon walls reduced the signal to a slurry of static and words. All that we could hear was pshshshsh "bear in the trail" pshshshsh "pack of wolves" pshshshsh.

By this time my group had reached a beautiful spot where the river came off a wide, shallow flat and dumped over a ledge into a deep, corner pool. I had barely taken off my pack and gulped down some water, when Myrna rose her first trout to a Turk's Tarantula. Flori and Homer quickly followed suit. Within fifteen minutes, everyone had caught several gorgeous cutthroats.

This seemed like a good time to break away and try to meet the other group. Henry's garbled message had all of our curiosity peaked. I made sure everybody remembered how to work his or her bear spray and headed back to camp.

After several minutes of "sweet" talking, and the bribe of a few carrots from my lunch, I was able to convince my horse, Mrs. T., that she did want to leave all her friends in the nice, cushy meadow behind and carry me, and all my fishing gear, down the trail. Once we got going, Mrs. T. moved quickly through the dips and bends of the trail. As we made our way across the steep side hills,

I began to notice that the horse tracks from the group before me were now completely covered by wolf tracks. It was not long after, that Mrs. T. started acting funny. Her smooth gallop turned into a nervous trot, and she peered with wide eyes behind us. The first few times I looked, there was nothing. But when we reached the end of a straightway, there they were. Four wolves cautiously, but steadily following us right down the trail. There were three smaller gray ones and one large black wolf. They kept their distance, never coming closer than fifty yards, and all the while with heads hung submissively low. The wolves followed us for almost two miles, allowing me a long look at the fascinating, graceful animals. Without any warning, I turned my head for a second and they were gone.

When I reached the other group, they were fishing their way up Mist Creek from its junction with the Lamar River. I came around a corner and found both Dave and Henry hooked up with two of the nicest fish we had seen on the trip so far. I jumped off my horse and ran over to the guys, eager to tell them about my eventful ride. Before I could get a word out, Henry yelled to me "This is awesome! This place, this stream, these fish, just awesome!" He launched directly into the story of their ride that morning. Apparently, he, Dave, and Shay the wrangler, ran across a grizzly just a few minutes after leaving camp. As is almost always the case, the bear spooked and ran to a meadow below the trail. From there, both parties enjoyed a safe view of each other. After admiring the bear for a short time, the group headed on.

Roughly two more miles down the trail, they came upon a pack of wolves moving along the hillside. The wolves instantly bolted away offering the riders nothing more than a brief glimpse. Not long after the wolf encounter, the boys reached their destination, Mist Creek. A small, freestone tributary to the Lamar River with one deep, fish filled hole after another and no sign of human visitors. The fisherman met with success right away. Every spot that looked like it should hold trout did, and every fish was anxious to rise and take a hopper or cricket imitation. Dave and Henry had only fished for a few hours before I arrived, and already their arms were sore from hauling in so many fish. When we sat down on the bank for lunch, I finally got the chance to tell my wolf story. We spent the rest of the day trading fish and reveling at the wild place we were in.

So, here we sit, back at camp huddled around the fire. As we feast on another one of chef Randy's gourmet meals, no one can believe the day we have had. From petrified trees, to wolves and bears, to unbelievable fishing, this is a day that none of us will soon forget!