Pirates of Lewis Lake
By: An Anonymous Fishermen
This story carries with it nefarious and borderline questionable activities, so for the sake of those involved names and important information have been omitted or changed.
Clint and I were hyper-focused on catching the Grand Slam of Yellowstone Park. The Slam consists of Lake Trout, Brown Trout, Brook Trout, Rainbow Trout, and the infamous Yellowstone Cutthroat Trout. Clint Had not caught a Lake Trout yet, and I had not caught a Brown Trout. Seeing as the two of us were running out of days off, we devised a plan that would benefit us both. There is a lake called Lewis Lake in Yellowstone National Park where both Brown Trout and Lake Trout live side by side, in relatively shallow waters (10-16 FT deep). I remembered the lake from previous trips with other friends and had a familiarity with some places to fish and the lake's general topography. The next thing Clint and I needed was a boat of some kind. As we both did not own a boat. Fortunately for us, The Marina had canoes that people could rent for a whole day. The added benefit of the canoe was that the canoe came with its own outrigger system, oars, and lifejackets. It already had all the permits and paperwork, which meant we didn’t have to spend a dime except for gas to transport the Canoe with Clint’s Truck. With the canoe strapped tight to the tailgate and roof of the truck, Clint and I set off on an early Monday morning in search of our target species.
When we arrived at the boat launch at Lewis Lake, we got the canoe inspected and the OK from the park service to put the canoe in the lake. As we were readying our craft for its maiden voyage, the only other boat in the entire lake was a small silver NPS boat tied to the docks next to us. It was barely past 9:30 AM now and there was no wind. The lake was calm and between the two of us, we crossed over to the other side of the lake in less than a few minutes, without so much as struggling to paddle. As we approached the far side, we fished along the shore for maybe five or six casts, paddled down about ten feet or so, and cast again. After about thirty minutes some wind picked up just enough that we no longer needed to paddle as we had found ourselves in a drift. The only reason we would use the oars was to keep our craft on a tight course over sections of water we wanted to fish.
Within about thirty minutes or so of fishing, I landed the first bite. Feeling the slight bounce on the end of the rod, I stood up gently in the canoe and used my upper body to twist sideways and set the hook on the fish. After realizing the hookset was good, I sat back down and continued the fight. Both Clint and I were excited to see what the first fish might be. I had a fifty/fifty shot at this fish being the Brown Trout I needed. As the fish came closer to the boat both Clint and I saw neither yellow nor brown identifying marks. I was disappointed, to say the least, but I needed to land the fish to unhook it. Clint didn’t even get the net as I boat flipped the fish into the center of the canoe to discover that it was in fact a Brown Trout. The mood in the boat changed from disappointment to one of pure joy for the both of us. After taking a few pictures with my worthy adversary we released the fish back into the water. Now the race was on to find Clint his Lake Trout. After casting a few times with the trusted money clip, Clint decided it was time for a change of pace. He switched to a lure he was familiar with from back home, a blue and silver Cleo spoon. Within the first cast, he was on a fish. It was one of those fights that feels like you spent a lifetime battling the fish. Mainly because this was the last piece to the puzzle to complete our grand slams of Yellowstone. As Clint worked the fish up to the right side of the canoe, I could see the distinct tiger markings across the trout’s back. It was definitely a Lake Trout. I leaned gingerly over the canoe with the net, so as to not tip us over, and scooped up the fish in one motion. As soon as the fish hit the bottom of the net Clint and I began shouting and laughing as if we had just scratched a winning lottery ticket.
After this catch, the pressure was off, and we resumed our day as if we were fishing for leisure rather than sport. Our canoe now looked as how you would imagine Tom Swayer to be fishing as his craft meandered down the Mighty Mississippi. We missed a strike here and there over the next hour of drifting across the lake. As I sat in the canoe, I wanted to try a new lure. I looked over at Clint and asked to see his tackle box. He passed it back to me, it was full of assorted spoons, and jigs that he had brought from back home. As I sat picking through his lures I heard the distinct sound of a motor far off in the distance. I looked up and behind me, there was a small craft barring straight towards us. I thought to myself that we were the only boat on the water all morning, and the only other boat I saw in the water was the National Park Service boat. Logically, that had to be NPS no doubt. I turned to Clint and told him that the Park Service was on their way to us and that if he had any barbs that needed pinching, we should do that now. Clint began padding his pockets for pliers but could not find them. He turned around panicked stricken asking if I found them. We both were now rummaging through all the gear in the bottom of the canoe looking for the pliers. The boat getting ever closer. I tell Clint to just change the lure on his line and threw him a barbless Money Clip. As Clint was hurrying to change lures he looked back to inform me that EVERY lure in his box had barbs on it. My first thought is “WHY?” Then my second thought was “If we get fined by the lure how much is this little trip going to cost us?” As the boat in the distance got closer it was apparent it was coming directly for the bay we were in. They must be coming to check licenses and gear. I look over to see Clint holding his tackle box over the side of the canoe. I could tell what he was thinking. He was preparing to throw the tackle box overboard, he was just taking a moment to judge the price difference between the fines and the money spent on the tackle. As Clint was about to give his tackle a sailor's burial, we saw the boat approaching us change course and head for the mouth of the river. It was not a Park Service boat at all. It was a party boat full of the prettiest blondes you had ever seen, with one older man at the helm of the boat. The girls screamed and waved at us, while the old man gave us the head nod of approval. Needless to say, it took about five minutes after that interaction to get my heart out of my throat and to catch our breath. Neither of us touched the cursed tacklebox for the remainder of the trip.
As the sun began to dip past its high place in the sky, both Clint and I knew it was time to start heading back to the boat ramp. The winds began to pick up and turn the once calm lake with favorable wind into waves with white caps against our direction of travel. Here Clint and I set about paddling as hard as we could into the wind and into the waves. We paddled for about fifteen minutes and did not make so much as a hundred yards in our direction. If we stopped the wind would blow us back and we were forced to paddle from where we started. The canoe seemed to be built for Sisyphus himself as it felt every time I accomplished anything, I had nothing to show for it. We kept paddling. Waves began breaking over the bow onto Clint. There was standing water in the canoe. A strong gust of wind blew and turned our canoe almost sideways. We went down into the trough of a wave and lost a outrigger. I reached back and grabbed it with my oar. Once it was secure, I threw it in the bottom of the canoe and continued paddling. Again, another wave hit us hard. This time the second downrigger came off. We were now without support for our wobbly canoe, in the middle of the lake, with the strongest winds we had ever rowed in. Acting fast we let the wind push us backward to secure our second outrigger. We then looked for the closest piece of land to get too. It was a barren point about two hundred yards off our back right side. We decided we would go for it. As we turned the canoe, we began taking on water. The wind blew hard again this time taking off my lucky fishing hat and sailing it about thirty feet behind our canoe. There was nothing we could do. We were barely above water, and turning the canoe and direction but to land was surely going to sink us.
The excitement of pulling into land was overshadowed by the howling wind and the large distance of water still between us and home. It was here I set about reattaching the outriggers to the canoe While Clint looked to see if there was a way to port the canoe over land. There was no possible way to carry the canoe, as Clint and I soon discovered that we had landed on an unmarked thermal feature. The water all around was warm, smelling of sulfur. Further in from shore, there were low bubbling hot springs that Yellowstone is so well known for. Our only way forward would be to row the canoe and follow the shoreline to a more favorable crossing.
After a well-needed rest, the two of us hopped back into the canoe and proceeded along the shoreline toward the far side of the lake. We used the height of the Lodge Pole Pine Trees to shield our little craft from the strong gusts of wind. As we slowly made progress up the shore. Our second stopping spot was an inlet that we had passed on the way. It was the last section of shore protected by the Lodge Pole Pines that were available to us before we had to cross the vast open lake again to get over towards the boat ramp. As we pulled up to our second stop, we started a large eagle out of one of the clumps of dead trees that hung near the shore’s edge. It was here we took our last break and watched as the eagle flew to another tree about two hundred yards away. It was there he sat and watched us as we made sure our canoe was secure and readied ourselves for the crossing.
We eventually made it to the boat ramp without losing anything but my hat. The whole return trip took me and Clint roughly three and a half hours to make it back. When our trip out only took about thirty minutes. When we made it back to the marina, we were told that all the boats had been pulled off the lake due to high winds. We would have never had a way of knowing as we were on a completely different lake and we were the only ones out there, minus that party boat we saw earlier. I know Clint thought the same as I did. I genuinely thought we were going down with our canoe. Luckily, we made it back with everything intact and we caught our target trout. If you told me the things that were going to happen on this trip, and how we would almost sink our canoe, but you told me we would catch fish, I would still do it again in a heartbeat. These kinds of trips are the ones you will never forget.
