Ever since my dad took up fly fishing, he’s been very enthusiastic and thankfully, gently insistent about getting the rest of us involved. Can you insist on something passively? I guess that’s where the phrase “you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink” comes in.

Thankfully, we drank. Enthusiastically. And we still do.

The trip I wrote about last month, the one that took us through Yellowstone and into some of the most beautiful stretches of the American West, was really just one chapter in a much longer family obsession with rivers, trout, and places that feel untouched by time.

One year my dad rented a house in Bozeman, Montana and invited me, my brother, and my brother in law out for a week of fishing on the Madison, Yellowstone, and Gallatin Rivers. For my money, it’s the best trout fishing in the Lower 48.

Actually, I should clarify that.

The first real fishing pilgrimage my dad ever took us on happened when we were barely 20 years old. He brought us to Alaska to chase sockeye, silver, and chum salmon, and if we got lucky, giant king salmon.

We all fell in love with Alaska instantly.

Everything there feels oversized. The mountains, the weather, the bears, even the seagulls somehow look tougher. The rainbow trout and Arctic char are enormous, too, and there’s a reason for that. Millions and millions of salmon spawn in those rivers every year, and when they die, they feed everything around them either directly or indirectly. The entire ecosystem feels supercharged by salmon.

It’s honestly incredible to witness.

Especially the bears.

You can be standing twenty yards away from a massive brown bear or grizzly while it’s feeding in the river and it genuinely could not care less that you exist. They’re too busy getting fat and happy before winter. It’s both terrifying and oddly peaceful at the same time.

We’re actually preparing for our sixth trip back to Alaska this September, which probably tells you everything you need to know.

Over the years, the one thing I’m always chasing is big rainbow trout. I won’t reveal all my secrets, but if we’re talking National Parks and unforgettable fishing destinations, maybe take a look at Katmai National Park sometime.

Back to Montana though.

An average trout in Alaska would be considered an incredible fish almost anywhere else, but Montana is special in a completely different way. The rivers feel iconic. Timeless. Almost mythological.

I think John Steinbeck said it best:

“I’m in love with Montana. For other states I have admiration, respect, recognition, even some affection. But with Montana it is love. And it’s difficult to analyze love when you’re in it.”

One day we asked our guide if he could take us into Yellowstone. He told us he had a potentially great spot called Slough Creek, about an hour from Bozeman.

On the drive in we passed herds of bison before hiking down toward the creek. The fishing turned out to be unbelievable. We caught beautiful cutthroat trout, which are native to the area and aggressively willing to eat just about anything you throw near them.

Everybody had a great day.

Then, just as we were packing up to leave, we spotted a pack of wolves running with purpose along the opposite riverbank.

It was one of those moments that stops conversation entirely.

Just wolves moving through Yellowstone at dusk while four grown men stood in a river holding fly rods.

A pretty perfect ending to a pretty perfect day.