Finally Fishing Yellowstone

Novelty, Exploration, and the Brain’s Drive to Discover New Water

When I moved to Montana I told myself that I’d spend tons of time fishing Yellowstone National Park. I lived relatively close, I was building a life where fly fishing was sitting at the epicenter, and the park is one of the most ecologically unique fisheries in the country. Coming from a history where I was well adapted to regularly day-tripping to the driftless with a three-hour commute each way, of course I’d fish it and fish it all the time.

But then I just didn’t.

I told myself it was mainly a matter of logistics coupled with wanting to avoid an unsavory tourist ridden experience. The drive, the crowds, the entrance lines in July, and the idea of combat fishing on the Firehole during the salmonfly hatch didn’t particularly appeal to my quiet and introverted self. And I think if I’m really being honest, there was a certain level of intimidation at play, too. Yellowstone is big, it’s mythic, it carries a sort of reputation and weight while being the home base of so many iconic anglers across the history of our sport. It kinda felt easier to stay on water I already knew, and when epic blue-ribbon rivers that live on anglers’ bucket lists are a mere 30 minutes out the door, it becomes really easy to stay close to home.

There’s an undeniable comfort in fishing rivers you’ve built a relationship with. You know the bends, the braids, the seams, and the best side channels that go untouched by others. You have deep memories attached to specific rocks, and your nervous system lights up when you arrive at certain runs — triggering preemptive bouts of adrenaline and a heightened heart rate in response to fish you’ve hooked in the past. You carry expectations into those places — about where fish should be, how a hatch should unfold, and what kind of day you’re likely to have. History and reliable expectations are powerful things.

In 2025, I decided to stop vaguely talking about fishing the park and just begin.

I picked up a copy of The Yellowstone Fly-Fishing Guide by Craig Mathews, using his detailed field notes—often edged with wry humor and wit, as my general orientation to the parks waters. I didn’t approach it as a checklist of the “best” spots, and I didn’t treat it as a strategic manual for chasing the biggest fish. I used it as a starting point — a way to begin demystifying the park and to connect with someone else’s lived experiences.

My approach was simple by design. I didn’t get overly distracted by the idea of maximizing numbers or size (okay, I had my moments here and there), and I wasn’t trying to optimize every single decision on any given visit. I really just wanted to start exploring with some degree of direction while, at the same time, enjoying the pursuit and experiencing the ecosystem as a whole.

There really is something radically different about stepping onto water you’ve never fished before, even if you’ve read about it and have a sense of what you may be in for. Even if you’ve studied maps, hatch charts, access points, and other people’s well-documented accounts — you haven’t personally stood on that bank, watched the light filter through the trees and drape across the current throughout the day, studied the wave of insects coming and going, and observed the micro-shifts while your carefully selected fly settles into its first drift.

As anglers, we often talk about our love affairs with our homewaters — and man, I love my homewaters. There’s an intimacy that we feel while returning to the same place over years and watching it change with snowpack, drought, fire, flood, and time. But beyond our deep loyalty to the places that we know and love is also the drive to explore. That sensation isn’t just a romantic inclination to innocently flirt with the unknown ‘just because’. It’s deeply biological.

Human beings are hardwired for novelty. When we encounter something new, whether it’s a landscape, a skill, or a problem to solve, the brain’s dopamine system becomes active. Despite what some common social media messaging may suggest, dopamine isn’t only about reward. It’s also about motivation, pursuit, and engagement.

New environments tend to sharpen attention and encourage learning as we map unfamiliar terrain, both physically and cognitively. Research supports this idea; studies have shown that active exploration of novel environments can enhance motivation and memory processes, helping explain why unexplored water can feel so engaging. (Schomaker & Meeter, 2014, Frontiers in Psychology: https://www.frontiersin.org/articles/10.3389/fpsyg.2014.00918/full)

There’s a reason a new river feels electric. It’s not just the possibility of fish — it’s the cognitive demand. Your eyes scan and map environmental data differently, and you tend to slow down simply because you have no assumptions to lean on. The experience becomes driven by a more experimental approach.

On familiar waters, we carry history. And history is a beautiful thing. It evokes nostalgia, a steadiness that can be medicine for our nervous system, and a less mentally challenging outlet to just enjoy what’s familiar. But at times it can also be limiting. For me, I often expect certain runs to always hold fish, certain flies to always produce, and certain hatches to behave predictably. When those expectations aren’t met, friction unfolds. Exploring the park, and any new and unique fishery for that matter, allows much of that to fall away.

My expectations were generally really low and open, and every stretch of water felt like a fresh conversation that I was just beginning. Some days were really quiet and mainly composed of scouting missions, while others were more active. But none of them ever felt at all wasted.

It goes without saying that Yellowstone is vast — ecologically, geologically, and hydrologically. And after a short season of exploring many times over, I didn’t even begin to scratch the surface. That realization doesn’t discourage me at all; in fact, it does the opposite. It’s almost a bit relieving to know that there’s no sense in rushing, and that I’ll quite literally never see — let alone fish — all of it.

I could spend the rest of my life exploring just this one park and still encounter new water, new conditions, new wildlife, new lessons. The ecosystem will keep changing, my own body will keep changing, my knowledge as an angler will continue to grow, and how I approach the practice of fly fishing will never stop evolving. I find comfort — and also quite a bit of humility — in that.

So often in fly fishing, and in life, we tighten our grip around outcomes, and we quickly forget that part of what drew us here in the first place was the simple act of going somewhere unknown and seeing what would happen.

Exploration isn’t just about epic destinations, and it doesn’t require a bucket-list trip or an international flight. For some people, Yellowstone is a once-in-a-lifetime journey. For me, it’s a couple hours down the road. The power of last season wasn’t just in the scale of the place that is “the park,” but really in the decision to stop postponing it. It was a season where I chose novelty over comfort, curiosity over optimization, and process over performance.

It reminded me that as anglers, we’re participating in something very old. Humans have always moved across landscapes while reading water, watching weather, and adjusting to our surroundings. Our brains are quite literally designed for this kind of engagement. When we step into new water, we’re not just chasing fish. We’re exercising ancient circuits and systems that thrive on exploration and adaptation.

I still love my home waters and will continue to dedicate my time and energy towards walking and wading their contours. I liken them to a close friend whom you always pick back up with right where you left off. But 2025 will always be the year I finally began fishing the park — not perfectly, and maybe not even particularly “successfully,” but very sincerely.

References:

• Schomaker, J., van Bronkhorst, M. L. V., & Meeter, M. (2014). Exploring a novel environment improves motivation and promotes recall of words. Frontiers in Psychology. https://www.frontiersin.org/articles/10.3389/fpsyg.2014.00918/full

• Wittmann, B. C., Bunzeck, N., Dolan, R. J., & Düzel, E. (2007). Anticipation of novelty recruits reward system and hippocampus while promoting recollection.NeuroImage.https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2706325/