For all men are equal before fishes.
-- Herbert Hoover

The Gallatin River -- where "A River Runs Through It" was filmed -- and the Madison River are hallowed fly-fishing grounds in Big Sky country.

But the first few days of the three Crable brothers' dream trout-fishing trip last week has been less than spectacular.

A front that left a fresh topping of snow on the surrounding peaks of the Madison Range has shut down the trout lips. Now, it is in the 80s and all the wilting sun had gotten us so far are red necks and chapped lips.

I hope the second leg of our pursuit of the Holy Grail of Western trout water in Yellowstone National Park will give our landing nets a workout.

First up is the Firehole River, an eerie stream often with a veil of smoke and a scent of sulfur from surrounding geysers and hot springs.

The Firehole sometimes is not even fishable in July and August. Water can reach 80 degrees, quite uncomfortable for coldwater fish, so they hightail it up into feeder streams until the water cools.

It is said that famed trapper Jim Bridger gave the river its name in 1851, telling a group of mountain men getting their first look at the area that the river's warm water was caused by friction from the water flowing so fast over bedrock.

The reality is not quite as imaginative but the trout are as hot as the water. As I land fish after fish on dry flies and nymphs, I am shocked. Shocked I tell you.

I had read that the stream has been a Mecca for anglers since the 1880s and that the trout are so educated one can fool them only with perfect presentations. And I am hardly an accomplished fly fisherman.

But, as lightning bolts skewer the sky in the distance, up to five trout at a time sip flies from the surface. The soft widening whorls of a trout's rise give fly fishers what someone described as "liquid buck fever."

This is the dry fly fishing I had come for. The fish are not large but size hardly matters when you can entice wild trout with dainty pieces of yarn and feathers.

My brother Brett lands a grand slam with a brook trout, brown trout, rainbow trout and the native Yellowstone cutthroat, a fish so named because of the brilliant red or orange streak on its lower jaw.

We go home happy campers this evening and eat bison and prime rib from Montana steers, downing the vittles with a few of the state's expansive brews with names like Moose Drool, Trout Slayer, Dancing Trout and Pigs Ass Porter.

The next morning, in the small fly-fishing stronghold of Ennis, Mont., we listen sympathetically as the owner of a bagel shop vents her frustration in the nine-year effort to get Westerners to embrace the Eastern breakfast staple.

"Maybe they think it's too effeminate," she says, exasperated. She loves the summertime when tourists from the East pass through.

Fortunately, we have to drive many miles between streams. Fortunate, because Yellowstone, the world's first national park, is a wild jewel that every American should visit at least once. It will puff you with pride.

Apparently, more Americans than ever feel that way now. Even in mid-September, the park packs them in. August set an all-time visitation record with 855,000. In 2009, a record 3.3 million people passed through one of the park's five entrances.

Around every corner is a different spectacle, a different animal or flora. The park, larger than Delaware and Rhode Island combined, is ever changing and its environments diverse.

So much wildness.

Yellowstone, almost all of it in Wyoming, is the only place in North America where all the continent's major predators may be found together: cougars, grizzly and black bears, badgers, coyotes, wolves, wolverines and Canada lynx.

All fish are wild in Yellowstone. There is no trout stocking. To protect this precious resource, you have to fish with barbless hooks and release the fish in many streams. A handful of streams are fly-fishing only.

Next on our list is the Lamar River. The stream flows languidly through meadows in a valley that many consider the most beautiful in the park.

It's where the first pack of wolves was reintroduced in 1995 in what has become a successful project to return wild creatures to the wild, though some would argue on what constitutes success.

On a ridgetop in the Lamar Valley, about 50 people armed with spotting scopes and binoculars allow us to peek at four wolf pups playing and vocalizing on a hillside. Twice that morning the wildlife watchers have watched grizzly bears descend another mountain.

The Lamar, which is not even fishable because of snowmelt until late June or July, is known for its big rainbows and cutthroats. It does not disappoint.

One of the joys of fishing in Yellowstone is that it's open and free. There are no fences to cross, no no-trespassing signs. You see a stretch of water that looks inviting and you go to it.

We fish with a herd of 100 or more onlooking buffalo in the fields bordering the stream, sleeping, grunting and rolling in the dirt.

Several times on our trip, we have had to stop our van as bison unhurriedly walk across bridges or on the road getting to new grazing land. The huge beasts would finally venture off to one side, only to walk back as you are ready to continue on your way.

I could be mistaken but their lethargy seems to me to be almost intentional. "Hey guys, let's mess with the tourists today."

The next morning is to be one of the highlights of our fishing junket: a 5-mile hike to the breathtaking Second Meadows section of Slough Creek where, according to many who have gone before, you toss gaudy imitations of crickets and grasshoppers along the bank and big trout engulf them as the real thing.

The jagged teeth of the Absaroka Range loom beyond Slough Creek, which undulates through grassy alpine meadows.

It's also well-known grizzly country. We are wearing our top-of-the-line bear spray in holsters like modern-day gunslingers.

We refuse to wear bells, but my brother Brett is apprehensive enough to sing out "Ding-a-ling-ling" every few minutes on the trail.

Montana residents, it appears, find amusement at our grizzly bear fears. There's the one about the outsider asking a native about how to tell the difference between black bear and grizzly scat. Easy, the local says, grizzly scat is the one with all the bells and whistles.

But the danger is real. A bowhunter outside the park is mauled by a grizzly during our stay when he surprises a bear while crossing a stream. The hunter had bear spray, but didn't have time to shoot it.

Sure enough, at a distance of about 300 yards, we spot a griz walking through grass near the creek. A fly fisher is walking on the creek bed, headed right for the bear. Don't know if the two ever crossed paths but we don't hear of a mauling.

A pair of Sandhill cranes squawk plaintively in the grasslands bordering the creek.

We get to our destination and immediately spot rising fish. We fumble in excitement to tie on flies.

But the fates intervene. Within 15 minutes, at least 25 mph winds descend and never let up. I am skunked for the first and only time on the trip.

It is one of those times that you make yourself look up and take in the surroundings and count your blessings that you are in such a place, fish or no.

Hiking out, we see a broad band of smoke on the other side of a mountain. We find out later it is one of two lightning-strike fires burning in the park. They will be allowed to burn -- it's a natural part of ecosystem regeneration -- until put out by snows, unless they threaten buildings.

Our motel in Gardiner is located on Hellroaring Street. One morning as I walk to the parking lot I hear coyotes yipping on the hillside.

On our last day, we fish the nearby Gardner River, just a couple miles from the Roosevelt Arch. The parking lot, incidentally, is on the 45th parallel, the halfway point between the the equator and the North Pole.

I am hurrying through a canyon to reach an enticing fishing hole I had spotted before lunch.

When I get there, I am startled to find about 20 elk cows in the stream and the bottom. On the far side is a massive bull elk.

Elk are aggressive in the fall, especially bull elk in the rut. Every year, park visitors are hurt and vehicles damaged by elk.

That's why you can get fined, if not hurt, by getting closer than 25 yards. I am flirting on the edge of that regulation as I move down the hill for the perfect photograph.

After a minute or so, the bull decides I am spending too much time with his harem. Grunting, he starts coming across the creek, his eyes fixed on me. I move on.

It gets too windy again anyway to fish. If you can't beat 'em join 'em. So I shed my waders, unzip the lower section of my pants and soak in the Boiling River, where an underground hot spring from the nearby Mammoth Hot Springs tumbles into the cold trout stream at 130 degrees.

Soak too close and you'll get parboiled. Too far away and it's hypothermia. About 10 feet from shore is perfect.

As I tell my brothers that night over a prime end cut of beef and a Black Dog Ale: "Boys, there are finer moments in life and this trip is one of them."

acrable@lnpnews.com