Fishing - Montana TR- The Meadows

In the morning Jacci whipped up some Campers' Breakfast, a
conglomeration of potatoes, eggs, swiss cheese and bacon. This after
having pot roast the night before. This was not shaping up as a big
weight loss trip. Then VT and I suited up for the 3 mile hike to the
Meadows. VT wore his breathable waders and wading boots and took a few
flies and a lanyard of essentials and a small backpack with rain gear
and two bottles of water. I, on the other hand, loaded a backpack with
my waders, wading boots, full vest and net, water filter bottle and a
few snacks and stuff. It probably weighed 25 lbs! I also strapped on
my bottle of bear spray. What a strange feeling, to be "arming" myself
in self defense. I hadn't done anything like that in... never. I've
carried plenty of shotguns and rifles in my life but other than a
pocket knife I've never carried something with the thought of
inflicting damage on an attacker. The aerosol made me feel more like a
poseur than anything else. But the Forest Service wrangler who was
putting horses out to pasture in the Service barn by the cabin had
said that hikers had reported a grizzly in the Meadows recently. So
weighed down with the accoutrement's of my hobby and by a can of bear
protection the size of a big can of Off, I set my feet on the trail
with VT.

http://fishskicanoe.tripod.com/geopics/IMG_0234a.jpg
Manicured Trail

The trail started off almost manicured. Other than having to dodge the
occasional horse dropping we wandered up and down an easy trail. Even
after we crossed into the official wilderness the trail seemed
civilized. We crossed a bridge that hung over a bouldery section of
river and then began to switchback up the side of a low mountain. VT
is younger and in better shape than I am. I was puffing pretty hard by
the time we reached the trails high point. As we rested in a grove of
trees, hiding from the 80 degree sunshine another wrangler came by
with an empty packhorse. He told us it would all be worth it in 30
minutes, when the Meadows came into view.

http://fishskicanoe.tripod.com/geopics/IMG_0239a.jpg
Exposed Slope

http://fishskicanoe.tripod.com/geopics/IMG_0243a.jpg
Meadows in View

Eventually the trail started down and there spread before us were the
storied Meadows. They were framed by mountains, with the highest lying
snow patched in distance at their head. To the west were the
limestoney cliffs of Lion Mountain, pockmarked with caves. To the east
were low slopes who hid the bare peaks we had seen at the top of the
trail.

VT was ready to fish almost as soon as we arrived. He was casting a
red Humpy, which had been his go to fly almost from the start. Soon he
had a small brown. I, on the other hand, struggled into my waders and
boots and slipped my heavy vest over my sweaty shoulders. Stringing up
my rod and tying on a Madam X, I walked up about 200 yards above VT
and began to fish. Nothing. I crossed over to the east bank and began
to fish down towards VT. The water was crystalline. There were alleys
through the weed beds and even some patches of bare sand and gravel.
After changing from the X to a scud to a Pass Lake I still had caught
zip. VT walked by and reported a handful of small browns and cutts
caught. There were also at least two other groups of hiker/fishermen
that passed by, including a guy with a bear bell wearing Golden
Retriever.

Finally I saw a rise. The fish was about 50 feet straight across from
me, near the opposite bank. I had returned to the Madam X, this time a
yellow one instead of the olive I had used before. A few drifts and it
was engulfed. A small rainbow (I checked for the slash marks under the
jaw... none there). Another fish rose, this time a little closer and
the Madam took him. Then another fish came in, but this time it had
the throat if not the spotting pattern that revealed at least some
cutthroat ancestry. The rises had stopped so I walked up stream
towards VT. He had also had a flurry of activity on mostly small fish
but, like me, it had slowed and stopped. We decided to try the fast
water near the end of the Meadows. All this time the clouds had been
building up to the west, mostly hid by the mountains but still going
from the white cumulus of the morning to those of a grayer sort.

http://fishskicanoe.tripod.com/geopics/IMG_0247a.jpg
The Meadows and Gray Clouds Building

We fished the outlet. I lost a smallish fish. Then the thunder started
to announce that the clouds had gotten their act together. The other
groups passed us, on their way out. Finally caution won out over my
fishing jones and we decide to high tail it also. I quickly shed my
gear and we started up the steep climb away from the Meadow's valley.
Before we reached the top it began to rain. We trudged along. I
bloviated to VT about how at least this mud wasn't like the mountain
gumbo of Colorado that soon encased your feet in 10 pound dirt boots.
The mud then began to stick. I walked over the same bare stretches of
trail that had cooked us on the way in, hunched and cold. My rain gear
was keeping me dry enough but with each peal of thunder I stuck my
neck further into my jacket, my face pointed down, afraid that if I
looked up the mountain I would see what... ? The mighty hand of
Jehovah (or Zeus) poised, lightning bolt in hand, to chortingly strike
me down? I don't know. But I didn't want to look up that slope and see
doom... so I didn't.

And then it began to hail.

So what do you do. Stand in a grove of trees and become lightning bait
or risk being on an exposed slope and have the ice batter you to pulp.
What good now, you with your little can of pepper juice, small man?

But the hail didn't increase to the size of softballs or golfballs or
even marbles. Instead it was almost of a slushy consistency. And soon
it stopped all together. Other than slipping on some of the more
sloping sections of trail, where the half inch of mud sheared free
from the layer of dusty trail that underlay it, we negotiated the
remaining section back to the bridge in very fast time. And on the
other side the rain became a drizzle. We were soon passed by an
outfitter with some dudes who were, what else, all duded up in new
cowboy clothes. How the horses, especially the one carrying the young
kid, would negotiate the slippery trails above was on both our minds.
Then we were passed by two fishermen going up with no more equipment
than I would wear wading the Prairie on a warm June evening. And then
two girls passed us going up wearing the cheap, clear plastic rain
jackets, the kind they sell for 99 cents at Wally World. And I was
left wondering, did I make much ado about nothing, up there on the
slopes above the West Boulder?

We made it back to the cabin. The rain came down the valley in
occasional vollies of showers. We tied some flies. Jacci cooked
dinner, this time steak with carrots and mashed potatoes. After
dinner, while VT and Jacci sat and talked, I announced I was going
fishing. The horrible feeling was building in me that I had traveled
1200 miles and I was only going to catch a few small trout. Smaller
and fewer than I could catch a few miles from my front door. I went
waderless, rock hopping the boulders that bordered the stream up from
the cabin. I had a small Bivisible tied on my leader, with a red
underbody. VT pronounced it a Soldier Palmer when I showed it to him
later. It took my first brown, about 7 inches long, in the riffle
water a hundred yards from the cabin and then a second, about 9
inches, in the water stilling at the foot of a rapids, just above
that. Then the short dusk ended.

Sitting on the porch that evening VT and I decided we'd try the main
stem of the Boulder the next afternoon. And maybe take a trip to
Livingston when the afternoon storms rolled in.

Geo.C.

On Wed, 16 Aug 2006 22:46:20 -0500, George Cleveland
wrote:

In the morning Jacci whipped up some Campers' Breakfast, a
conglomeration of potatoes, eggs, swiss cheese and bacon. This after
having pot roast the night before. This was not shaping up as a big
weight loss trip. Then VT and I suited up for the 3 mile hike to the
Meadows. VT wore his breathable waders and wading boots and took a few
flies and a lanyard of essentials and a small backpack with rain gear
and two bottles of water. I, on the other hand, loaded a backpack with
my waders, wading boots, full vest and net, water filter bottle and a
few snacks and stuff. It probably weighed 25 lbs! I also strapped on
my bottle of bear spray. What a strange feeling, to be "arming" myself
in self defense. I hadn't done anything like that in... never. I've
carried plenty of shotguns and rifles in my life but other than a
pocket knife I've never carried something with the thought of
inflicting damage on an attacker. The aerosol made me feel more like a
poseur than anything else. But the Forest Service wrangler who was
putting horses out to pasture in the Service barn by the cabin had
said that hikers had reported a grizzly in the Meadows recently. So
weighed down with the accoutrement's of my hobby and by a can of bear
protection the size of a big can of Off, I set my feet on the trail
with VT.

http://fishskicanoe.tripod.com/geopics/IMG_0234a.jpg
Manicured Trail

The trail started off almost manicured. Other than having to dodge the
occasional horse dropping we wandered up and down an easy trail. Even
after we crossed into the official wilderness the trail seemed
civilized. We crossed a bridge that hung over a bouldery section of
river and then began to switchback up the side of a low mountain. VT
is younger and in better shape than I am. I was puffing pretty hard by
the time we reached the trails high point. As we rested in a grove of
trees, hiding from the 80 degree sunshine another wrangler came by
with an empty packhorse. He told us it would all be worth it in 30
minutes, when the Meadows came into view.

http://fishskicanoe.tripod.com/geopics/IMG_0239a.jpg
Exposed Slope

http://fishskicanoe.tripod.com/geopics/IMG_0243a.jpg
Meadows in View

Eventually the trail started down and there spread before us were the
storied Meadows. They were framed by mountains, with the highest lying
snow patched in distance at their head. To the west were the
limestoney cliffs of Lion Mountain, pockmarked with caves. To the east
were low slopes who hid the bare peaks we had seen at the top of the
trail.

VT was ready to fish almost as soon as we arrived. He was casting a
red Humpy, which had been his go to fly almost from the start. Soon he
had a small brown. I, on the other hand, struggled into my waders and
boots and slipped my heavy vest over my sweaty shoulders. Stringing up
my rod and tying on a Madam X, I walked up about 200 yards above VT
and began to fish. Nothing. I crossed over to the east bank and began
to fish down towards VT. The water was crystalline. There were alleys
through the weed beds and even some patches of bare sand and gravel.
After changing from the X to a scud to a Pass Lake I still had caught
zip. VT walked by and reported a handful of small browns and cutts
caught. There were also at least two other groups of hiker/fishermen
that passed by, including a guy with a bear bell wearing Golden
Retriever.

Finally I saw a rise. The fish was about 50 feet straight across from
me, near the opposite bank. I had returned to the Madam X, this time a
yellow one instead of the olive I had used before. A few drifts and it
was engulfed. A small rainbow (I checked for the slash marks under the
jaw... none there). Another fish rose, this time a little closer and
the Madam took him. Then another fish came in, but this time it had
the throat if not the spotting pattern that revealed at least some
cutthroat ancestry. The rises had stopped so I walked up stream
towards VT. He had also had a flurry of activity on mostly small fish
but, like me, it had slowed and stopped. We decided to try the fast
water near the end of the Meadows. All this time the clouds had been
building up to the west, mostly hid by the mountains but still going
from the white cumulus of the morning to those of a grayer sort.

http://fishskicanoe.tripod.com/geopics/IMG_0247a.jpg
The Meadows and Gray Clouds Building

We fished the outlet. I lost a smallish fish. Then the thunder started
to announce that the clouds had gotten their act together. The other
groups passed us, on their way out. Finally caution won out over my
fishing jones and we decide to high tail it also. I quickly shed my
gear and we started up the steep climb away from the Meadow's valley.
Before we reached the top it began to rain. We trudged along. I
bloviated to VT about how at least this mud wasn't like the mountain
gumbo of Colorado that soon encased your feet in 10 pound dirt boots.
The mud then began to stick. I walked over the same bare stretches of
trail that had cooked us on the way in, hunched and cold. My rain gear
was keeping me dry enough but with each peal of thunder I stuck my
neck further into my jacket, my face pointed down, afraid that if I
looked up the mountain I would see what... ? The mighty hand of
Jehovah (or Zeus) poised, lightning bolt in hand, to chortingly strike
me down? I don't know. But I didn't want to look up that slope and see
doom... so I didn't.

And then it began to hail.

So what do you do. Stand in a grove of trees and become lightning bait
or risk being on an exposed slope and have the ice batter you to pulp.
What good now, you with your little can of pepper juice, small man?

But the hail didn't increase to the size of softballs or golfballs or
even marbles. Instead it was almost of a slushy consistency. And soon
it stopped all together. Other than slipping on some of the more
sloping sections of trail, where the half inch of mud sheared free
from the layer of dusty trail that underlay it, we negotiated the
remaining section back to the bridge in very fast time. And on the
other side the rain became a drizzle. We were soon passed by an
outfitter with some dudes who were, what else, all duded up in new
cowboy clothes. How the horses, especially the one carrying the young
kid, would negotiate the slippery trails above was on both our minds.
Then we were passed by two fishermen going up with no more equipment
than I would wear wading the Prairie on a warm June evening. And then
two girls passed us going up wearing the cheap, clear plastic rain
jackets, the kind they sell for 99 cents at Wally World. And I was
left wondering, did I make much ado about nothing, up there on the
slopes above the West Boulder?

We made it back to the cabin. The rain came down the valley in
occasional vollies of showers. We tied some flies. Jacci cooked
dinner, this time steak with carrots and mashed potatoes. After
dinner, while VT and Jacci sat and talked, I announced I was going
fishing. The horrible feeling was building in me that I had traveled
1200 miles and I was only going to catch a few small trout. Smaller
and fewer than I could catch a few miles from my front door. I went
waderless, rock hopping the boulders that bordered the stream up from
the cabin. I had a small Bivisible tied on my leader, with a red
underbody. VT pronounced it a Soldier Palmer when I showed it to him
later. It took my first brown, about 7 inches long, in the riffle
water a hundred yards from the cabin and then a second, about 9
inches, in the water stilling at the foot of a rapids, just above
that. Then the short dusk ended.

Sitting on the porch that evening VT and I decided we'd try the main
stem of the Boulder the next afternoon. And maybe take a trip to
Livingston when the afternoon storms rolled in.

Geo.C.

Ack!!

A couple of quick edits. In this part of the TR I refer to the West
B------ River and the B------ River. Of course I was nowhere near the
B------ River nor to any of its parts. We were on the BIG ROCK RIVER
and the WEST BIG ROCK RIVER. I apologize for my senile utterings.
Also Jacci informs me that we had steak, salad with homemade croutons
and American fries. Not mashed potatoes and carrots. I'm so ashamed.

Geo.C.