Montana TR- The Main Stem and Country of Memory

Breakfast on Wednesday was French toast made with the some of the last
of Jacci's homemade bread and bacon. By mid-morning I had loaded my
rod and gear into the back of VT's truck and we took off down Brokaw
Boulevard toward the main stem of the Big Rock. We hit pavement in
McLeod and turned to the south. The Big Rock was sheathed in a
succession of small ranches. Each had its irrigation allotment and the
green of the alfalfa fields starkly stood out from the surrounding low
cliffs that were spattered with sage and brown grass. The higher
slopes were pine covered and as we moved up the valley we were soon in
the dry forest also. We paused at Natural Bridge Rec Area and then
proceeded past the inholdings of guest ranchers and vacation
developments. Another short stop to check out Falls Creek campground
and then on to the public water upstream. We topped a rise and
suddenly the river commanded us to stop.

A pullout appeared and we tumbled out of the Toyota and suited up. VT
scrambled down to the pocket water immediately below the truck and I
walked a hundred yards down to where the bouldery run began. I tied on
a olive Stimulator and on my first cast was tight to a small brookie.
Then a rainbow of about the same size followed. I cast upstream along
the slack water near shore. I followed the drift of the fly for a
while, turned my head to check on VT's progress, turned back and saw
that the fly was gone. Quickly tightening my line I felt the throb of
a fish bigger than the 9 inchers I had just taken. The fish ran out to
mid stream and headed down toward VT. Its vault from the water
revealed the pink flank of a rainbow. VT was approaching me now and I
told him I had a nice fish on. He watched me as I snubbed the fishes
run and a few seconds later I eased a 15" rainbow into my net.
Finally. This was more like the Montana I had imagined.

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First "Big" Fish's Home

VT headed upstream into the braided riffles that stretched above the
rapids we had been fishing. I stayed on my rock and continued to cast.
When no more fish responded I too headed upstream, first crossing the
river in a shallow spot. I took a few more fish, bows and brookies at
the runs head and then fished the banks, undercuts and mid-stream
depressions in the riffly water above. Unlike the West Big Rock, where
fishing the water seemed to be an exercise in futility, the main stem
seemed to hold fish right where you'd expect fish to be.

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Riffles

The river divided around a large, low island. The majority of the
water was flowing to the island's east but a smaller part flowed
around the willow lined west shore of the glorified gravel bar. As I
was clattering along the high bank to get in casting range of a nice
pocket of green water there was an explosion of water to my left. All
I could see was a dark brown form hidden by the willows off about 50
feet from where I was standing. Suddenly I was wishing for the bear
spray that I had left in the cup holder of the Tundra a couple hundred
yards downstream. But one more surge and the brown form revealed
itself as lacking in either claws or a slathering, purple, fang rimmed
mouth. Instead the improbable hat rack of a moose's antlers preceded
the equally improbable bulk of the rest of the moose up the bank.

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We're Not in Wisconsin Anymore, Cosmo.

The moose stopped and stared at me. I tried to read some meaning in
its body posture but my expertise in moose ended with the occasional
sighting of a highway moose on the road up to the Boundary Waters. I
edged slightly away to the rim of the high gravel bank. The moose
appeared unconcerned and began to munch on some of the surrounding
vegetation. I fumbled with my camera bag, trying to dislodge the
camera from its plastic ziplock baggy without scaring the moose. But
the moose didn't seem to care. I had the camera out and shot a quick
picture, expecting the animal to bolt at any instant. But he seemed to
have no intention of bolting. I snapped picture after picture, cursing
my lack of optical zoom on the Canon. Finally I began to edge away,
picking up a stick first to... what... defend myself against half a
ton of charging moose? But the moose didn't seem to be the charging
kind and maybe even yawned as I disappeared into the willows on the
island's center. When I got to the river's eastern run I found VT
casting to the far bank. I told him there was a big moose just the
other side of the willows. When I told him it was a bull and not a cow
he seemed relieved. It turned out that the moose to be concerned with
this time of year were cows with calves not big, angus-like, willow
munching bulls. Who knew?


By silent assent VT kept on fishing up the riffles while I fished the
riffles back toward the rapids by the truck. I continued to take fish.
Brookies and bows. When I got down to the rapids I rock hopped the
shore and cast into the pockets behind the boulders picking up the
occasional 10 inch rainbow on a yellow Madam X. I kept waiting for VT
to appear and when he didn't I walked up the road toward where I
assumed he would appear.

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Montana Exotic

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Pocket Water

A little way from the river I found myself strolling along the shores
of a beaver pond. But it was a far cry from the muddy brown ponds back
in Lincoln County. There were luxuriant weed beds on its bottom laced
with weed free alleyways with what appeared to be a marl bottom. What
it most closely resembled was a spring pond back in northern
Wisconsin. And there were the rings of rising trout speckled over its
surface. What the heck, I took a cast, leaving on the Madam X I had
been using in the river. Expecting the fish to flee in terror from
that monstrosity, I was instead rewarded with a splash and the tug of
a 9 inch brook trout. I continued to take fish, all brookies except
for one slightly larger rainbow, until I had worked the pond over from
end to end. I then walked back to the truck, no VT, and then back up
the road, past the pond to where I finally met him walking the gravel
back toward me. In response to my query he replied that he hadn't done
that good, which surprised me since his skill far surpasses my own.
And he seemed quiet as we drove back down past the vacation
developments of the lower river.

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Beaver/Spring Pond

When we got back to the cabin we held a conference on the fate of the
rest of the day. After a lunch of Hot Sausage Lentil Soup It was
decided that, even minus the day's expected mountain storms, we would
take the drive over the Swingley Road to Livingston. There we would
enable my 8 year old son Mason's fading addiction to trains with a
visit to the Railroad Museum and then maybe hit the Yellowstone where
it flows through town. Vt announced that he would follow us in his
truck to make sure we made it. And then he would continue down into
Yellowstone for the rest of the week.

Awkward silence.

Oh.

Fumbling for words, I ascertained that we weren't forcing him out with
our general Clevelandishness. Instead he said that being this close to
the waters of the northeastern section of the Park had just been too
much for him. That he had considered a day trip down there but the 7
hour round trip for a few hours fishing just didn't make sense. And
not spending time at those places that he loved made even less sense.
And we had to agree. These trips we make are, after all, excursions
into not only new country but also into countries of memory and
expectation. There is no rational need to be in a small cabin in
Montana or along a cutthroat river in YNP. But there is an emotional
need. And in the end it is that need that gives us the rationale for
these forays.

So it was with a high degree of regret but also of understanding that
we parted with our science teacher from Baraboo. Then we loaded up the
car and took off down the Swingley Road.

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The Swingley Road

The road was actually better than expected. It skirts the feet of the
Absarokas, twisting and climbing/descending past small ranches and
farmettes. Then it makes one long slow drop into the Paradise Valley,
with Livingston to its immediate left.

I hovered outside the train museum while Jacci and Mason took the tour
inside. It is directly opposite Dan Bailey's fly shop and when they
emerged we went in to look the place over. When we left I had the info
that the warm water closures had not made it that far upriver. So,
after a stop at the local grocers, we drove down to the riverside to
see if there was a place to fish. We ended up at a boat landing near
the town dog walking park.

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Local Culture

We had been warned that this was big water and it was. It flowed
chalky blue, several hundred yards wide past the parking lot. Jacci
rigged her rod and I got Mason and me set up and we clambered down the
bank of the river. We fished the edges, as VT had advised us, and I
was rewarded with a couple of swirls at my hopper pattern. But I was
overwhelmed by the unfamiliarity of the scene. That and the shards of
glass that were on the shingle beach, apparently washing down from the
old landfill the dog park had been built on, made the experience
uncomfortable. After a short while we reeled in and set off back down
the Swingley road to the cabin.

We were back on family time.

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Homeward Amidst the Alpenglow



Geo.C.