Montana TR- Home from the Country of Memory/ Errata

I think its the red skin you notice first. But then you are drawn to
their eyes, large and wild. The skin is reddened by the wind and sun I
suppose. But the eyes, their pupils slightly dilated, glowing dark in
the red orb of the face... I don't know for sure what thats from. I've
seen those faces and those eyes in people coming out from two weeks
canoeing on the U.S./Canada border. I've seen them in a quartet of
climbers fast hiking their way out of the Alpine Lakes Wilderness in
Washington state. I even saw them, with great surprise, when a sitting
vice-president of the U.S. was shown on CNN after making a hike up Mt.
Rainier with his kid. Is it the Wild they've been witnessing... been a
part of... for that most recent shard of their lives? The Wild that
has been absorbed through those eyes and is now seeping back out
through the same portals? Or maybe, more prosaically, its just the
ocular equivalent of their wind burned faces, their eyes irritated by
the harsh wind and the glare of sun off water and mountain snow.
Whatever it was, I was seeing that face and those eyes when I talked
to the guy I knew only as Mike in the parking lot at the Falls Creek
campground.

He had been there for the last couple of days. We had turned him onto
the location of the Boulder River moose the first day we had set up
camp. He had heard of it and wanted to take its picture. Then we would
see him occasionally as he walked along the river road or sat in his
car. But this morning he stopped me as I was getting some water for
the morning's breakfast. He wanted to know if I had some ants I could
sell him. He didn't want to take the time to drive into Big Timber and
they had been working well on the stretch of the Boulder he had fished
the day before. I told him I wouldn't sell him any but would gladly
give him some. He followed me back to the campsite.

As I was digging through my vest gathering up a handful of ants and
flying ants Jacci engaged him in conversation. He was from Illinois,
from one of the "Grove" suburbs, the exact one escapes me now. He'd
been coming to this campground, Falls Creek, for years. It was a
special place for him, the closest beautiful spot from his home he
said. He was taking a six week tour of the Montana mountains starting
here, then up to Glacier and then back down, eventually ending up back
here before he returned to Illinois. I loaded him down with my seldom
used ants, not very well tied. I then dug out some Pass Lakes and told
him if the fish were taking black bugs they'd probably like these.
Altogether I gave him a dozen or so flies. We chatted awhile longer. I
told him about the big fish on the West Boulder that had broke me off
twice, giving him precise instructions as to its location. In turn he
revealed a "stealth access" to the middle Boulder, a stretch that had
had VT and me salivating over as we passed and bemoaned the lack of
public access. Then he left and that was the last we saw him. If he
had already achieved the aspect of the Wild that was on his face after
a few days I had to wonder what he'd look like after he returned to
his suburban home.

We ate a quick breakfast. Before we started packing up I wandered down
to the river with Jacci's rod. She was still rigged up with the
greenish bead head caddis pupa she had caught her $53 fish on the day
before. I drifted it through the little run below camp and caught 3
small rainbows, one after another. Good fly, I called up to her, as I
fished upstream. But it was getting late and breaking camp was not
going to get done by itself. We packed all the dishes and other gear,
but left the tent and sleeping bags open to dry out. After I finished
with stowing the stuff we had packed we decided to drive up to the
beaver pond and see if Jacci couldn't catch a few more fish.

The wind had started early that day and the temps were probably
already in the low 80s. Not too different from Mason's and my meat
fishing trip from the day before but it didn't feel the same. Perhaps
the weather was just a little different or perhaps we had already
begun to leave the West, were already loosing the connection with
"place" that comes when you live for even a little while outdoors. But
whatever the reason the fishing was poor and the attitude of the
fishers was worse. It didn't take long to realize that this wasn't
fun. We packed up and drove back down to the campground to roll up the
tent, stuff the sleeping bags and leave.

http://fishskicanoe.tripod.com/geopi.../IMG_0060a.jpg
Dogs Helping Pack Up

When we drove past the "stealth access" I noticed that Mike's car
wasn't there. I wondered if he was at the West Boulder. We stopped at
Natural Bridge, so that Jacci and Mason could see where the river
disappeared into the limestone cave and reappeared downstream from
that. It was more crowded than the day VT and I had stopped, with
campers toting toothbrushes and people scrambling down the sides of
the canyon to fish and sunbathe. Two old guys, both well into their
70s I'd guess, and wearing the fisherman's uniform of the early 21st
century; nylon shirts and pants, long billed caps, all in tan and
sage, eyed the Wisconsin plates on the Subaru with scowls on their
faces and then climbed into their plateless Jeep Liberty and drove
down stream. We'd later pass them on a bridge on the lower Boulder,
one of them carefully working his old man's body down the bouldery
right of way to the water below.

http://fishskicanoe.tripod.com/geopics/IMG_0061a.jpg
Natural Bridge

Then it was down to Big Timber and the "I". Pointing the Subaru east
we traveled through the southern Montana scrub and Yellowstone valley
ranches. By evening we were in Forsyth on a gas stop, the worst gas we
got on the whole trip it turned out. By the next gas stop in Glendive
it was dark, the Yellowstone River running invisible under the lighted
bridge east of town. We'd been following it and occasionally crossing
it for the entire afternoon, had watched it turn purple in the light
of the setting sun and now passed over it for the last time. By the
time we got to the badlands of North Dakota an red orange quarter moon
was hovering above the horizon, occasionally being blocked form view
when night disguised buttes blocked it from our line of sight.

By dawn we were in Minnesota, by 10 in Wisconsin. A little after noon
we pulled into our driveway. The dust from the Boulder still covered
our car. We smelled as one would expect to smell after traveling for
24 hours straight. Montana was now another province in our own
countries of memory. We were home.






Errata

Cole Airtight Heater- The cabin on the West Boulder had a big old
stove, plain metal but with ornate chrome fittings. On the front it
had printed on it "Cole Airtight Heater". I didn't give it much more
thought until I got home. A few weeks later I was reading Margaret
Murie's great book "Two in the Far North". Lo and behold in the first
few chapters she mentions the Cole stove. "On one side of the living
room stood the indispensable stove of the Far North, a Cole Airtight
Heater..." I find myself wondering if that stove had been in the cabin
since it was erected in 1913.

The Wind- Every day there was at least some wind. Most days the wind
was strong, often very strong. Researching a bit I found that this was
probably from differential heating of the air in mountain valleys. I
ended up using my fast action St. Croix LU 5 wt. for almost all my
fishing. My slower rods just couldn't hack it when the wind came up.

The Fires- On August 25th, two weeks after we left the cabin on the
West Boulder a lightning strike hit a mountainside eight miles
upstream from the cabin. It smoldered there for another three weeks
until on September 14th on the heels of strong, very dry southwest
winds, it roared up the valley of the West Boulder, through the
Meadows and skirted the ridge tops to the immediate east of the cabin.
In places along the river the destruction was complete. Many of the
places in this TR must appear completely different now than during our
visit. It was only good fortune and the hard work by the Forest
Service and fire fighters that kept the historic West boulder Cabin
from being lost.

The Flies- Big was better, by and large. Hoppers, stimulators, all the
Western cliche patterns. Also, at least on the West Boulder, accurate
casting was important. Until I discovered the love the fish had for
woody cover I caught few fish. The closer a person cast to the wood
the better, at least on that stream.

The Country of Memory- As these TRs got further from the actual events
the more I found myself wandering in what I called the country of
memory. Each person has their own, each with its idiosyncratic
provinces. My country still has forested ridge tops instead of the
fire blasted ruins that are there now. Big browns living under fallen
spruce inhabit my country, whether they still are there in reality is
unknown.

Iraq- The death of one of my sons best friends in Iraq haunted us for
the whole trip. He was blown to pieces by an IED, as a gunner
protecting a convoy in Iraq. This happened four days before we left.
He was constantly on our minds during the trip. He wanted to be a park
ranger when he finished school and I couldn't help but wonder if he
would have ended up here, in Montana, instead of in the ground in
Merrill, if he hadn't gone to war. My sons country of memory includes
a dark province that hopefully will never reside in mine. He has the
memory of a casket, opened only to the family and pall bearers,
containing the statue-like remains of his friend, looking pieced
together, with parts that appeared to him as prosthetic add-ons, parts
that the Army had to ask the family how they wished them, the Army, to
dispose of, if they were ever found.

I dedicate these hours I spent on these trip reports to him.

g.c.

"George Cleveland" wrote in message
...


I think its the red skin you notice first. But then you are drawn to
their eyes, large and wild.

Thank you for the exiting TR and follow-up, always a joy to read...

My deepest sympathies for your personal loss.

Tight lines,
JT

"George Cleveland" wrote in message
...


I think its the red skin you notice first.

i have rarely encountered better quality prose, amateur or professional,
than that exhibited in your recent postings. to call them "trip reports" is
to glorify a convention beyond measure.

your work is of the highest value. my most sincere congratulations.

your friend in the old north state
wayno

George Cleveland wrote:

I think its the red skin you notice first....

Awesome ****, George.

Wolfgang

"Wolfgang" wrote in message
oups.com...

George Cleveland wrote:

I think its the red skin you notice first....

Awesome ****, George.

Wolfgang

I certainly can't add anymore to the accolades already presented, but I will
say I haven't read anything in ROFF, or anywhere else for that matter, that
is as thoughtful and moving as your TR.

I can only hope your loss is ameliorated by memories.

Op

George Cleveland typed:
snip
I dedicate these hours I spent on these trip reports to him.

A finer dedication I can't imagine. Thanks to you for the grand trip
reports, and condolences to your son for his loss.
--
TL,
Tim
-------------------------
http://css.sbcma.com/timj