Chapter1a

“Come on Chase. Load up,” was the usual command for the chocolate lab, which only took once if he thought we were going somewhere cool like fishing or hunting. He would send himself leaping into the front seat of the red jeep, flying over the center console, finding a spot to nestle into on the passenger’s side. Although still in good shape, the jeep was showing its 190,000 miles, most of which were highway miles but miles non-the-less.

As we sped off I couldn’t help but think about the latest email exchanges from the ex, which just made my driving a little more erratic. I never wanted to end it, especially the way it did but I guess that’s what happens when two people decide to part ways. It’s like leaving a job. It never really ends that well. One person inevitably gets hurt and it’s usually the one who either didn’t want it to happen or didn’t see it coming in the first place; that would be me.

So on this day I decided to leave the world behind for a couple hours and lose myself in a place I’d come to know pretty well in the last couple months. With my foot firmly planted in the floor-boards of the jeep, Chase and I made exceptional time up highway 434 until we crossed highway 200 and ended the paved stretch of road, turning into loose gravel. This part of Montana isn’t what one normally sees or expects when watching the movies that made places like the Blackfoot River on the western side of the Divide famous. The Eastern Slope is much different. Considered grasslands by some and semi-arid desert by others, the slope provides for miles of rolling hills that stay green into July on average years and butt right up to the tree lines in the surrounding Big Belt Mountains. Highway 434 winds through coulees and breaks but stays relatively flat until it drops off the table, so to speak, into the canyon of the Dearborn River. With the drastic change in topography, you know you are getting close and just a couple miles further brings the man-made landmark of the red “high-bridge” and the parking area on the other side.

As I open the door, Chase jumps out in a ball of furry trying to get a leg up on the new scents this place has to offer…literally. It only takes a few seconds for him to find the markings of another dog and like the pro he is, a leg is raised and by all accounts, this parking area now belongs to him. By the time I put my fly rod together, he laid stake on the fence, the bridge, the trail, and anything else that may have some lingering claims of another would-be canine homesteader. I asked myself at some point, “A dog runs out don’t they?”

It’s early-August and the water in the Dearborn is flowing low. Air temperatures had been in the high nineties much of the summer but dropping to less damaging temps as the nights grew longer and cooler. I had been working at the fly shop and by the time we ran our shuttles on the Big Mo and actually got to the Dearborn, the sun was already on its downward path and although there was still a few hours of daylight, the canyon would soon be supplying the welcoming shadows that would help to bring nervous trout up.

Being a first year guide, it’s easy to over-think trout. At this time of year there are only two things that matter: eating, and not being eaten. Casting shadows is bad especially in a river as small and as gin clear as this. You get one chance at a hole to make the perfect cast and get the right drift and although low light in the shadows and under clouds can help, the fish are constantly aware of anything that might look like a predator; and predators cast shadows.

Just a few days ago, I had visited this same stretch of the Dearborn with clients. It’s not always a greatly excepted practice to bring clients to such pristine places such as the Dearborn, however, the outfitter I was working for had wanted me to take the father/son duo there to get off the big water of the Missouri and work on the son’s casting. There are some unwritten rules when you become a guide, one of them being save these waters for yourself and friends. In my position I’ve learned, however, when an outfitter “suggests” a certain stretch of water or river, it’s not my place to question.

I spent all day working with James, the seventeen-year-old son, and although his casting was getting better and fishing was ok, the catching was a different story. We fished pool after pool after pool. At some point he stopped slapping the water with his line and fish started coming up to his hopper. With my voice in his ear we picked apart every hole. He first worked the inside edges and moved outward as to not throw line directly over any fish that might be waiting for the opportunity to ambush. “Hit it,” I would say as another trout popped his fly and again, James would be a step too late.

I decided to give James a break from hearing my voice and let him have a go at it on his own. I walked upstream to where his father had been fishing and talked with him for a while we left James alone. He thanked me for helping his son out and was grateful for the improvements he was making in his casting. Fly fishing isn’t the easiest thing to pick up and can be quite frustrating. It’s a lot like golf in that if you let it, it starts to control you and any little imperfections can manifest into habits; habits that can lead to nasty slices on the golf course and line piling up into tangled messes on the stream.

As I walked back to see how James was doing, I realized how much self-control and restraint he had displayed when someone else was watching and how little control he had over his frustration when he was by himself. He was hooked up on a log just a couple feet from where he was standing and instead of walking over and releasing the fly from the obstruction, he started flailing the rod around, whipping it back and forth in an apparent attempt to break the rod thereby dismissing himself from the seemingly impossible task of catching fish. Just before the objective was met, James looked up and saw me coming downstream.

“What up?” I asked and with an indifferent sort of shoulder-shrug as a response I continued with an, “it’s ok to be frustrated. It’s not easy and it’s definitely not something anyone picks up on their first try. I tell you what, I’ll take the rod and you take the net for a few minutes.”
James didn’t say much but I could tell he was in need of a break and also in need of something encouraging that would confirm that yes; these fish could actually be caught. So I took the rod from him and started fishing upstream.

I really think the biggest difference between those who catch fish and those who don’t is how long a person can keep a fly in the zone without spooking fish. What that entails on these small spring creeks that seem to flow a hundred miles an hour is rapid fire; continually stripping line in keeping up with the fly as it floats back to you and immediately putting the fly back on the water with no time wasted. This all comes with confidence and forming those “good” habits of managing your line, not taking too many false casts, and always keeping the fly where they live.

Somewhere around my tenth cast and after I had moved up-stream a few yards from where we switched roles, a nice little rainbow trout about 14 inches came up out of some skinny water to suck down my hopper imitation. James netted it and after letting it go to somehow disappear back into the crystal water, I gave the rod back to James and said, “They’re there. You just have to keep plugging away and be patient. It’ll come.”

It was around 5:30pm and we were facing a good hour hike back to my jeep. James still had yet to catch his first fish. “This is it,” I proclaimed as we put the stalk on this last hole. “This is our last chance. But hey man, you’ve been kicking some ass here James and I have a good feeling about this one.”

Taking a step back I let him begin working the hole just like we had meticulously worked the last twenty or so before. His first couple casts landed just outside the mark and resulted in not even a look from a fish. He then put one right on the seam and as his fly dumped down through the ripple and collected in the foam above the deep hole a monster rainbow rose up from the depths like an emerging submarine and with its white mouth wide open, gulped the hopper down. James never even saw it.

“Get ‘em!” Echoed my voice through the canyon, trying not to startle him but getting his attention non-the-less but it was too late.

Before James could bury the hook into the trout’s lip the imitation was spit out and once again, James’ fly line came up limp. I can’t tell who was more disappointed me or his father— not because of the failure but because we knew how hard James had worked and to come up empty seemed so unfair; especially since there were so many people I had taken out previously that didn’t know what it was like to work at it all day and put the time in that James had put in. They seemed to catch fish in spite of all the mistakes and in a weird way; I never thought they deserved the fish they caught. But James had worked hard. He had really given it is best and had learned a ton in the process. It just didn’t seem fair. I guess that’s fishing.

So now, just a few days later, this fish has already thrown down the gauntlet and I’m going after him. My trip here has taken on two definite purposes: 1) to help forget and to clear my head of the frustration and hurt of the emails from the ex, and 2) redemption for James’ sake.