chapter1b

As I finished rigging my rod, Chase continued to search for strategic spots to mark. The beauty of spring creeks in Montana, especially this time of year, is that big bugs often get blown into the water. Grasshoppers, beetles, flying ants, and a number of other terrestrials find their way from bank to water and eventually to the gut of a trout. Once they get the taste, they’ll eat just about anything big and ugly that’s presented well. I tie on a “Frankenhopper” partially because I like the pattern but more because it just sounds cool—Frankenhopper.

There’s a path that cuts through a barbed-wire gate that I’m sure has claimed a few pairs of waders over the years. Because the water temps are still up in the low 60s, my waders are still back at the camper with my other spring and fall gear. I follow the path along the bridge embankment, over another fence and down into the water. There’s still one more gate to get through that hangs over the water under the bridge made of swinging PVC pipe. Boats and fisherman can easily push the piping aside, slipping through. Once through the gate, the piping swings back into place. Cattle aren’t so intelligent. It’s the same kind of principle that keeps an elephant at the circus from breaking free from the dental floss tethering his leg. Everyone in the place knows he could break free at any moment accept the elephant.

As I come to the first hole I pull my fly free from the hook keeper next to the cork on the butt section of my rod. I adjust the drag on my reel and then pull a few feet of fly line off the spool. Whipping the end of the rod, the slack shoots out the tip-top and I continue to strip line out while feeding more and more out the end of the rod. Casting away from the pool as to not spook the fish, I finally have enough line out to hit my target.

There’s a run that tumbles down into a deep pool. At the bottom of the pool, boulders and a snag have collected over the years supplying perfect cover for fish while still allowing a vantage point for an ambush on crippled bugs. Shooting line at about a 45 degree angle into the run, I drop the fly into the riffle and let it dump down into the hole. Nothing. I pick the fly up again and move into the run a little further and still nothing. I continue working the pool and the run until I’m satisfied I’ve either spooked the fish that were in there or there weren’t any in the first place and move on to the next hole. More than likely, there were fish there but somehow, either by me stumbling over rocks or casting a shadow, they knew I was there as well and no matter what kind of fly or how good the presentation, those fish weren’t going to be coming up for a while.
Cattle run all through the bottom of the Dearborn drainage. The resent fires and dry weather have caused the ranchers to bring them down to the bottoms for grass and water. A few cows and a calf occupy the bank on the inside corner of the next run. Chase never did like cattle and although he only weighs 60 pounds, he feels he’s got a chance against a 1500 pound cow with a calf.

“Don’t do it Chase,” I say in a low voice as I hear a somewhat controlled woof from him.

Too late—Chase makes good on his name as he takes off barking through the brush on hot pursuit of the not-so-aloof Black Angus cow. At some point the cow realizes the size differential between her and this annoying little lab and she turns to confront her attacker. To her, Chase is the equivalent of fly to you and me and just before she can step on him I yell, “Leave it!” and Chase turns back to my side—head down, huffing and puffing as to give the impression that the cow was lucky I called him back.

Working my way upstream I hear some low growling I’ve never heard from cattle before. However, with all those cows in the drainage I can’t imagine it is anything else. Surveying the next run I make a few false casts contemplating where I want to set my fly down. A bellow from some cattle elicits a head-snapping response to see a huge bull standing directly behind me. I know it’s a bull because I let my eyes drift down to a pink shaft protruding from a tuft of hair under his belly. He stares directly at me and I’m not sure what he sees in me but the feelings are definitely not mutual.

As a kid I remembered going to a funeral for my great uncle with my grandmother. The story was that he had jumped over a fence into a bull’s area of the pasture to get some water from the creek that ran through the property. Somehow he pissed the bull off and it came charging. The bull caught him as he was climbing the fence to get out of the pasture and dragged him down to the ground. It then proceeded to trample and stomp him until eventually he was dead. Someone found him a few hours later.

Now standing there face-to-face with this guy a lot of things were going through my head—catching fish was definitely not a priority. I let my rod tip down and the tensions on my fly line released as I blindly dropped the fly onto the water. I thought about running. I thought about sneaking out of there. I even thought about using my rod as a weapon. Instead, I froze for a few seconds.

I realized at this point the fishing gods must have a sense of humor. While still standing there face-to-face with the affectionate bull, my rod was just about ripped out of my hands by a 16 inch rainbow trout.

Obviously one’s life would normally take precedence over a fish but this is a good fish for the Dearborn and the first fish of the day over 12 inches. Immediately I turned my attention to putting tension on him. I looked back over my shoulder to see the bull is still holding; I have time. I fought the fish in right up to the bank and with still one eye on the bull, shook the rainbow free.

As I scurried upstream, putting distance between me and the bull some perspective was gained as I remembered conversations with my cousin who is a veterinarian in Missoula. She was in the market for a bull Yak and when she found one, the guy selling it questioned her about getting such an animal. I guess they can be pretty mean. In fact, the only bulls more temperamental are Holsteins—they’re of the milking breed and the ones typically associated with Mid-west milking farms like my great uncle’s. Angus bulls are by in large quite docile. That is until a cowboy grabs hold of a rope that’s cutting off the circulation to their scrotum. The perception, however, when you’re staring down a 2,000 pound bull in the backcountry is that of the rodeo bulls—thrashing around, snot flying, cowboys getting gored, etc. I guess even I would be bucking like a son-of-a-bitch too if someone did that to me.

Standing at the next hole I can’t help but notice this constant gloom that’s been hanging over me for a while. It’s made me numb. It’s kept my brow furrowed for weeks and it hasn’t reprieved one iota since the break-up. And now, when I did think my head was becoming clearer, the emails just got nastier and nastier.

I’m a firm believer in Calvin Cooley’s theory of the “looking glass self,” which essentially is the way we see ourselves in the context of the world around us, which is comprised of other people. You see, we are not who we think we are. We are not who others think we are. We are what we think others think we are. In short, by the way others interact with us; we develop some kind of perception of what others think of us.

A teacher is a teacher because they have a degree and they were one of the few that actually found a job in the discipline they went to school for. Because of the socially accepted definition of what a good teacher ought to be, one can assume that they hold certain traits like being caring, giving, selfless, etc. However, for that teacher to feel confident they are a good teacher, they need feedback that tells them they are “good” from their students and possibly, their peers. This may come either by the students getting good grades or always showing up for class or some other sign that says yes indeed, Ms. Johnson, you are a “good” teacher. When those signs are not apparent, Ms. Johnson’s confidence in teaching may be in question.

In my case I just wanted to feel like I was worthy of being loved by the person I loved or at least, that she was hurting too, which I guess would mean I wasn’t a total failure. But now, she couldn’t even say she hated me. No, she said she was indifferent. And let me tell you, the opposite of love is not hate. Had she written that she hated me I would have at least known she had feelings or that she was hurting too but she didn’t say she hated me. She said she was indifferent towards me. Indifferent?

This looking glass self theory also recognizes the significance of the person one is getting feedback from. If some girl walking down the street said she was indifferent towards me it wouldn’t have mattered. But I had been dating Carolyn for almost two years. Two years and I wasn’t even good enough for hate—just indifference?

And now standing over the pool I’m about to fish all I can see is a distorted view of me. It’s like looking into a cracked mirror and all I can think about is how I might fix the image. The absolute craziest thing about all of this is that there are many mirrors I could chose from to focus on—the girl that asked me to go out with her the other night? The guys I took out fishing yesterday? The other guides that have been so excepting of me? No, I have to focus on this mirror from this girl and it’s driving me absolutely crazy.

Peace. That’s what I need. Peace and I know how to get it. I’ll take a break from fishing and I’ll pray. And what better place to pray then in the backcountry, in this beautiful canyon right?
Seeking out a boulder to sit on, I set my rod down and took off my back pack. I have the perfect seat picked in the most beautiful place and I’m about to talk to God. The water rushes by as the remaining sunlight glistens off the rippling water. I’ve gotten far enough away from the cattle so they are no longer a distraction. Chase is happily doing his own thing and there isn’t a sign of civilization for miles and miles. Even the jets seem to have bypassed the air overhead and as I take a seat I think to myself, “It’s just you and me God.”

Suddenly, I hear the buzzing of insect wings as a dozen or so hornets ascend on me. Yep, I’ve sat on a hornet’s nest and let me tell you, they are not happy.

“This isn’t it. This isn’t peace. Is this a joke?”

Jumping to my feet I grab my rod and my pack and escape without a bite, or sting. I’m not sure whether hornets bite at this point or sting and I couldn’t care less. I take a seat on the bank of the river and within seconds I’m covered with ants. Ants!

“Forget it,” I say to myself. “You’ve made your point.”

Once again I collect my things and start heading upstream to the hole with the monster rainbow that eluded James just the other day. I’ve managed a few more fish and in all, I’m having a decent day of fishing but I just can’t clear my head of the emails or the last conversation Carolyn and I had. I can see the words and hear her voice again and again telling me how I wasn’t meeting her needs and how she could never be happy with me. I wasn’t good enough and that hurt.