Chapter 2e

By the time I entered high school, fishing in general became less and less a priority and was replaced with the typical things like baseball, music and of course, girls. Most of the time, the fishing we did do was reduced to sitting in a fish-house on a frozen lake and although we did put lines in the water, we were much more focused on the beer drinking and poker playing. Ice fishing was perfect. We had a warm place to hang out, a perfect excuse to get away and the one place adults would rarely, if ever, venture.

Built with 2’ by 2’s and cardboard walls the fish-house was more of a fort for teenagers than anything. The wood stove covered the smell of cigarettes and the holes in the ice were perfect for dropping six-packs of beer down on a stringer, hiding them from parents if they ever did check in, keeping them cold at the same time. We spent just about every day during Christmas break on the lake and many of the nights as well. We cooked on the wood stove and slept on the bench seats—that is, if we did actually sleep.

High school flew by and college came. From there I entered into restaurant management in the Twin Cities and my life as an outdoor enthusiast came to a halt… or a pause. Although I did hunt, my passion for fishing morphed into a wicked golf swing and an eleven handicap. The fishing I did was after errant shots that found the pond along the ninth green of the local club. It’s funny to think of what motivates an individual to make life changes. Sometimes it’s a profound experience such as the death of family member or friend. Sometimes we see things on the TV or through traveling that inspires us. For me, I never really liked my job. In fact, I absolutely hated managing restaurants and looked for every opportunity to get out. That opportunity came in the form of a touring musical group I traveled with for a year, which opened my eyes to ideas outside the confines of a conservative Midwest way of life. From there it was more college and then; even more college.

I was attending graduate school at the University of Wisconsin, Milwaukee and was teaching undergraduate classes when I met a non-traditional student by the name of Dick. He was a student of mine who was semi-retired at the age of 54. A few weeks before finals, Dick invited me to a hunting club he belonged to for some pheasant hunting. I was a little concerned that maybe it was some kind of bribe but Dick had about 98% of the possible points allowed in the class so there really wasn’t much to be gained. Besides, he seemed to be a straight shooter with a good heart so I didn’t see the harm.

Dick and I talked a lot about future goals and interests. He originally asked me to go hunting because he knew I was missing the outdoors given the fact I was living on a part-time teaching salary in the inner-city of Milwaukee. After a couple of these outings he told me about a program in Montana his step-son worked at called Alternative Youth Adventures.
AYA was a wilderness therapy program that took troubled youth into a backcountry environment to learn life skills. I did some research on the program and contacted them for some more info. A year and a half later I had completed my coursework in grad school and was off to Montana to play with the “juvies.”

Alright, I’ll get to the point. While working for AYA I met Dick’s step-son, Garrett. Garrett was an extremely charismatic guy in his early thirties. The kids at AYA loved him but after a few years it was time for a change for Garrett. He was a transplant from Chicago and loved to fly fish. Jobs were tough to come by, especially in the field of social services in Montana and I’m guessing the last thing he wanted to do was move back to the Windy City; so he followed his passion. I think it’s only fair to mention he had a generous girlfriend who helped support him while he pursued this passion. Do you know what they call a single fly fishing guide? Homeless.

The most important attribute of a guide, besides having some financial freedom to pursue this lifestyle, is that they know the water they fish. This only comes with spending time on the river and the one way to put that time in is to take as many buddies out as possible before you actually start getting paid for it. In the spring of 2002 I became one of Garrett’s guinea pigs.

It was mid-April when Garrett asked a friend and co-worker of mine Dave, to go out for one of these recon missions. The third bailed on them so they asked me. Having had an extremely tough last month with AYA I decided to leave the stress of the job behind and join the party. I hadn’t picked up a fly rod since I was that pre-teen chasing imaginary fish in my yard. I was a little nervous but excited as well. I had absolutely no gear, which Garrett said wasn’t a problem. I could use his so I felt confident I was going to get a quality experience. Besides, it was going to be much more like a real guided trip for him since 80% of a guide’s clients show up with even less experience than I had and about the same amount of gear.

We met Garrett at Albertson’s Grocery Store in Helena. I bought the beer, Dave picked up some sandwiches and after loading it up in Garrett’s truck, we were on our way. We made the 40 mile trip to Craig, stopped at a fly shop to set up a shuttle and launched the boat at the Wolf Creek Bridge. It was the first time I had ever been on the Big Mo and I was excited. I had listened to plenty of conversations of guys from work fishing the Missouri so I couldn’t wait.

There is a perception of fly fishing that I came to realize in those next couple hours that is just that, perception. Don’t get me wrong, there is an art to it, there are forms of fly fishing that involve a delicate presentation and a perfect cast; then there is chucking and ducking.
Before we left the boat ramp Garrett pulled out a box of streamers I was suspiciously familiar with. They were huge with feathers and marabou dangling off and big dumbbell eyes and bead heads. They had flashabou tied into the marabou, flashy tinsel and an extraordinary amount of big fat soft hackle tied for the bodies. There were white ones, red ones, gold and brown—they were bass plugs! I swear I could have seen those same lures in the old man’s tackle box back in Minnesota. And we fished them the same as the bass plugs too.

There’s a reason they call streamer fishing, “chucking and ducking.” Because the added weight takes longer to throw all the way behind the caster on the back cast, most people don’t wait long enough for the rod to load. The result is a tailing cast that doesn’t obtain enough height to clear the boat. The rower has to be quick to recognize the streamer coming head-high and even quicker to get out of the way. The caster? The caster hopefully learns their lesson the first time they get it in the back of the head. With a little luck and some quick casting lessons, sometimes the inevitable can be avoided…sometimes.

Being the third, I took the back of the boat and Dave started in the front. As instructed, we chucked the buggers and streamers right up on the bank. “Don’t worry about getting hooked up,” Garrett would say, “if you’re not bouncing off the rocks you’re not getting close enough.”
We threw while Garrett rowed for about an hour before we switched up the order. We still hadn’t pulled anything off the bank that looked like a fish and I think Garrett wanted to cast for himself just to prove there were actually trout in the river. He took the front of the boat and Dave jumped on the sticks.

It was just a few minutes into this new line-up when Garrett yelled out, “There’s one! Damn it! He missed it!” A big brown had come out from the bank and rolled on Garrett’s streamer without actually taking it. What I’ve found is that’s the typical reaction; first excitement and then disappointment. Actually landing a fish on a streamer is about 1 in 10. Not great odds but it is exciting. The streamer fisher sees a lot of fish for sure, but hooking up is definitely a different story.

There is a theory as to why this is the case. Some guides believe the browns rush the streamer as though it’s a fry or scalpin trying to dart off into the safety of deep water and the initial strike is to stun the prey and then, while it flutters in the current, the trout will turn back and eat it. If you can resist the urge to set the hook and instead, drop your rod tip on that initial take, you can increase your odds considerably. (Believe it. I’ve been fortunate to have tested this method over and over again and it does work.)

As a knee-jerk reaction to Garrett’s excitement I turned to look at what had been the instigator. I saw the aftermath in the form of a boil where the fish had turned on the streamer. We were moving along with the current at the steady rate of the Missouri, which is roughly 3 to 4 mph with normal flows so by the time Garrett could collect himself, he was past the fish for a second chance and I, without hesitation, chucked my streamer at the disappearing boil—bam!

“Holy Shit!” I exclaimed as the brown exploded on my white zonker. It hit so hard it almost ripped the fly rod out of my hands. I braced myself and struck back lifting the rod straight up to the clouded over, endless sky, propelling the trout up in the air and with a splat, it belly flopped back into the water. It ran straight up-stream and broke the surface again, shaking its head, trying desperately to shake free. When that didn’t work it ran straight at the boat and it took all I had to strip line in fast enough to keep tension on him. He then dove straight to the bottom and I patiently waited for him to decide to come to the net that Garrett had replaced his rod with.
If you’ve never had a wild trout on a rod before I can only describe it in terms I’m familiar with.

The takes, when streamer fishing, are like pike hits on trolling spoons but once they’re hooked, they fight more like smallmouth bass. They’re smart too. Sometimes their first run is straight at the boat in an attempt to create slack in the line, then jumping sometimes 2 feet out of the water, shaking and twisting trying to break free. Sometimes they run straight for heavy current knowing they can use their own mass with the current to break off. Sometimes they run straight upstream creating a huge belly in your line before going airborne. I’m convinced, each trout has its own escape plan firmly engrained in their brains; each one a little different but each well choreographed making the success rate of actually landing one of these broad shouldered, wild trout nearly impossible for some and definitely challenging for all.

“Do you know what you’ve done there Russ?” Garrett asked with his most enthusiastic and sincere voice. “People save up for a lifetime to come out to this river and catch that fish!” “Holy smokes,” he continued. “That’s a great fish; probably 20 inches!”

We took a picture and let the big brown go. We floated another few hundred yards and I landed another brown about 18 inches. At that moment my fishing for the day was done as I now had to learn to row. I was the only one to catch anything on that day and I was more than happy to take my turn on the sticks. It wasn’t pretty and I was quite intimidated but on that day I learned to love fly fishing, rowing, and the Missouri River.