Chapter 3c

I look back on those days as I sit here in the winter with too much down time and I start to get a little re-energized. Maybe I’m getting more antsy than anything. I remember the people I have taken out fly fishing for their first time; but I also remember taking one individual out for his last.

I got the call to guide for a group that Pat Straub had put together in the early fall of my first year. The group consisted of three life-long fishing buddies who were all around the same age--probably in their mid to late seventies or early eighties if I had to guess. One of the gentlemen brought his son along as well, who helped completed the foursome. When we talked about the group initially, Pat had told me that one of the men had a difficult time getting around so he would need walker any time he was out of the boat. We were going to fish with these guys for three days and although he realized it would be a little bit of extra work, he asked if I would take him for the duration of their trip because the other guide was a little limited for room in his boat.

I’ve kind of adopted an attitude where I’m not going to bitch if there are special circumstances because a day on the river is a day on the river. I would rather be working than sitting on my butt and that kind of attitude definitely helped me my first year put the number of days on the water I did.

We met up with the group and I quickly began the task of introducing myself to Dave and Pat. Dave was Pat’s son, about 50 years old. He currently owned a construction business in Hawaii and had done a lot of salt-water fly fishing recently. As a kid he grew up fishing with his dad throughout the West. Pat had fly fished all over the world and had even taken a three day trip down the Snake within the last couple years. By looking at him, one could tell his health was turning south. He stood on wobbly legs and his movement was very slow and deliberate. He wasn’t your typical trout bum--all decked out with latest and great gear and neither was his son. I thought it was pretty funny when Pat busted out a blaze orange hunting hat with big ear-flaps and a chin strap with snaps. But who was I to judge? I was still sporting the Hodgeman’s.

At some point on that first day we pulled over for a bathroom break and Dave gave me the skinny on his dad. A couple years prior, they found out Pat had Parkinson’s. His buddies were in pretty fair health but they all knew the time was near where they wouldn’t be able to take these trips together. In fact, Dave suggested this might be his Dad’s last.

We started the day out the way we do a lot of times on the Mo where you just kind of want to get a couple fish in the boat to remove the skunk and then get on to doing more technical stuff. I figured it would be easiest for Pat to nymph fish some gimme runs and then we could see how things would go.

The thing about Parkinson’s is that if you’re not on drugs, the muscle spasms are pretty much impossible to control and the individual doesn’t really have much for fine motor skills. While on the drugs, it slows everything down so much for the person that their reflex time is so slow they can’t keep up with the takes. Time after time I would call out to Pat to set the hook but we just weren’t getting it done. I wanted this trip to go well for Pat—and Dave for that matter—but I was definitely at a loss.

We took a lunch break across from the Prewitt Creek campgrounds on a slow inside bend of the river. There was a big flat that we could easily get out on and set up a table along the shoreline. As we were eating, we looked out into a seem that formed as the current dumped over a gravel bar into a little pool and saw a few fish gulping on top. They were only about 30 feet out. We watched them for about 10 minutes when Jeff Rawlings, the other guide I was with says, “Hey Pat, why don’t you catch that fish right there?” I’ll be honest, I was a little hesitant to even try given what was happening all morning but Jeff had set the table so now I was going to have to serve lunch.

I re-rigged Pat’s rod for a dry-fly set-up. I picked out a small Bloom’s Caddis and tied it on and then trailed it with an even smaller Sprout Emerger. Then I helped Pat get into position to throw downstream into the fish. He threw a couple casts and was doing pretty well but we just weren’t getting the bug on-top of the fish—but, there was hope. Pat had a very deliberate and steady pace to his casting and although it’s not something I would teach; he was getting pretty damn close.

On about his 10th cast or so, Pat lined the fly up with the fish and put a little reach into his cast, which lined up his fly line with his fly keeping it drifting drag free right over the gulping trout. You could almost hear it pop when the rainbow sucked down the emerger. “Oh! There it is!” I yelled and Pat slowly lifted up his rod.

The thing about dry fly fishing is that sometimes the slower the better. As Pat lifted up the tip of the rod double over and a decent 15 or 16 inch rainbow exploded out of the water. Slowly Pat stripped in the trout and I waded out to net it. “That’s it Pat! You did it! Nicely done,” I said as I truly was excited for him. He was pretty damn proud too and you could tell it was twice as nice to get it done right in front of his buddies.

We left our lunch spot and headed downstream. Pat wouldn’t last long before crashing so he put his rod down almost immediately after lunch and fell asleep in the front of the boat. Dave and I decided we would change things up so he started chucking streamers. Although we did not catch a lot, the action was pretty good as trout after trout came busting out of rocks and logs for Dave’s streamer only to end in an, “Oh! Man!”

We rolled up on another seem that was stacked with fish rising. As we quietly let the boat drift into position I asked Dave if he wanted to take a crack at them. He suggested I asked the old man if he wanted to first so as I let the anchor down, in a half whispering and in a half shouting kind of way, I said, “Hey Pat! You want to take a shot at these guys?”

I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it. Pat lifted his head like a Priest after blessing his congregation before communion and without saying a word or even looking back at us, he slowly reached down and grabbed his rod and since it was already rigged up from the first pod we fished at lunch, he went to work.

It felt like an hour that we were watching Pat release his fly from the hook-keeper near the cork of his rod and then strip about 40 feet of line out about 12 inches at a time. He fed the line out into the water and I leaned forward to support my chin between my hands as my elbows dug into my thighs and I just kept waiting. Pat stayed seated in the front of the boat and when enough line was on the water he slowly raised his rod tip above his head and then with a sort of violent deliverance, he threw his rod tip at the target just up-stream from where the fish were rising. His line rolled over and the fly extend out to lay down on the water with absolute laser precision.

It took him one cast; that’s it and as he put the fly right on the trout’s nose, Pat was rewarded with another subtle slurp and the fly disappeared. Again Pat slowly lifted up his rod tip and sure enough, he was buttoned up on a beautiful 18 or 19 inch rainbow. I was floored.
I jumped out of the boat and netted the fish. We took a picture and let it go and then I pointed out another small pod rising just up-stream from the first few. I said, “Go ahead Pat, take a crack at them,” and again, the slow steady ritual of stripping line out and laying it on the water began.

Again Pat shot an incredible amount of line out for how easy he made it look and again he dropped his fly right in the bucket—another trout sucked it down. Pat set the hook and fought this guy for a minute or so before losing it but then he slowly reeled up his line, replaced the fly on the hook keeper and said, “I’ve molested these fish enough for today,” and he set his rod down and went back to sleep.

Chapter 3b

Determination pushed me over my intimidation as I walked into Cross Currents on Jackson Street in Helena. I was driving around on an information seeking mission when I passed the sign to the store that hangs over Last Chance Gulch. I had to believe there was someone out there that understood the value in helping people into the sport. After all, a newly obsessed fly fisher would have to translate into a patron and a fairly steady revenue stream for at least a little while right? The gear ain’t cheap and you need lots of it.

I walked into the store and notice a short skinny red head dude in front of the counter standing there engaged in a conversation with another newly indoctrinated angler. At the time, I had no idea who the young guy sporting the latest Orivs clothing line was but later learned he was actually the owner; Chris Strainer. I leaned into the conversation and overheard Chris talking to the other gentleman about leader and tippet choices and how to get the best presentation based on the type of fishing he wanted to do. At some point Chris picked up a couple pieces of rope and taught the guy how to tie a surgeon’s knot. I watched intently for the entire lesson and when it was my turn, grabbed the rope and practiced the knot myself.

That one day in Cross Currents helped me formulate a map toward a dream I had as a little kid. I always wanted to be a guide of some kind. (That and a rock star.) I wanted to spend my days out in the woods or on the water teaching people how to really enjoy their time in pursuit of their dreams. Even if that meant only the one day a year they had to spend on the river, I wanted to be the person that helped facilitate the short lived dream that would hopefully, stay with them for a lifetime. I walked out of the store feeling more confident and I didn’t feel stupid. Chris made me feel comfortable and with that, I knew what role I wanted to have with the people I came in contact with as they took their own journey into this obsession of fly fishing.

Chapter 3 The Education Begins

Chapter three: The Education Begins

As with many things in life, my love for the Missouri, (and maybe even fly fishing in general,) started with an intense attraction being enticed with a couple good fish, turning into distain and frustration before being able to come to grips with the fact that the more I tried to control the outcome and meet my expectations, the less I would be able to appreciate what this new found love could offer.

I didn’t even purchase my first fly rod; it was my cousin who lived in Florence, MT who gave me one for my 32nd birthday. It was an inexpensive package deal of the nation-wide department store variety and I was grateful to have one just to try out. It came with a reel, 5 weight floating fly line, a leader and a little pamphlet on how to tie knots. (Probably a couple flies too like some zuck bugs and prince nymphs.) I had no idea what I was getting into.

Searching for as much information I could sponge up, I went to a local store out on HWY 12 West in Helena. I learned quickly who I couldn’t go to for help. I remember being incredibly intimidated while walking into that store. As the door swung open to the sound of cow-bells hanging from the handle and I stepped in, the man behind the counter lifted his head up from his tying vice just enough to peer over his glasses at me. I nodded my head at him and said, “Hey, how’s is going? Nice day out there. Shouldn’t you be on the water or something?”

His response was letting his head fall back down to his vice; his hand continuing the circular motion of wrapping thread on the shaft of the number 16 dry fly hook; not a frickin’ word.

“Hey, I’m just kind of getting into fly fishing and I was wondering what I should pick up for flies?” In a nervous voice I continued, “I’m heading out to the Little Blackfoot.”

The man behind the counter continued tying his PMD and only after he had finished he looked up at me and I’m not kidding, he shook his head and said, “Here, try these,” and he pulled a couple nymphs out from behind the counter, sliding them across the glass surface of the counter-top.

“I have a 4-weight leader. Do I need tippet?” I asked.

In his most condescending voice he said, “Well, if you want the fly to drift right you do.”

Obviously my naivety for this newly discovered past-time really pissed him off and afraid to push him any further, I threw six dollar bills on the counter for the three flies and said, “Thanks,” and rushed out of the shop like a twelve-year old that just ran diversion for his buddy who had spent the last 3 minutes raiding the candy rack.

I wasn’t very successful that day. I spent a lot of time in the trees and a lot of time on the bank trying to figure out how to tie on tippet material. I remembered the back country director of AYA telling me that a lot of the success one has in fly fishing small creeks was learning how to keep the bugs in the water. The more time the flies were in the water in front of the fish’s mouth, the better chance you had to get him to eat. “Fish don’t live in the trees,“ he would say.

I learned that day that keeping your bugs where the fish lived meant a few things; one) being able to keep your line out of the trees, two) keeping your line from getting tangled around your feet, your reel, your rod tip or any other obstacle line inherently is attracted to, and three) once you get tangled or caught in the trees, getting re-tied and back in the water quickly. Man I needed help.

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.

Chapter 2d

One day while digging around in the garage I came across my dad’s fly-rod. The fiberglass rod was packed away in a PVC looking plastic tube with a twist-off cap. The reel was an old auto-retrieve reel that failed more than it didn’t and I soon learned how to dissemble it in lightning speed and re-coil the spring that was responsible for winding up the worn-out line. I had no idea how to tie a leader or tippet onto the line so I left what was already there and ran it through the guides.

There was definitely a mystique to the concept of fly-fishing. Before my dad’s stroke or before he “became sick,” as my mom would say, we watched the men in the neighborhood as they grabbed their waders and fly fishing gear and headed down to the lake. We tagged along with our own spinning rods and would fish for pan-fish. After a while however, I would take a break and watch the old guys labor over throwing 30 or 40 feet of line behind them, wait for the rod to load, and then snap the tip of the rod forward in an attempt to shoot even more line out over the water. It seemed like a lot of work and I don’t remember them ever catching anything. I figured it was because most of the time, they had to stand too far away from the reeds so as to not tangle up the line they had laying all around their feet. Subsequently, they never fished where the fish were. “There must be something to this though,” I thought while I watched but just couldn’t figure it out.

A couple years later I’ve found the gear and after assembling the rod I walked out the door of the garage and looked out into the June sun. The clouds had just moved out from the last night’s storm and the puddles that always formed at the end of our driveway were still lingering. Our yard was very large and since half the trees we planted the summer before died, there was plenty of room to practice. The puddles became targets and after checking to make sure nobody was looking, I began emulating the guys I watched on the lake.
I started slow. Only stripping a few feet out at first, I brought the rod-tip straight up in the air, stopped, and whipped the tip forward. “Snap,” was the result, which I thought was what was supposed to happen and kept doing it; that is until I looked at the leader and noticed that somehow it kept getting shorter and filled with more and more knots.
After developing the right timing and force behind casting the rod preventing the snapping sound I began folding the line out in front of me, setting it down on the ground with the softness of the poplar leaves that fell in fall. I then began setting the line down in the puddles doing everything I could to not form ripples. Soon the line was settling more like feathers than leaves and I began taking a few steps back, stripping more and more line out until I was casting roughly 60 feet.
I took a lunch break and then returned to the make-belief fishing pond. The puddles were getting smaller and my casting was becoming more precise and although the blister on the palm of my hand was just about to break through, I decided to change my target from the open spaces of the puddles to the trunks of trees.
We had all types of trees from full-grown red oaks, to maples, to pines, to Russian olives. On some, the canopy dropped to just a few feet off the ground, which required a perfect side-arm cast to reach the trunk. I walked from tree to tree and imagined there would be a fish lurking at the base of every one. The goal was to hit the trunk on the first or second cast. Missing the trunk meant missing the fish.
By the end of the day I had realized a couple things. One, casting although tricky, was doable and two, too much play between the hand and handle meant a blister the size of Cleveland. Because of that it took about a week before I could pick the rod up again.
I spent much of that summer perfecting my casting on the trunks of trees, bleach bottles, puddles and occasionally, on White Sand Lake. I never caught anything and learned another very important lesson I’ve never forgotten; fly fishing is much more than just being able to cast.

Chapter 2c

Eventually my brother would find a fishing partner more his age and I was farmed out to my best friend and his dad for the unsanctioned Minnesota holiday. It worked out well however, as they had a “real” fishing boat that enabled us to fish the bigger lakes for walleyes. It was a 12’ Lund with a 1952 Johnson, 35 horsepower motor. It ran quite well for how old it was and although it didn’t look pretty, it definitely got us to where we needed to be.

On one opener I remember going with Paul and his dad to Lake Winnebegosh in Northern Minnesota. The weather was miserable but not nearly as bad as it could have been. Sheets of rain came down for days prior to the opening weekend but the rain could have easily been snow as with some openers. Packing up our rain-gear, and layers upon layers of clothes, we ventured north and spent a night camping lake-side.

On that opening morning, we tooled across the bay to a rock-pile. Rock-piles always seemed to hold walleyes and with the aid of the depth finder, we located the structure. We marked it with a buoy and using Lindy-rigs and leaches; we started up-wind of the marker and drifted our way past it into deeper water. Drifting with the wind allowed us to cover water slow enough putting our rigs right in front of the fish’s noses without ripping it past them.

The Lindy-rig is a simple set-up developed by the Lindner family having three main components: a slip sinker heavy enough to bring the bait to the bottom of the lake in choppy water, a swivel to hold the weight 18 inches or so off the hook, and a small hook with a leach, minnow or night crawler at the end of a light monofilament leader. The idea is to have the sinker bounce off the bottom of the lake with the bait drifting naturally behind. To be successful, the fisherman would have to feel a walleye take the bait and immediately let the tension off the line allowing the fish to run. The slip sinker would fall to the bottom allowing line to slide through without the fish being able to feel any resistance. After allowing the fish to run for a few seconds, the fisherman would reel in any access slack and violently set the hook hoping the walleye would still be there. The trick was in differentiating between fish and rocks.

On occasion, a northern pike would take the rig, which was usually easy to tell. There was nothing subtle about a pike and they almost always set the hooks on themselves. Another tall tell sign of a pike is they liked to come up to the surface when hooked whereas walleyes liked the safer deeper water. One such fish happened to take Paul’s rig late in the morning on the first day.

Watching out of the corner of my eye I could see Paul’s rod jerk straight down rapping the gunnels of the boat. Surely by instinct, he jerked back as kind of a retaliating motion much like swinging at someone after getting punched in the arm. His rod doubled over and the pike ran straight out and then up to the surface. It was a little guy and once on the surface, it planed out and Paul skipped it toward the boat trying to keep it out of the buoy.

One thing you need to know about pike is they have large, sharp teeth and 6 lb monofilament line becomes pretty vulnerable when you hook one. As Paul gave the pike a little more tug to get it past the buoy, the leader snapped sending a ¼ once slip-sinker whistling through the cold wet air. The pike was a good fifty yards out from the boat when the line snapped and although it seemed to travel through space and time at mach speed, everything around it was moving in slow motion. There was no getting out of the way of this deadly projectile. It was like it had some kind of honing device on it and with a thwap on his rain gear it found its target hitting Paul directly in the groin.

Doubling over, Paul immediately flopped onto the bottom of the aluminum boat. I’m not sure what is so funny about watching someone get hit like that. Maybe it was the sound of lead on plastic, maybe it was the gasp of air and the high pitched squeal, or maybe it was jubilation that it wasn’t me but I couldn’t help but hit the bottom of the boat myself. I also shed a tear but it wasn’t from pain, it was from laughing my ass off. So now both of us were rolling on the bottom of the boat and Paul’s dad had no idea why. He was concentrating so hard on his own line he didn’t see what had happened. And Paul was in so much pain and I was laughing so hard neither one of us could fill him in, which just aggravated him more and more.

“All right boys, knock it off,” he demanded.
Knock it off? Are you fricken kidding me? This was the absolute funniest thing I have ever seen and he’s telling us to, “Knock it off?”

Paul and I spent numerous days on the water together. Sometimes we fished with his dad but mostly we fished by ourselves. I don’t think the old man ever really understood us and by the time we were 14 he would have rather kept the serenity of fishing by himself than accompanying us. We were always trying new tactics that we read in the In-Fisherman magazine or saw on shows and even though we weren’t always successful, we were never afraid to step outside the box, which has definitely helped as a guide.

Chapter 2b

One mid-summer, scorching hot, muggy day with the humidity reaching the typical Minnesota 90% standard, Jeff and I headed down to the lake to hunt pike. We loaded our gear and pushed the canoe from shore and jumped in. Jeff was almost always the captain steering the canoe as we trolled along the weed beds. We always used steel leaders with snap swivels when going after pike so I clipped on a huge red and white Dare Devil and heaved it out into the lake letting it swing behind the canoe as we trolled along
.
Within minutes a sharp pull nearly took my rod from my hands and I struck back. “This is huge!” I exclaimed and I reared back and began fighting what I thought was a monster. “Cut the motor!” My drag was set low and the beast kept ripping line off as quickly as I could gain on him. I spent a good five minutes reeling in 10 feet of line and zing; 10 feet would get stripped off. With the canoe stopped I finally got it close enough to get a good look.

Jeff laughed as the half pound hammer handle rose from the depths with ten pounds of weeds. “Jeez Russ! Tighten your damn drag,” he said as he pulled the weeds off my line and unhooked the little guy letting it go. “Let me know if you get a real fish on.”

Jeff started up the motor and we continued our line around the lake. I tightened my drag and launched the spoon back into the water.

Within seconds my rod doubled over and again I reared back setting the hook. Afraid to make another wrong prediction on size, I kept my mouth shut and fought the fish with the boat still tooling along.

Jeff saw me struggling and cut the motor without me asking. “Looks pretty good,” he said.
With a humbled, “Feels alright,” I responded trying not to appear too excited for fear I might be duped again.

I horsed the pike closer to the boat and as I did, he came up to the surface. With him only about thirty feet from the canoe, his tail broke the surface and swirled.
“Holy shit,” Jeff yelled! “It’s fucking huge!”

At that very second the pike dove straight to the bottom and my hands shook. “Oh my god,” was all I could say. I had never had a fish like that on in my life let alone caught one. It was a good 3 or 4 minutes before we saw it again.

I slowly lifted my rod tip up trying to bring the pike up from about 12 feet of water. It was actually towing us out into deeper water trying to escape. Jeff was keeping relatively calm as he shouted out instructions. “Keep the rod tip up. Easy. Easy. Lift him up Russ. That’s it. Just take your time.”

I could hear the excitement and nervousness in his voice. He had never caught anything like that either.

Finally the pike slowly rose from the bottom directly under the canoe. The canoe was at least 35 inches wide and as the fish came into view we could see the tail on one side and the head on the other. It had at least one more dare devil hanging from its mouth alongside mine and had to be 45 inches long. It looked mean and nasty and definitely pissed off.

Time stood still for a few moments as Jeff and I stared at the monster. We had never seen anything like it in person. Sure, we had seen fish like this on TV or mounted on some tackle shop wall but never in person. Every week there were pictures sent into to the Daily Dispatch of locals catching big fish and this one was definitely going to take the cake. I would be famous!

“Keep the rod tip up!”

That was the last thing I heard as the monster took one last run to the bottom. Having my drag tighten all the way I couldn’t stop it. My arms gave and the rod tip went straight down following the fish. The canoe started tipping and just before it rolled completed over the line snapped and the canoe rocked back and settled upright.

We both stared into the water in disbelief recounting the last few minutes, wondering if what we saw was real. My eyes swelled up and a tear trickled down my cheek as I realized I would never see that fish again. Jeff looked back at me and I quickly wiped the tear away as we estimated the pike pushing 30 pounds.

Chapter2a: Laying the Groundwork

Chapter 2: Laying the Ground Work

I was only three when I caught my first fish. My family would go to my grandparents’ house in Thorp, Wisconsin every summer. They had an old Grumman canoe that my grandpa, my brother Jeff, and my dad and I would pile into and with a 2 ½ horse Johnson outboard; we motored across Miller Dam to our favorite crappie hole. I would get so excited watching the bobber plunge underwater when those pan-fish took my minnow. With a fish tugging my line, it was all my dad could do to get me to tone it down a notch or two…or three. He’d say I was scaring the fish but in reality, I think he was just a little embarrassed.

At the age of seven my family moved to Brainerd, Minnesota. “The Land of Ten Thousand Lakes” was its claim to fame, which is no exaggeration. The old man often said if you weren’t careful you might be aiming for one lake and accidentally cast into another. With my grandpa getting up in years and us living in such a great place to have it, we were gifted the Grumman and spent countless days on the little neighborhood lake called White Sand.

White Sand is a typical lake for Minnesota formed by glaciers thousands of years ago. As they receded, ice-chunks were left buried under layers of sediment and gravel. As the ice melted, pot-holes formed and filled with water. The structures of these lakes were very consistent from one to another with gradual shorelines eventually dropping off into deeper water but never really getting deeper than about 25 feet. Sand bars jetted out creating huge flats of bull rushes and reeds where monster largemouth bass hung out on the inside edges and the vicious northern pike patrolled the deeper water off the weed lines.

At eight years old my brother started taking me out wading these bull rushes for bass. My mother worked part-time at a clothing store and would sometimes join us since my dad worked so much and couldn’t. I think she genuinely wanted to spend time with us and we were more than happy to have her along. She could really get it done. Looking back, she was probably nervous that we were going down there by ourselves and wanted to know we were safe. We were given a lot of freedom back then; probably wouldn’t happen these days.

All summer long we rode our bikes down to the lake. Carrying our rods and a bucket, we caught leopard frogs along the shoreline to use for bait. We would spend the first hour or so catching the frogs and then kept them in ice-cream pails tied to our waste. We worked our way out into the bull rushes and reeds, picking little pockets to cast into watching bass explode on the surface after the swimming frogs.

On the weekends and some evenings my dad would take us out in the canoe on the lake. The fishing was very different as we trolled spoons and lures behind the canoe. The trick was to get just on the edge of the weed lines slowing the canoe down enough to give pike the opportunity to rush out from their cover to smash the passing lures. The takes were never subtle and even the little hammer handles, as we called them, felt like twenty pounders on the initial hit.


In the fall before our third winter in Minnesota, the dependence on my father for these fishing excursions ended.

I was in the 4th grade and was attending Baxter elementary school. My brother, who I shared a room with, had to take a series of buses to Brainerd where he attended junior high. He always woke up earlier than I did in order to catch the bus. With 5 kids getting ready for school, you can imagine the chaos in the morning. Throw my one-year-old little brother into the mix and the noise of the morning ritual was that of rock concert at the very moment when the headlining band takes the stage. The breakfast table often became a battleground where a dirty look from my sister would start volleys of threats and insults across the table. I remember this particular autumn day like it was yesterday.

Unlike a typical morning starting out with the familiar voice of my mother yelling down the stairway to my room, the voice I heard was much quieter and a little less gruff. On the second call I recognized the voice as my neighbor’s. “What was she doing here?” I wondered. “What if she sees me in my underwear?”

Before I even walked out the door into the unfinished area of the basement I noticed something very strange. It was quiet. I looked at the clock on the dresser and even though it read 7:15am, it sounded more like 5am. By this time I should be hearing hair driers, clogs across the linoleum kitchen floor directly above my head, my sister yelling at my brother to get out of the only bathroom we had, and my mom doing her best to keep the peace, which usually just added to the volume and commotion. There was none of that.

I opened the bedroom door, stepped from shag carpet to cement and prepared myself for the low light obstacle course the basement had to offer. Moving boxes filled with insignificant stuff we hauled to Minnesota from our last placement in Iowa littered the floor. My dad was a manager at Montgomery Ward so we moved a few times due to him Jones’n up the middle management ladder. I didn’t really like the basement and thought at any moment something would jump out from behind one of those boxes so I always made short work of the trek, grabbing the handrail at the bottom of the stairs, swinging my way up and out of the dungeon like a monkey’s narrow escape from a leopard. The top of the stairs was the worst as no light penetrated the area just before the door where the overhang enclosed the stairwell. If you caught it just right you could take three steps up the stairs and grab the door knob, turning it, swinging it open at the same time you took your last leap. Hopefully nobody would be standing on the other side.

On this day, however, my brother caught me before the flight instinct kicked in. He stood just outside the door and as I opened it I was startled to see him standing there. His face long, shoulders drooping, he said he needed to tell me something.
At twelve-years-old one can’t be expected to have developed the tact necessary to give the news he was about to give me. He did well.

I remember wondering what exactly a stroke was. I knew it was serious because my dad was in the hospital because of it and my neighbor was cooking breakfast; oatmeal. I absolutely hated oatmeal.

“Where’s the creamed wheat? Why can’t I just eat my damn cheerios? Why are you in our kitchen and where the hell are my mom and dad?” That’s all I could think of. “And why is everyone so flippen quite?”

I made it to school that day as did the rest of my siblings. At around 1 o’clock and somewhere in the middle of math class the uncertainty rocked me from the cool façade I had presented for most of the day. My head fell to the cold hard desk, which was actually quite welcoming after feeling so hot and flushed for so long. Gripping the edges of the desk, I held on as tight as I could with the hopes of holding back the tears that were now inevitable. It didn’t work.

Mr. Trucano came to my rescue and walked me to the nurse’s office. The entire school knew what had happened to my father and to some degree, was prepared for that moment when it all came crumbling down for us. Unfortunately the plan wasn’t well developed and I spent the rest of the day by myself wondering what was happening to my dad. At 3:15 the bell rang and I got on the bus to go home.

On the ride home, answers in the form of a ten-year-old girl came freely as she scooted next to me into the vinyl green bench seat. You know, I can’t even remember her name or what she looked like or even how she knew me but she obviously knew what had happened. Without even asking, she explained to me what a stroke was. As one can imagine, a ten-year-old is probably not the best one to explain the complexities of a stroke. Getting that information without the necessary sensitivity was shocking to say the least. All I remember from the conversation were the words “paralyzed” and “blood clot in the brain.”

The realization of my dad’s new limitations began that evening when I visited him in the hospital and continued throughout the calendar year afterwards. His speech was severely impaired and his entire right side was paralyzed. In the fall he would take my brother and I hunting nearly every weekend. In September and October we hunted grouse and in November we deer hunted—that was all gone. In December ice-fishing would start and go through March—again, gone. And the summers filled with my dad taking us out in the boat? No more.

I realize now how selfish it was to focus on the things I could no longer do with my dad but at the time, it created a lot of resentment for that nine-year-old boy—resentment that continued to plague me throughout my pre-teen years and even further into early adulthood.

It was a year and a half later with my brother entering his teen years and our parents trusting us enough to go out on our own that my brother and I started filling our own void left by my dad’s illness. (We would eventually help my dad fill his void as well by taking him fishing and hunting.) Minnesota’s fishing opener became one of those dates we always counted down to. The only days comparable were deer hunting opener and even Saint Nick would have taken a back seat if it weren’t for Christmas being in December instead of May.

My dad did regain the ability to drive and on those opening days, Jeff and I would load the canoe into the station wagon and he would drive us down to White Sand where we left it for the summer. By having the canoe down there, we could ride bike to the lake and go out without having to solicit dad for a ride. We must have put in at least 50 days a summer on that lake trolling around looking for monster pike. Most often we caught the little hammer handles but once in a while…

Chapter1c

Before I knew it, I could see the hole. The water is so clear every boulder; every fold in the strata of rock formation, and every pebble are visible as if you were looking into an unopened bottle of Beefeater. It’s deceptively deep and with the water clarity the depth is hard to decipher. The left bank is comprised of a sandstone cliff, smoothed over by time, wind and water, cold grey in color and standing strong like an old woodsman guarding the hole, protecting it from the elements and worse, the few fishing souls who might venture up this far.
Above the hole is a run that shoots through a low point in the sandstone bottom. It meanders over the rocks creating a riffle of hard water dumping over a ledge and into a bubbling pool as the water deflects off the bottom and churns over and over until it spills out of the tail end of the seam.

It’s at the upstream side of the hole in the turbulent water where the bigger fish will lay. They wait for nymphs and fry that have lost their hold in the rocks above the run to tumble down. The seam becomes a feeding trough and as the shadows get longer, the fish start looking up for surface food.

On the right side of the hole there lies a somewhat steep gravel bank. The pebbles act like marbles when stepped on and any uncalculated move might send one sliding right into the river. It’s the only vantage point to cast from however as standing in the hole is impossible because of the depth and to the left, the old man stands.

The one saving grace is that fish don't hear noise above the water very well. I can call out commands to Chase. I can even kick a rock or two and unless those rocks fall into the water, the fish won’t hear, which allows me to make a good sneak on the hole. If I’m standing in the water and grind two rocks together, the vibrations carry with lightening speed sending fish either deep into the hole, disappearing in the rocks or under the cut banks and snags. However, that’s not to say they can’t feel vibrations from the bank so the best practice is being very, very careful.

It took me a good hour and a half to work my way up to this spot. The wind had lain down. The temperature was dropping. The cliffs were supplying the shadows I needed. Everything was perfect. I checked my tippet for nicks or abrasions. If I hooked him I wouldn’t want anything to ruin my chances of landing him. I took a moment and a breath and acknowledged the old man watching over the river and I assured him I meant no harm.

Working my way up the right side I felt my Chacos slipping in the pebbles. I moved up the bank a little higher to make sure I wouldn’t disturb the water. The problem is the higher on the bank, the more visible I became so I had to crouch as I snuck. The closer I got the slower I moved and the last couple yards seemed to take an eternity. I positioned myself to have the best shot at putting a 45 degree cast into the riffle without casting a shadow over the fish.

I start by taking false casts behind the hole. I want to get just enough line out to be able to set the fly down right at the end of the run so to not cover any more water than needed. A big mistake most beginners make is having too much line out, which creates slack making it impossible to get a good hook-set when the fly is taken. Another problem is they cast too far throwing line over the top of the water they want to be fishing and contaminating the water upstream by already drifting line and fly through it. I rarely fish more than 30 feet ahead of myself, especially in small water when I’m fishing upstream. It’s a lesson I learned years ago while fishing the Madison.

It was the Mother’s Day Caddis hatch and I had recently moved out to Montana from Milwaukee, WI. I drove about 2 hours to get to Ennis on my way to Bear Trap Canyon. I stopped into the Ennis fly shop to get the local flavor. I had spent a ton of time on the lakes and rivers in the Mid-west, which does little I realized for these waters. The guy in the shop spent about 30 minutes explaining the hatch that was going on, what sized of bugs to use and how to rig a caddis with a dropper. As I walked out the door he said, “Oh yah, and one more thing. If you don’t catch anything don’t worry about it. It took me 3 months to catch my first trout.”

Wow. I was feeling a little intimidated to say the least. But I headed out anyway with my new ammo and a little more knowledge. I hiked into the canyon about 2 miles before throwing a line. I fished for at least 3 hours without getting a single take. Feeling a little defeated I headed to the bank and sat down. I looked back to see a fisherman a hundred yards behind me fishing the exact same water hooking fish after fish. “Man!” I screamed to myself.

Feeling defeated and a little beaten down I had two options at this point. I could collect my things and humbly head back down the trail to the truck or I could try learning something. I chose the latter and spent the next 30 minutes watching this guy catch fish.

What I noticed right off the bat was the amount of line he was throwing. Thirty feet was all it took and after letting the fly drift only about 15 feet through the seam or past the boulder he was fishing, he would immediately pick it up and put it right back in the zone. There was no time wasted. There were no unnecessary false casts. He didn’t have any more line out than he needed to get the job done, which allowed him to manage the slack in his line and make the necessary mends and set the hook before the fish could spit the fly out.

After watching my new mentor for a while, I regained some ambition and confidence and decided to have another go at it. I waded back into the current and emulated my teacher. In the next hour I caught eight fish and missed a couple others. I was stoked to say the least and like sinking that last par putt on 18th hole, I left feeling victorious and knew I would be back on the water in the coming days.

So now on the Dearborn after taking a few false casts well behind my target, I turn my body slightly making a single cast, setting the fly perfectly on the inside edge of the seam. The fly is a foam hopper imitation that is easy to see and virtually unsinkable. Even in the hard water it bounces down the riffle rolling into the pool only getting lost for a second before emerging on the surface.

On the first cast my hopper floats through the zone without drag, passing directly over where the monster rainbow should be—nothing. Careful not to pop the fly off the water I pick it up and again take a couple false casts downstream of the riffle and then once again set the fly down on the water; this time a few inches further into the seam and again—nothing. My third cast I put right on the outside edge of the seam and as it drifts into the pool on the bottom of the run the dark shadow of the rainbow reveals itself as it rises up and turns to chase the hopper downstream. I see the white mouth of the rainbow open as it chases the hopper gaining ground. With a burst of speed and an attempt by the trout to crush the bug it makes its last run at it and with a gulp, smacks at the hopper.

About the only thing I can liken to what happened next is a premature ejaculation. It took everything I had to wait as long as I did to set the hook but as soon as the mouth came up out of the water I snapped the rod-tip up and pulled the hopper right out of the trout’s mouth.

I spent nearly two hours getting to that position, making that cast coaxing that particular fish into taking my fly. It was almost painful how carefully I worked the pool. I had made the right choice of fly and when the perfect cast was made and the drift was accomplished I pulled the fly right out of the fish’s mouth. Pathetic.

I’m not too proud to admit this but I have been known to chuck a putter or two getting three full rotations after missing a two-and-a-half foot putt. The urge was there but I held onto my rod without sending it airborne. Beside the fact that its roughly six feet longer than a putter and would take much more effort to get the same result, the rod is also about $300 dollars more expensive to replace. As I’ve gotten older I’ve developed the propensity to think of these things before acting.

The feeling only lasted a couple seconds and I thought maybe, just maybe I could get the trout to come up again. Starting over, I took my false casts and put the fly right back where he was lying at the bottom of the riffle. To my surprise, he showed himself again but this time only came up to about six inches from the surface of the water, turned tail, and rolled back to the bottom out of sight. One more cast and I was confident I had blown my chance.

There is a paradox here however. As I finished kicking myself I noticed something. For the past half an hour or so, all I thought about was the objective at hand. I was in one of the most beautiful places I know of, participating in something I am truly passionate about and for the first time in a long time, I was at peace. Nothing else mattered and even though I hadn’t actually caught the trout, my stomach wasn’t turning, my brow was no longer furrowed and you know, I was actually happy.

Wanting to document this special place I turned to grab my camera and remembered I had left my bag about a hundred yards downstream. Deciding to retrieve the bag and the camera and come back to the run, I made the short hike back and then returned to the hole to take a few pictures. I remembered a conversation I had with an ex-game warden who suggested fish have a memory of about seven seconds. Seven seconds? That would mean this particular fish should have forgotten me by now right? Not fully buying it, I decided to at least change flies before trying it again.

Going a totally different direction I pulled out my box of ammo. In there I had an assortment of hoppers, beetles and other terrestrials. I also had the one go-to fly that everyone on every stream should have—a parachute Adams.

A little larger than the Adams I would normally use on the Missouri but much smaller than the hoppers I was throwing, I added some tippet to my leader and tied on the number 12 fly. I coated the fly with Gink and then added some to the butt section of the leader. I dropped the fly and watched the excess coating leach into the water. Standing in the exact same spot as just a few minutes before, I began the ritual of taking false casts downstream from the run and again, worked this special hole.

The Adams is not nearly as buoyant as the foam hopper and as I set the fly on the inside edge of the seam it only drifted about two feet before tumbling down, submerging under the surface of the water disappearing deep into the hole. My initial thought was to jerk the fly up out of the water, take a couple false casts to dry it off and then return it back to the run. I snapped the rod-tip up and as the line straightened and became tight my forearm stopped dead half-way through the motion.

You know you’ve hooked a monster when the weight of the fish stops your arm motion dead in its tracks and instead of you leading him, his head-shakes and his rolls dictate your next move. He ran through the pool and headed downstream and all I could do was chase him. I knew he was in control seconds after accidentally setting the hook when he ran out all the access line getting to the reel before I knew what had happened. He took a jump disrupting the calm water of the pool landing with a “plat” on the surface, which only seemed to piss him off as he changed direction and charged back upstream.

Sometimes things don’t work out the way they’re supposed to. Sometimes we do everything right and we fail and then sometimes we fall into success, happiness and even peace. And sometime the Gods, fishing or otherwise, wait for those moments when we are ready for peace, love, or catching fish. In graduate school I studied a social change philosopher by the name of Hanna Arendt. She described peace as something that can no more be forced on someone than sleep, or love. In her writings she often spoke on the fallacy of thinking we can go to war in order to coerce people into living in peace.

I gave thanks to the trout while releasing him back to his hole and as it disappeared I reflected on the profound lessons a day like this brings. Snipping off the fly I buried it in the rocks returning it to the earth, retiring it from its life as a fly and onto its new one, degrading back to the elements it was derived from. I broke my rod down and placed the reel in my pack. With the sun now fully hidden behind the mountains I began my hike back to the jeep.

There’s a reason I made a complete one-eighty as a 36 year old and got into guiding. I chose this lifestyle because of the lessons and rewards and because of what fly fishing has done for me. Looking back on what the first summer has brought I can’t say I don’t wish some things could have been different. However, I am proud of things I’ve accomplished and what I’ve been able to offer to those around me.

Please share these lessons with me in the following chapters.

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.

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.

Book Introduction

Understandably, one might think about just the idea of writing a book about your own life as being pretentious and maybe even arrogant and I often thought about that myself. I mean really, why would anyone read a book about me or about my life? What makes ‘me’ so interesting that you would spend the time to read? That’s a good question and one I’m not sure I can answer. What I can say, however, is that certain events in my life have compelled me to put my adventures out there and whatever you may get out of it, whether that be entertainment or maybe even some life lessons, that’s up to you.


It was 1993, I had been managing restaurants in the Twin Cities for the past few years and when plans for a new opening fell through with the chain I was working for, I decided to head back home to re-group. I never did like the restaurant industry but I was confident in the roles I had and knew I could make money at it. In my early twenties I did what a lot of us Mid-Westerners did; I got engaged and I had to figure a way to support a family. She had a child from a previous relationship and for reasons I can’t really explain, I felt like it was my place to take care of both of them. Those plans fell through too.


I’m not going to lie, when we finally called it quits for the last time, I was devastated. But I told myself I would now do all the things I ever dreamed of and nothing or no one would hold me back. I dove head-first into music and decided that would be the first dream I would try to fulfill. Everyone wants to be rock-star right? So I played every day. I sat in on jam sessions at a local bar, I entered music competitions and actually won a few, and I started writing my own music. I’ve always thought it was interesting how events in our lives motivate us to do things; to take chances and my motivation at that time was to prove my ex wrong. She hated me playing music because it took away from her time. She said it was a waste and nothing would ever come of it. Now I had all the time in the world and I was going to make the most of it.


I did have to pay bills, however, so I took a job at a dinner club/resort on Gull Lake called The Quarterdeck. The job itself was completely unfulfilling and the short time I spent there, I might have even regretted if it hadn’t been for meeting Bobby.


Bobby was a woman who worked in house-keeping at the resort. She was in her 60’s as far as I could tell. She had white hair, a frail tiny body about 5 feet 3 inches tall but a toughness about her that you just knew she had been through some ‘things’ in her life. She was a pleasant lady who mostly kept to herself but was also not afraid to engage with those folks that approached her. As much as she gave off the impression of a naïve small-town elderly woman who probably spent most of her life looking after her husband and taking care of her children, she also gave off a sense of confidence that when she spoke, people listened. She was fascinating to listen to and as farfetched and totally out in left field some of the things she said might seem, you knew she was telling the truth and garnered the trust from everyone she spoke to.


I was one of two chefs at the restaurant and when the day-time chef was off, I filled in. What that meant is I often had the chance to meet the daytime staff as they broke for lunch and came to the dining room. Sometimes I would prepare lunch for them, usually consisting of leftovers from the night before but it was better than letting it go to waste and I figured it was a small price to pay to keep the employees happy. Bobby often came to eat lunch with the rest and I quickly found myself spending time getting to know her and listening to her talk with the other employees.


One day it was just Bobby and I in the break-room and she began speaking to me in an intimate sort of way that at first made me uncomfortable. When I say intimate I don’t mean in a weird kind of sexually provocative way but in a kind of way as if she had known me my entire life and talked to me on a level that I’ve rarely—if ever—experienced. She had told me previously that she had been in an accident many years ago and through that accident she had developed the ability to read people. When people say that kind of stuff it’s easy and probably a natural response to just kind of blow them off but when she talked about the experience of the accident, I couldn’t help but to listen and to believe what she was saying.


She talked about dying in the accident. She was even tow-tagged and in the fricken morgue before someone realized she wasn’t dead. She described looking down on the scene and seeing a young woman with her face so disfigured she couldn’t recognize her and then she realized she was looking at herself! She told me she floated away and traveled side by side with a being of sorts that answered all her questions about religion and god and all these pertinent things we all question. At some point not defined by time or distance or at least no comprehension of, they stopped and when she asked why, the being that was with her told her it was being decided whether or not she was to go on or go back.


Bobby cried when she was told she was going back. She pleaded with the being, begging to keep going on with her but she was told it wasn’t her choice. She still had a role; a mission of sorts in her life she hadn’t fulfilled. She had to go back to fulfill her role in life and now talking to her, she said that’s what she was trying to do. She didn’t know herself what that role was or when she would eventually fulfill it but she was drawn to the Quarterdeck for some reason she never really understood and now she was telling me of a life I would live as if she had already witnessed it and it kind of freaked me out. At the same time it was a little addicting and for the next few months, I sought out Bobby on those days I took over for the day-time chef.


I only worked for the Quarterdeck for about six months before moving on but even after I quit I found myself going back and talking to Bobby. What had once freaked me out was now comforting to me. She knew so much about me and would predict seemingly insignificant events such as meeting people at the bar and making sense of such encounters. She encouraged me to continue with my music and not give up. She told me I should continue playing out at the bars and not give up that part of my life and that it would all make sense some day.


One day, while visiting with Bobby, she told me soon my life would change and that one day I would look back with disbelief on all the places I had been. It was early spring and she told me it would be that summer that everything for me would change. She said I would travel around the world meeting thousands of people from many different countries.

It all happened so fast after that. I was at a bar and I met a girl who had hosted a couple students from Up With People; a touring music group. The group traveled the world in 5 different casts representing many different countries spreading the idea of cultural education and tolerance. She asked me if I would like to meet the cast members and see a show.


I interviewed with a couple staff members from UWP and after seeing the show I decided to travel with the group. I was blown away by the accuracy of Bobby’s predictions and to this day feel like I owe her so much. She gave me the courage and the confidence to drop everything and pursue the dream I had to travel and perform music, which in turn has paved a road for a life of continually pursuing dreams.

So getting back to why I’m now writing about some of these adventures? One of the things Bobby told me was to write about my experiences and that people would be interested. Like I said, after failing miserably at the status quo of finding a mate, establishing a family and a household and living the ‘American Dream,’ I’ve decided to live for ‘my’ dreams. One might argue that traveling in UWP doesn’t really constitute being a rock star but I did travel the world performing for thousands of people. From there I finished my degree and went to grad-school; something no one in my family has done.


The past few years I’ve pursued another one of my childhood dreams. I’ve always loved the outdoors and I love teaching people about it. I have established myself as a fly fishing guide in Montana. It hasn’t been easy and it has come with plenty of sacrifices but I absolutely love it and although it’s not as romantic as I once thought it would be, it’s still a pretty damn cool way to live a life and I’m hoping you will find it entertaining and enlightening as well.


I wrote a blog for the first couple years guiding but last August I kind of got away from it. Instead I started writing a book about how I came to be a guide in Montana and some of the experiences I have grown from during that pursuit. I have decided to make that my blog. From here on out I will be sharing with you my pre-published book I’m working on. It will be rough and un-edited. My hope is there will be an honesty and sense of charm to that. It may or may not work but here goes anyway. Read on if you wish.