by Scott Sadil
I’m an incidental adjunct at a family reunion on Georgetown Lake, near Butte, Montana, when somebody’s cousin, now living in Alaska, says he thinks about moving home, it’s such a beautiful state, but he insists the crowds today would drive him nuts.
Somebody points out that there’s still plenty of open country.
“Yeah, right,” scoffs the cousin. “Have you been to Bozeman lately?”
And the surf is crowded, I think, the Baja peninsula a circus, and you better arrive early if you want a parking spot at Three Mile Bridge.
And I can no longer make weight.
Ground control to Major Tom. Can you hear me, Major Tom?
Our world, no doubt, is different from the one we remember. Yet I find myself unable to empathize too deeply with the Far North cousin, nor descend into his soured state of mind. Just hours ago I climbed out of a canyon stretch of the Big Hole River, right along the road, where I had myself a three- or four-hour spell of vigorous trouting, sharing the water with nobody but a couple of guide boats that very briefly floated by with anglers flopping bobbers over the gunwales, wishing they were hooking the kind of fish I was tight to again and again and again.
I make no claims about my abilities as a trout fisherman. All I knew about the Big Hole was what I had seen during a three-day visit, the previous fall, at the the Complete Fly Fisher Lodge near Wise River, plus a couple of stops, more than a decade ago, during my so-called “Lost in Wyoming Book Tour.” But I had enough sense to recognize that, on foot, I’d probably have my best chance in some of the canyon water I had floated through in September – and, anyway, it was salmonfly season and I know a little bit about those bugs, too, where they live, where they emerge, and the way trout move into certain lies when they’re looking for their share of this scrumptious once-a-year fare.
But doesn’t everybody know that?
If they do, they still weren’t around to bother me. All I needed was the one long run, maybe three hundred yards, starting below a heavy rapid, expanding into a sweet drift seamed with ribbony current, followed by a wide deep pool with rocks and boulders and ragged edges, perfect for trout to tuck into, even if it made for dicey wading. And down in the tailout, just before the break into the next downstream riffle, individual rocks were stationed here and there, exactly the kind of structure you hope to find, where trout can set up in neutral water, ready to rise to anything coming their way.
In other words, I had myself a pretty piece of water, had it all to myself, despite what’s happened to Bozeman – and Missoula and Dillon and Butte and Billings and Livingston, besides.
Now, I thought, if only the trout cooperate.
They did — slowly at first, a few small browns on small dry flies along the edges, then some healthy rainbows, out in the current seams, willing to slash at, then eat, a size 8 golden Chubby Chernobyl. Then, up near the heavier current, I began picking off good fish, both rainbows and browns, tight to the edge of the bouldery bank.
I like that kind of sport. I really do.
When the guide boats passed, I rested the rod and nodded their way. I don’t care to let on to the clients that I’m having so much fun – the kind of sport money can’t buy.
Meanwhile, back at the well-appointed Vrbo house-slash-cabin overlooking Georgetown Lake, the cousin from Alaska has complaints, as well, about incompetent workers, the national debt, and a couple of other popular gripes these days. I do a poor job listening, mainly because my mind is still back there thinking about the morning fishing on the Big Hole.
Can you hear me, Major Tom?
