I’m writing this from the porch of a cabin in Montana.
The sun has long since dropped behind the hills. A few swallows are still working the evening air. Somewhere downstream, somebody is probably tying on one last fly before dark. The river keeps moving through the valley the same way it did yesterday and the same way it will tomorrow.
It’s a scene I’ve been fortunate enough to witness many times.
For nearly a month we’ve been travelling across Montana’s trout country, fishing the Missouri, the Madison, the Yellowstone and a handful of smaller waters in between. The days develop their own rhythm. Coffee before daylight. Long drifts. Late lunches. Stories over dinner. Then the familiar conversation each evening about where to fish tomorrow.
I’ve been making this journey for years. Not as a guide. The local guides here do an outstanding job of that, and besides, I’d rather avoid testing American immigration law. I simply organise the logistics and share the experience with a small group of anglers who return year after year. Over time many have become friends.
What began as a fishing trip has evolved into something else entirely; a seasonal pilgrimage of sorts. An Australian winter exchanged for an American summer. A chance to spend time on remarkable rivers with good people. And, strangely enough, a chance to think more clearly about home.
I’ve noticed this before. The further I travel from Australia, the more I seem to think about it. Perhaps distance sharpens perspective. Perhaps it simply slows life down enough to notice things that are easy to miss when you’re busy paying bills, answering emails and rushing from one commitment to the next. Whatever the reason, Montana often leaves me reflecting on Australia.
Not in the loud political sense that dominates television panels and social media arguments. Something quieter than that. Something closer to affection.
I grew up in an Australia that felt different from today’s version. Not perfect — no sensible person would claim that — but there was a certain confidence to it. A sense that most people were broadly pulling in the same direction. Communities felt more connected. Institutions seemed more trusted. The future felt less uncertain.
Maybe every generation eventually says something similar. Maybe that’s simply what ageing looks like. But over the past few years I’ve found myself having the same conversation repeatedly with people from very different backgrounds. Doctors. Tradesmen. Farmers. Teachers. Business owners. Retirees.
The details vary. The underlying feeling rarely does.
Something feels different.
Not necessarily worse in every respect. Just different. And perhaps that uncertainty is what so many people struggle to articulate.
Rivers teach an interesting lesson about change. Most rivers don’t transform overnight. A bank collapses here. A gravel bar forms there. One flood moves a little more timber downstream. Year by year the alterations appear minor. Yet return after a decade and the river may be almost unrecognisable.
Countries can feel the same.
The changes arrive gradually enough that we barely notice them while they’re occurring. Then one day, often from a distance, we find ourselves looking back and wondering exactly when things began to feel different.
The older I get, the less interested I become in pretending to have answers. Guiding has cured me of that. Spend enough time on rivers and you develop a healthy respect for complexity. Conditions change. Fish behave unexpectedly. Predictions fail. Certainty becomes harder to maintain.
What remains useful is observation.
Paying attention.
Listening carefully.
Trying to understand what you’re seeing before rushing to conclusions.
Perhaps that’s one of the reasons I started this blog. Not to tell people what to think. Not to win arguments. Certainly not to lecture anyone. Simply to create a small space for reflection.
Some posts will be about fishing. Some will be about travel. Some will be about rivers, history, books, people and places. And occasionally they may wander into larger questions about the country we live in and the society we’re creating together.
After thirty years spent guiding, I’ve come to believe that thoughtful conversations still matter. So does curiosity. So does the willingness to listen to people whose experiences differ from our own.
The river has taught me that as well.
For now, the light has almost disappeared from the valley. Tomorrow we’ll launch the boats again before sunrise. The trout won’t care about politics, economics or the direction of modern society. They never do.
The river will simply continue flowing downstream as it always has.
And somewhere between here and home, I’ll probably keep thinking about Australia.
Ant
Author Bio
Anthony Boliancu is the owner of Goulburn Valley Fly Fishing Centre and one of Australia’s most experienced Drift Boat Guides. He has spent more than three decades guiding anglers across Victoria, New Zealand and North America. Through Between Casts, he explores fly fishing, travel, history, philosophy and the larger currents shaping the world around us.