Montana Dispatch
Part IV: Between Casts
Reflections from the Road
By the time we begin the drive back to Bozeman, there is usually considerably less conversation in the vehicle than there was when we first collected everyone from the airport. It is not that people have run out of things to say. Over the preceding twelve nights, we have spent enough time together in vehicles, restaurants, drift boats and shared accommodation to cover most subjects several times over. The quiet is generally a comfortable one. Someone might be looking through photographs on a phone, another checking flight details or sending a message home. Occasionally a conversation begins about a particular river or an especially good fish, only to drift away again as the country passes beyond the windows.
There is a familiar collection of things to sort out before we leave. Rods have to be gathered from wherever they were last used, clothes and fishing gear packed, accommodation checked and the inevitable assortment of small possessions recovered from beneath beds and behind furniture. Someone will have forgotten something. Someone else will be trying to work out how to fit another purchase from a fly shop into a suitcase that was already full when they arrived. After nearly two weeks of moving between rivers, the prospect of airports, connections and the long flight home begins returning everyone to the ordinary business of travelling.
I have been making these journeys since 2010, long enough to recognise the differences between the people I collect at the beginning and those I return to the airport. They are not necessarily profound differences. Most people arrive already knowing how to fish. Some have travelled extensively, and several have fished with us in New Zealand or Australia for years. But even experienced anglers can be uncertain about unfamiliar water, particularly when they have spent months hearing about the fishing and wondering whether it will live up to expectations. By the end of the trip, that uncertainty has generally disappeared. They have caught fish, missed others, adjusted to different rivers and become comfortable with the routines of a guided fishing day in America.
The trip itself has a fairly simple structure. We spend four nights in each of three regions, allowing for three guided fishing days before moving on. The intervening days provide time to travel, look around and arrive at the next destination without having to fish immediately. Nine guided days over thirteen days is still a substantial amount of fishing, but the breaks make an enormous difference. I learnt that through trial and error. In the early years we sometimes tried to fit too much into the available time, changing accommodation frequently and attempting to squeeze another river into a schedule that was already crowded. It was exciting, certainly, but it could also be exhausting. Somewhere along the way I became less interested in how many places we could visit and more concerned with how much time people actually had to enjoy them.
The Missouri is generally where we begin. There are good practical reasons for that, not least the relative consistency of the tailwater and the extraordinary number of trout it holds. But it also provides a useful introduction to American drift-boat fishing. Craig has a particular atmosphere, with guides assembling outside the fly shops each morning, trailers rattling along the road and boats setting off towards different sections of the river. On a busy morning the car park can seem thoroughly chaotic. Thirty or forty boats may be preparing to launch, with guides loading coolers, altering leaders and trying to account for everyone. Yet within a short distance of leaving the ramp, the boats disperse and the Missouri begins to feel enormous again.
For Australian anglers, the scale of the fishing can be difficult to comprehend initially. There are mornings when several substantial trout are caught before the day has properly begun, and others when an entire hour is spent on one fish rising steadily in water that appears almost featureless. The river is generous, but that generosity can be deceptive. A trout that has been feeding confidently on tiny spinners may refuse a succession of perfectly respectable imitations, leaving the angler and guide to work out whether the problem is the fly, the presentation or something neither has yet noticed. I particularly enjoy watching clients become absorbed in those problems. The number of fish caught often becomes less important than the satisfaction of finally working out how to catch one that has been refusing everything.
The guides are a large part of the experience. I do not guide in Montana, and I have never considered that a short period visiting each summer gives me anything approaching the knowledge of somebody who spends an entire season on the same river. My role is to organise the journey, work with the local outfitters, select the accommodation and make sure the fishing and the broader experience fit together. Over time I have come to know a number of the guides reasonably well, and I enjoy their company enormously. Many have made a life out of rowing drift boats through the warmer months, then finding other work when winter arrives. They are an interesting mixture of personalities, from enthusiastic younger guides still discovering the profession to older men who have spent much of their adult lives on the same water.
I have always found it interesting to watch how they work. A guide may move the boat only a few feet, alter the angle of a cast or suggest changing a fly that has already caught several trout. To the client, these can seem like small adjustments. To another guide watching from the boat, they often reveal a considerable amount of accumulated knowledge. There are also differences in personality and approach. American guides tend to be more outwardly encouraging than Australians, sometimes celebrating a good fish with an enthusiasm that would attract a few raised eyebrows at home. The quieter ones can be just as effective. The good guides, wherever they come from, seem to know when encouragement is useful and when an angler would prefer to be left alone to concentrate.
After three days on the Missouri, we head south towards Dillon. The country changes steadily as we travel through Helena and Butte, eventually opening into broad, dry valleys with distant mountain ranges and irrigation making patches of startling green against the surrounding hills. Dillon feels rather different from Craig. It is a working Montana town, with ranching, bars, pickups, fly shops and enough everyday activity to remind you that fishing is only one part of life there. We generally stay on acreage outside town, where the evening light settles across the mountains and there is room for everyone to spread out after a full day on the river.
The fishing changes even more dramatically than the landscape. The Beaverhead is a remarkably small river considering the size and number of trout it holds. Its upper reaches can be crowded with boats fishing deep nymph rigs through runs where fish appear to be stacked on top of one another. I have never quite become accustomed to the local practice of rowing directly over fish being targeted by another boat. The guides assure me that the trout are used to it and there is little point trying to squeeze through the bank vegetation to avoid disturbing them. I understand their reasoning, but my Australian instincts still object. We have gradually developed our own way of fishing the Beaverhead, launching early, concentrating on dry flies and covering the water rather than spending the entire day repeatedly working the same deep runs. We generally sacrifice numbers, but the quieter fishing suits us.
Then there is the Big Hole, a freestone river with a completely different character, or the Ruby, where the pace slows and we spend more time on foot. The Jefferson can be worthwhile when conditions allow, and occasionally we travel farther towards the Madison. This is where the value of having several rivers available becomes obvious. A particular section may be too warm, too crowded or simply not fishing well. Another may have excellent hatches or provide exactly the kind of fishing somebody wants after several difficult days. We are not committed to making one river work regardless of conditions. The guides know what happened the day before, which water is warming and where the better opportunities are likely to be found. That local knowledge allows us to make adjustments without turning every change of plan into a major event.
There is plenty to occupy people away from the fishing too. We have walked through the old gold-rush buildings at Bannack, visited abandoned mining settlements and stopped at places connected to the Lewis and Clark expedition. The Big Hole Battlefield is one of the more affecting places I have visited in Montana. The story of the Nez Perce flight of 1877 is difficult enough to comprehend when reading about it, but standing in the country where families were attacked and killed gives the history a different immediacy. I remember walking the trails, reading the markers and looking towards the timber where we thought we could see a bear. We had come to Montana primarily to fish, but the roads between rivers continually brought us into contact with other stories about the country.
One of the things I have always liked about travelling through the American West is how readily those different histories sit beside one another. A town established around mining becomes a place people now visit to look at nineteenth-century buildings. Ranches occupy enormous valleys, often along rivers that are famous throughout the fly-fishing world. Roadside signs point towards battlefields, abandoned settlements or the routes of early expeditions. You can spend an afternoon discussing trout with somebody in a bar and discover that their family has been running cattle in the surrounding country for generations. The fishing provides a reason to travel through these places, but it rarely remains the only interesting thing about them.
For many Australians, Montana also carries a strong sense of familiarity. The agricultural towns, the importance of sport, the straightforward friendliness of people in rural communities and the habit of striking up conversations with strangers all feel recognisable. Yet there are obvious differences. The enormous public lands, the prevalence of firearms, the extent of the ranching country and the presence of grizzly bears produce a landscape that is both familiar and foreign. I still find it remarkable how easily conversations begin when somebody hears an Australian accent. A simple coffee stop can turn into a lengthy discussion about where we have been fishing, what the conditions are like in Australia or whether New Zealand trout are really as large as people claim.
Our final region is generally around West Yellowstone or Island Park, although the precise itinerary can change. By this stage clients have already experienced two quite different parts of Montana, and there is usually a growing interest in what comes next. Yellowstone itself is extraordinary, of course, but I have become just as fond of the fishing outside the park. The Madison, the Henry’s Fork and the surrounding lakes offer enough variety to occupy a lifetime. One morning might be spent on Hebgen Lake, following individual trout as they rise to tiny mayflies across flat water. That afternoon could involve casting large attractor dries into broken current on the Madison, where the river seems to run through riffle after riffle without ever considering the possibility of slowing down.
Those contrasts are among the things I enjoy most. There is a remarkable difference between sitting quietly in a boat watching a trout move through a patch of still water and casting continuously from a drift boat as it travels through fast, boulder-strewn runs. One requires patience, precise positioning and an ability to read a fish’s movements. The other demands quick decisions, constant mending and a willingness to keep casting as the next piece of water arrives. Both can be wonderful. Neither is necessarily more difficult, and anglers who have struggled with one style often find themselves surprisingly comfortable with the other.
The surrounding country adds another dimension. Moose are common around Island Park, and encountering one beside the road is an impressive reminder of their size. Inside Yellowstone, bison, elk and occasionally bears draw our attention away from the fishing. I have spent many mornings in the park before daylight with a camera, watching the landscape slowly appear and searching the hillsides for wildlife. On previous visits I often treated those hours as something to do before the fishing began. Travelling through the same country with my family this year reminded me how much I had overlooked while concentrating on rivers. There is a great deal to see when you are not trying to reach a particular pool before the hatch.
I am sometimes asked why we don’t simply stay in one place for the entire trip. It would certainly make the logistics easier. We could choose an excellent lodge, arrange nine consecutive guided days and remove much of the packing, driving and planning that comes with moving across three regions. There would be nothing inherently wrong with that approach. Plenty of anglers enjoy it. But after years of travelling through Montana, I remain convinced that moving between different fisheries is worth the additional effort. The range of water is one of the great attractions of the American West, and I would be reluctant to give that up for convenience.
The smaller groups have also made a difference. Four anglers allows us to use two guides each day, giving everyone plenty of room and attention without making the trip feel like a large organised tour. People can fish with different guides, spend time with different companions and still enjoy their own space when the day is finished. Most of the houses we use are large enough for everyone to withdraw for a while. Some people make calls home or read. Others sit outside with a drink, sort through photographs or simply watch the light changing across the valley. Nobody needs to be entertained every evening.
We generally cook for ourselves quite often. A shopping trip before reaching the accommodation gives us enough food for several dinners, and a decent kitchen or barbecue makes life considerably easier. Steak, vegetables and a good bottle of wine are hard to improve upon after eight hours on the water. Other evenings we go out, returning to restaurants and bars that have become familiar through repeated visits. The discussions over dinner are rarely limited to fishing. People talk about families, work, retirement, travelling and the other things that occupy their lives at home. Occasionally a story from the river starts everyone laughing again, usually at the expense of somebody who has spent the afternoon doing something particularly foolish.
I enjoy those evenings as much as I enjoy the fishing. By then the formalities have generally disappeared. People no longer need to ask where they should be in the morning or whether they need to bring lunch. They understand the routine, know each other’s habits and have usually developed a few jokes that will remain funny long after the trip. There is a particular ease to a group that has spent enough time together without becoming tired of one another. It is not something that can be guaranteed simply by putting four people into the same vehicle. But when the personalities fit, it becomes one of the most enjoyable parts of hosting these trips.
I have also become more conscious of the amount of work that goes into making the experience seem effortless. Accommodation has to be booked well ahead, guides arranged, vehicles secured and the itinerary checked against changing conditions. The group may never see the emails, telephone calls and last-minute adjustments taking place behind the scenes. That is how it should be. They have travelled halfway around the world to fish and enjoy themselves, not to become involved in the administration of a small international expedition. Still, I appreciate it when somebody takes the trouble to acknowledge that work at the end of the journey. It is a pleasant reminder that the things we try to get right have not gone unnoticed.
Montana has changed since I first began visiting. Some places are busier and more expensive. Information about fishing travels considerably faster, and the guide industry has become increasingly sophisticated. Rivers that once seemed relatively quiet during certain periods can now attract considerable attention when a particular hatch begins. The weather has also presented difficulties during recent summers, particularly as low flows and high water temperatures have restricted fishing on some rivers. Those changes have made the ability to move between fisheries more important, not less. There is little sense arriving with a rigid plan and insisting on following it when the conditions are telling you otherwise.
I have changed too, although perhaps not in any especially dramatic way. I still become excited by the prospect of a good hatch, and there are few things I enjoy more than watching a substantial trout rise confidently to a well-presented dry fly. I am probably less inclined to pursue every opportunity than I was when I began travelling here. There are rivers I would once have felt compelled to fish simply because I was passing them. Now I am often content to stop, have a look and continue on. The following day may offer something better, or perhaps we have already had enough fishing for one afternoon.
For the clients, one of the more satisfying outcomes is the improvement in their fishing. Nine days with good local guides, spread across completely different rivers, can make an enormous difference. Someone who arrived struggling with mending may begin doing it instinctively. An angler who was hesitant about fishing small dry flies may finish the trip confidently presenting them to selective trout. Others discover that they particularly enjoy a method they had previously avoided. These changes are not always dramatic enough to feature in the photographs, but they become obvious when you spend time watching the same people fish from one region to the next.
And then, rather abruptly, it is over. There is the final evening, a last dinner and the familiar discussion about which river everyone would most like to fish again. The answers are rarely unanimous. Someone will choose the Missouri for its dry-fly fishing. Another will remember the Beaverhead and its enormous brown trout. Someone else will have fallen in love with the Madison or the smaller water inside Yellowstone. Occasionally a particular guide becomes as important to the memory as the river itself.
The following morning we load the vehicle and begin the drive towards Bozeman. Some clients are flying directly home, while others are meeting their wives or continuing their travels through America. A few have already begun talking about returning another year, perhaps to fish a different region or revisit somewhere they particularly enjoyed. I am generally thinking about getting everyone to the airport at the right time, returning the vehicle and preparing for whatever comes next.
There are always things I remember afterwards that have little to do with the fish. The hunting dogs sleeping beneath the wader racks outside the Dillon fly shop. A guide leaving his drift boat on a trailer beside a highway junction without the slightest concern that somebody might steal it. Lunch eaten while drifting through rising fish on the Missouri. The sound of the Madison travelling over an apparently endless succession of boulders. A client standing quietly on the deck after dinner, looking across the mountains rather than going inside.
Some of those memories belong to particular trips, while others have become difficult to separate after so many visits. The people change, the water changes and the fishing can be vastly different from one year to another. Yet certain routines remain familiar enough that returning feels less like starting a new journey than resuming one that was interrupted the previous winter.
I suspect I will keep travelling to Montana for as long as I am able. There are still rivers I would like to fish more thoroughly, places I have passed repeatedly without stopping and people I look forward to seeing again. I also enjoy introducing the country to anglers who have spent years imagining what it might be like. Their first impressions sometimes remind me of things I have become accustomed to overlooking.
On the flight home, most people will have a few photographs they particularly like and a story about a fish that was larger than expected, or one that escaped when it really should have been landed. Those stories will be told again to friends and family, perhaps becoming slightly more entertaining with each retelling. Eventually the photographs will be sorted, the fishing gear put away and ordinary routines resumed.
Months later, somebody may ring to arrange another trip. Often the conversation begins with the fishing, but before long we are talking about the same guides, restaurants, towns and incidents that made the previous journey memorable.
By then, the fish numbers have usually become a little less precise.
The stories haven’t.
Anthony Boliancu
Goulburn Valley Fly Fishing Centre
