Montana Dispatches
Part I: The Rhythm of the Missouri – Craig, Montana
By Anthony Boliancu
There’s a moment that happens each year, about five minutes after stepping off the plane in Bozeman. You look up at the sky – it’s wider than you remembered – and everything slows down. The world doesn’t stop, but it exhales. That’s how it begins.
Most of our Montana guests choose to arrive two or three days early. It’s a smart move. After a long-haul flight from Australia, the extra time allows you to settle in, reset the body clock, and gently sink into the rhythm of the American West.
Bozeman is a town that wears its fly fishing heritage on its sleeve. It’s a gateway to world-class water, but also a place with a foot in both worlds – a few old timber shopfronts, rooftop bars, high-end fly shops, and a genuinely friendly local crowd. We recommend guests explore the town, visit the Museum of the Rockies, wander through the gear shops and coffee haunts, and stretch the legs along the Gallatin River trail.
The night before our official trip start, we always meet for dinner – and a few laughs. This year, we found ourselves front and centre at a local comedy club. To our delight (and slight terror), we had front-row seats for a show by none other than Rich Hall – Montana-born comedian, writer, and all-around razor wit. Unfortunately for one of our group, Rich took exception to a bit of good-natured heckling. What followed was ten minutes of savage, hilarious takedown. We were in tears. It broke the ice perfectly and set the tone for the trip: no egos, just humour, humility, and a shared love of the game.
On the Road to Craig
The next morning, we loaded up and headed out. The drive from Bozeman to Craig takes you through Helena, climbing up and over hills that roll like low-slung mountains. It’s a transition – geographically and mentally. The bustle fades, the road narrows, and eventually you drop down into a wide, windswept valley where the Missouri River quietly weaves through cottonwoods and cliffs.
Our base for the first leg of the trip was a set of lodges right on the river’s edge. Picture an expansive deck overlooking the Missouri, complete with a huge stone firepit, a BBQ kitchen station built for serious grilling, and the sort of oversized deck chairs that seem made for post-fishing bourbon. We had private water access, easy boat pickup, and enough room to comfortably stretch out after a long day in the sun. It felt like home, but with a better view.
The Missouri River – A Drift Fisher’s Dream
Craig itself is barely a town – more a handful of buildings, a post office, two pubs, and The Trout Shop, which somehow anchors it all. But don’t let its size fool you. Craig is the beating heart of Missouri River fly fishing, and the river itself is a masterclass in classic tailwater fishing.
Every day, we’d meet our guides at the shop early – coffee in hand, rods rigged, flies chosen with the usual blend of wisdom and hopeful guesswork. The Missouri here is a large river, with long, glassy glides and endless seams. It’s big water, but not intimidating. Most fishing is done from drift boats, allowing you to cover miles of water with ease and a precision not otherwise acheiveable.
The technical challenge here lies not in casting a long distance, but in nuance. This is delicate dry-fly work: size PMDs, Tricos, and caddis. Some mornings we fished pods of trout rising steadily to spinner falls, needing downstream reach casts with long leaders to avoid drag. Other evenings, we cast to sporadic caddis risers in the shadows of the banks. With so many bugs on the water. Accuracy mattered. So did timing.
One standout feature of the Missouri is the sheer density of fish. The river is rich with healthy rainbows and browns, and while not every rise is a guaranteed hook-up, there’s a real sense that if you do things right – if you make the cast, get the drift, choose the right fly – you’ll be rewarded.
Hatch Match and Memory
Our second trip arrived right in the heart of the PMD spinner window. Mornings often began with pale duns drifting like confetti in the back-eddies, while spinners lay crumpled on the surface in the slow water. The fish keyed in on them with surgical precision.
Caddis came on strong in the late afternoons, especially as the sun began to dip behind the tallest peaks. There were times when you’d drift through a slow corner and see dozens of dimples – a trout ballet, set to the rhythm of emerging adults skittering on the surface. We fished everything from X-caddis to CDC emergers and even managed a few fish on soft hackles worked with a bit of deliberate movement when the rise form turned splashy.
Tricos also made an appearance, especially on the flatter water – early on the brightest days. They brought with them fine weed mats – more typical of late July – but the key was to false cast just enough to knock off the debris. Some days, that was all it took to stay in the game.
One of our anglers, a first-time Montana visitor, hooked a chunky rainbow on a #20 spinner just as the wind picked up and the water went dead calm. The fish rose three feet upstream of his fly, hesitated, then reversed course and sipped it as if in slow motion. It was a moment everyone on the boat saw and will long remember.
Craig After Hours
Evenings in Craig carry their own kind of magic. After fishing, we’d reconvene on the deck, sharing stories and photos over drinks while the sky shifted from bright blue to dusty gold. The Missouri would soften into a mirror, disturbed only by the occasional rising trout or the silhouettes of other guides drifting home.
Dinner was often at The Trout Shop’s restaurant, where the set menu featured hearty mains – steaks, ribs, Montana lamb – paired with local craft beers and simple, seasonal sides. Service was friendly, and the meals were outstanding. Afterward, some would wander across the road for a local brew and a game of shuffleboard, while others lingered by the firepit, talking gear, politics, or nothing at all.
The beauty of this first leg of the trip is the way it balances technical challenge with emotional ease. You can get as focused or be as relaxed as you like. The water is consistent. The town is small enough to exhale in. And the shared rhythm – fish, eat, laugh, rest – works like a reset button.
A Shift in Pace
By the fourth morning, as we packed the truck for the next leg of the trip, there was a subtle but noticeable shift. We’d found our rhythm. The banter had warmed. The casting had sharpened. The sense of “holiday” had given way to something more grounded – an immersion.
But Craig had done its job. It had softened the transition from home to here. And it reminded us – gently, steadily – why we travel halfway across the world just to follow the rise of a trout.
Part II: The Tension and Release of Dillon
After four days of drifting the broad, steady flows of the Missouri, we packed the vehicle and turned south. Within a couple of hours, the canyon walls gave way to something altogether different-big sky desert plains, sagebrush flats, and long ridgelines that rose abruptly from the grasslands. It was a striking shift in geography. Gone were the fir-lined cliffs of Craig; in their place, Dillon unfolded with a sense of space and dryness – more ranchland than river valley.
Our base here was a renovated barn a few miles out of town – an upstairs loft with all the comforts: hot showers, solid beds, gear space, and a long porch that opened up to views of the surrounding mountains. At night, with a glass of whiskey or red wine in hand, we’d sit out there and watch the colours change over the distant peaks. Somewhere between cowboy country and trout camp, it felt just right.
The Beaverhead – Precision Required
Fishing the Beaverhead is like operating on a smaller canvas, but with finer brushes. It’s technical water, tight and sometimes claustrophobic, with dense banks and narrow drifts. At first glance, it seems unremarkable – a low, spring-fed tailwater meandering through farmland. But don’t be fooled. It holds some of the largest fish we encountered on the entire trip.
Just below Clark Canyon Dam, we ran classic bobber rigs on day one to get some numbers in the net. Double nymphs with a touch of weight and subtle indicators. It wasn’t elegant, but it was devastatingly effective. Trophy fish came steadily to hand, one after the other. The kind that make even experienced anglers second-guess their hooksets and get the shakes.
Further downstream, near Barretts and beyond, things changed. The water widened and shallowed, with long grassy margins. Hoppers came into play. We didn’t see the full emergence of the PMDs or caddis, but even on the shoulder of the hatch, the dry fly potential was obvious. Big fish lurked in skinny water, and when they committed to a hopper -mouth wide, slow rise, back breaking the surface – it was electric.
One moment that stands out was a fish that took an emerger, then turned right around and sipped the dry as it trailed behind. Two eats in one drift, clear as day, in water barely knee-deep. It was like watching a slow-motion lesson in trout behaviour.
The Big Hole – Moving Water, Moving Hearts
The Big Hole was a different beast altogether. With hoot owl restrictions in place by late July, we set alarms for 4:45am and were on the water shortly after first light. These early starts brought their own kind of magic. Mist rising off the river. Birds cutting across the valley. That cool, lavender light that only exists for a few minutes in the Montana dawn.
The Big Hole gave us fast pocket water and room to wade. It felt wild and untamed. Less tailwater, more freestone energy. We fished dries where we could, streamers when the water called for it, and got some solid fish to hand. The scenery here left a mark. Towering cliffs, old buffalo jump sites, and long grassy meadows that whispered stories older than any of us.
One morning, just as the sun crested the ridgeline, we landed a thick brown that had tucked itself tight behind a boulder. A textbook rise, a perfect cast, and a clean eat. But it wasn’t just the fish-it was the light, the air, the moment. It reminded us why we come all this way.
The Ruby – Delicate Negotiations
The Ruby was fickle but beautiful. We only had one session on this smaller, trickier river, but it was enough to glimpse its personality. A mix of overgrown banks, tight casts, and crystal-clear runs made for some nerve-wracking sight-fishing. Browns would hover mid-column, slowly shifting in and out of view, requiring absolute precision to fool.
This was fly fishing at its most intimate: light leaders, subtle drifts, and no room for error. We didn’t catch many, but the few that came to hand felt earned. Hard-earned.
The Dillon Vibe
Back in town, the days wrapped up with classic Americana: burgers and beers at Sparky’s Garage, steak nights at The Den, and the kind of conversation that only happens when a group of anglers is three rivers deep into a trip. Talk turned from rod action, leaders, tippet sizes – and eventually drifted into politics, history, and home.
There’s something grounding about this middle leg of the journey. The Missouri introduces you to Montana’s grandeur. Yellowstone National Park delivers its epic final act. But Dillon? Dillon is where you settle into the rhythm of the trip. Where the fish don’t come easy, and that’s part of the point.
It’s also where the relationships start to deepen. Guiding days gave each angler a chance to fish with each member of the group and work on specific goals – mending techniques, reading micro-currents, fly selection and the nuance of matching the hatch. There were personal breakthroughs. Quiet moments. Shared frustration. And laughter. Always lots of laughter.
Weather, Water, and What Comes Next
Despite it being mid-summer, the weather remained unusually mild. Most days sat in the mid-20s, with just a couple nudging past 30°C. This meant comfortable fishing and fish that stayed active throughout the day. We watched the sun arc across big Montana skies and felt time slow down.
In just a few days, we’d be packing the vehicles again – headed towards the final leg: Henry’s Lake and the west entrance to Yellowstone National Park. But before that, we soaked in Dillon for all it was: quiet, challenging, expansive. A place where you don’t just fish – you learn.
Part III: Wildness and Wonder: Yellowstone and the Upper Madison
After eight full days of fishing across the Missouri and Dillon regions, we packed the vehicles early and headed east toward Yellowstone for the final leg of the trip. Spirits were high, the playlist was solid, and the landscape began to shift dramatically with each passing kilometre.
We left the desert-like hills of Dillon behind and looped through the open plains near Twin Bridges, then climbed toward the old frontier towns of Virginia City and Ennis. In Ennis, we paused for lunch and explored the excellent fly shops – each loaded with character, gear, and gossip. The Madison was running full and clear, hugging the highway like a silver ribbon, and every few bends drew gasps from the group as new water revealed itself. Drift boats slid through the boulder-strewn riffles, their occupants mid-cast or bent into fish. This is hallowed ground in the world of trout fishing. The Fifty Mile Riffle. And it delivered a stirring welcome.
Eventually, we crossed into Idaho and reached our base at Henry’s Lake. A large, double-storey house stood a full mile back from the road, surrounded by grasslands, lodgepole pines, and moose tracks. A creek wound lazily past the house- home to swinging trout and a constant symphony of birdsong. On still mornings, we’d sip coffee out on the deck, watching deer graze and the clouds stretch across the peaks. The pace changed here. Not slower, exactly – just deeper.
Caddis, Moths, and Mayfly
Fishing in the upper Madison was all we’d hoped for. Below Lyon Bridge, we encountered classic Western water – broad runs, rocky pockets, and aggressive fish. On the first two trips, PMDs and caddis dominated the surface menu, with reliable spinner falls in the mornings and blizzards of egg-laying caddis late into the evening. By the third trip in late July, hoppers and spruce moths were more prominent, and the explosive eats on oversized dries added a whole new tempo to the game.
Further upstream, just below Quake Lake, lies the fabled “Slide Area.” This is where the Madison narrows and accelerates – grade III and IV whitewater (depending on flow), strewn with massive boulders, whirlpools, and tight pockets. This chaotic stretch formed in 1959 after a massive earthquake triggered a landslide that dammed the river and created Quake Lake overnight, tragically burying a campground and altering the hydrology of the region forever. The scars remain. But so does the fishing.
Before we fished the Slide, we stopped at the Earthquake Visitor Centre. It’s an eerie, sobering site – silent boulders, interpretive signs, and stories of loss and resilience. Seeing that helped everyone understand the power of this landscape. And perhaps helped us fish it with the respect it deserves.
Still Water, Still Wild
We spent an afternoon stalking trout in Quake and Hebgen Lakes – especially rewarding with the right light and a bit of breeze to mask our presence. Calibaetis spinner falls brought up fish on both lakes, and on the warmer days, spruce moths drew up some real brutes from the depths. There’s something exhilarating about hunting fish in still water with dries – each rise a subtle ring, each presentation a quiet act of patience.
In Hebgen’s shallows, we had a particularly memorable moment. One of the group cast to a faint rise, just visible through the chop. A Calibaetis spinner settled perfectly. The fish tracked it… refused. He false cast once, then dropped the fly again. This time the fish rose with intent. Sip. Hookset. It ran hard, peeling line across the glassy bay. When it came to hand – a heavy rainbow around 22 inches – we all let out a collective breath.
Into the Park
Our ventures into Yellowstone National Park were spread over a few days and included both serious fishing and sightseeing. Just outside of this iconic destination – we fished the meadows between Quake and Hebgen, where the river slows and the insects gather in clouds. PMDs, caddis, even midges – it was a buffet. One fish rose to an emerger, missed, and returned 10 seconds later to eat the same pattern from a different angle. We watched it all unfold in ankle-deep water.
A grizzly sighting on the trail one morning – luckily at a distance, with a well-buried carcass nearby – was a stark reminder that we were guests in a wild place. Bear spray was on every belt. Conversations grew louder in the timber. But no one even mentioned backing out. There was too much beauty, and the promise of too many cutthroat, to be afraid.
We ventured up into the Lamar Valley and its tributaries: Slough Creek, Soda Butte, and the Lamar River itself. These are some of the most breathtaking waters on earth- slow, clear flows winding through vast meadows, bison herds grazing in the distance, and the occasional wolf track pressed into the mud.
The cutthroat here rise with a grace and deliberation that’s rare. Everything slows down. You cast, then wait… wait… and just as you begin to wonder if your fly’s been ignored, there’s a swirl. A golden head appears. And you’d better pause another full beat before lifting the rod. These fish are slow – but not easy. Spooking one means a 30-minute reset at best.
On our final day in the park, we drove the South Loop: geysers, hot springs, mud pots, and the thundering Lower Falls of the Yellowstone. We stood at Artist Point, shoulder to shoulder with tourists, and just stared. Sometimes words fail. The power of water – its movement, its patience – seems to define this land.
Good Meals and Goodbyes
Evenings brought us back to comfort. At TroutHunter in Last Chance, the food was outstanding. Elk burgers. Huckleberry desserts. Crisp beers and long toasts. In West Yellowstone, we visited the Buffalo Bar and Hank’s Chop Shop – both lively, full of stories and steak and laughter. The mood was reflective now. We knew we were nearing the end.
Every trip finds its rhythm. By now ours had settled into something rich and unspoken – a kind of shared knowing. We’d experienced the flat technical water of the Missouri, the tight runs of the Beaverhead and Big Hole, the wildness of the Yellowstone, and the calm of stillwater. We’d covered a huge sweep of the American West.
We were tired. In a good way. The kind of fatigue that tells you something was done right. That not a single opportunity was wasted.
Some places can’t be captured in photos. Some fish can’t be measured in inches. And some moments – moose in the yard, a hopper take in a meadow, a cutthroat sipping in silence – stay with you, far longer than you’d expect.
Montana. It gets in your bones.
Part IV: Between Casts: Reflections and Lessons
When you’re in the middle of a trip like this – twelve days, three regions, hundreds of miles – it’s easy to get swept up in the rhythm: up early, gear packed, coffee poured, rods rigged. Drift. Wade. Eat. Laugh. Sleep. Repeat.
But it’s between the casts – on the drives, over meals, while unhooking flies from sun-dried foam patches – that the real depth of these journeys reveals itself. Not just where we fish, but how we move through these places. And who we become when we do.
Three Regions, Three Teachings
Each stop on this trip felt like its own world. Craig, Dillon, and Yellowstone NP aren’t just different locations – they’re entirely different experiences, each with their own pace, their own demands, their own rewards.
Craig was about rhythm. The Missouri is a broad, stable tailwater, with technical dry fly fishing and a steady, hypnotic pace. It’s a river of cadence and anticipation. You learn to read the shifts in current, spot subtle sips, and time your presentations with the patience and precision of a watchmaker. For our guests, it was the perfect acclimatisation. Jetlag faded. Focus sharpened. The river drew us in, one cast at a time.
Dillon brought contrast. From intimate spring creeks to the wild freestone character of the Big Hole, we were thrown into deeper, more varied technical challenges. The Beaverhead, in particular, is not a forgiving place. Micro-drifts. Tiny flies. Strong, stubborn fish. It asks a lot, but it gives a lot too – especially to those willing to slow down, think carefully, and adapt.
And then came Yellowstone National Park – not just a place, but a presence. Here, everything felt bigger: the country, the fish, the wildlife, the stakes. Whether walking through geyser steam or stalking trout in meadows surrounded by bison, it forced us to be fully awake. Nature was no longer the backdrop – it was the main event.
Australia vs. America
It’s impossible not to compare these fisheries with home.
Australia’s rivers – especially those in the Victorian high country and the Snowies – are largely wild, seasonal systems. They rise and fall with the weather. They reward local knowledge but rarely offer the kind of consistency we find in Montana’s dam-controlled flows. That predictability, for better or worse, is what makes places like the Missouri so ideal for dry fly fishing.
But it’s not just about the water. The scale is different. The infrastructure is different. Access, for example, is far more developed in the U.S., with public put-ins, maintained trails, and an entire ecosystem built around fly fishing travel. While our rivers in Australia offer moments of wilderness, Montana offers it at scale – and with a kind of logistical support that still surprises me, even after all these years.
And then there’s the fish. While Australian trout are every bit as challenging, there’s something about the diversity in the U.S. – browns, rainbows, cutthroat, brookies, lake fish, river fish – that adds layers to the trip. It’s not just the size or number, but the variety of scenarios that keeps it exciting and draws us back – season after season.
What Makes Montana Special for Australians
It’s not just about the fishing.
It’s the skies. The space. The ease of moving through vast landscapes without a fence or a gate. It’s the small-town kindness. The quiet respect between strangers. The way a bar in Craig or a fly shop in Ennis can feel like a home away from home, even if you’ve never been before.
For Australians – especially those in their 50s, 60s, and 70s – Montana offers something that’s increasingly rare at home: the feeling of being part of a slower, older rhythm. Days dictated by sun and weather, not meetings and screens. It’s a chance to reconnect with the version of ourselves that doesn’t always get a seat at the table back in the real world.
How These Trips Have Changed (And Stayed the Same)
I’ve been bringing groups to Montana since 2010. In that time, a lot has changed. Airfares. Guide rates. Flies and gear. I’ve changed. The rivers, in small ways, have changed too.
But the essence remains.
What I’ve learned over the years is that the trip isn’t made by the itinerary or the fishing alone – it’s made by the people. The conversations over coffee. The shared frustration of a missed eat. The silent satisfaction of watching a friend land a fish they worked for all afternoon.
Our groups have evolved – from larger caravans to smaller, more intimate teams of four. That change was deliberate. Fewer people means more space, more flexibility, and deeper connections. It allows for moments of solitude when needed, and conversation when the mood strikes. It means we can tailor each leg of the journey to the strengths and preferences of the anglers involved.
It also means that when the trip ends, it doesn’t feel like goodbye. It feels like a pause – until next time.
Looking Ahead: Montana 2026
We’re already planning for 2026. Three back-to-back trips in June and July, with just four spots on each. Same structure. Same attention to detail. Same mix of world-class guides, carefully chosen lodging, and quiet, thoughtful hosting.
But each year is different. The fish will be different. The flows. The hatches. The people.
And that’s the beauty of it.
These aren’t package tours. They’re journeys. Built slowly, refined each year, and always, always anchored in experience – not just mine, but that of everyone who comes along.
In Closing
What began as a fishing trip always becomes something more.
We come for trout – but return for the stories. The friendships. The kind of laughter that only comes when you’re sitting around a fire, weary and satisfied, sipping something cold after a good day on the water.
Montana changes you. It widens your sense of space. Of time. Of what matters.
And as always, we carry it home. In photos, yes. In new flies, new ideas, new nicknames. But mostly in memory – in that quiet, calm place behind the eyes where the best trips live on.
Thanks to those who joined us this year. And to those considering it for the future – we’d love to show you what it’s all about.
You won’t just catch fish.
You’ll feel like you’ve stepped into a different version of your life.
And for a few days… that’s exactly what you’ll do.
Click here to learn More About Montana 2026 Trips