Wild Montana Skies - a photo essay

The last major piece of my sabbatical this summer was a trip to Bozeman, MT., where I spent a long weekend with Mike and Nora Miller.

There was a big engine right outside my window.

We flew over Wenatchee, although it was a little hazy.

The first full day there, Mike, his nephew, and I did about a 10-mile float down the Yellowstone River. Unfortunately, the fish weren't very active. For the record, though, I was the only one to actually pull a fish into the boat. Just don't ask me how big it was or I'll have to lie.

The second day Mike took me to a lake about 15 miles from their house. We rode quads up there, fished awhile (we both caught some decent trout), sat out a thunderstorm, then road back.

 

Dinner that night was spent on their deck. It's a gorgeous place to enjoy a fine meal.

The third day, Mike, Nora, and I took a 9-mile hike to Emerald Lake, where we enjoyed some fine fishing right up until being caught in a massive thunderstorm.

 

Later that night Mike took me to an underground bar in downtown Bozeman, where they have live bluegrass every Monday night. It was the perfect end to a long day.

Flying home, I had a brief stop in Portland, where they have a nice display of hand-crafted musical instruments.

And then, back in Seattle, and that was the end of my summer travels.

Because Ann Asked

I briefly referenced this over on my Facebook page, and my friend Ann asked me to elaborate. So I apologize for another fishing story. . .but she did ask, after all.

The day started ominously. Two signs portended disaster even before we were out the door. First, the wife turned to me and said "Now don't drown on me." (that's called a foreshadow). Second, we were out of whole bean coffee, and I had to use instant (the horror!). It was a fine espresso roast, so at least I wasn't stuck with cheap instant. But still. . .the day was off to a bad start.

In spite of the warnings, we headed off for a day of fishing on the Nisqually - Bob, Wes, and I. Early reports weren't favorable; the salmon weren't quite running yet. But it was a day of fishing, after all, and maybe we'd get lucky. Or so we thought.

Arriving at the parking area below the Union Pacific Nisqually River trestle, we found another fisherman who had the same story - the salmon weren't running yet. One or two had been seen heading up, but nothing more. Ah, well. Nothing to do but get our lines in the water and see if we can be the lucky ones. And I should mention that, this being our first trip to the Nisqually, this was as much an exploratory trip scouting the area out for the future, as much as it was an attempt to pull anything in.

So Bob and Wes pulled out their salmon rods and went to work. I decided to pull out my fly rod and go after some of the trout that most definitely were in there. We all fished off the parking area, but it was a little crowded with the three of us and one other guy parked right beneath the bridge. I headed downriver a bit, below the flood-control bulkhead, to try a promising spot.

Got out in the water - did I mention it was kind of high and fast? About waist-deep, dropped a fly in, and worked the river for 10 minutes. No luck. But I turned around and noticed a nice line along the bank behind me, that worked out into the main channel around a large snag. It looked right. So I threw the fly into that line, it floated down the bank, ran around the snag, and zing! Fish on. Between the fish and the current, it was a bit of a fight. So I began to reel in line while maintaining tension, trying to keep that fish on the hook.

Only, I took one stop downriver too many. The bottom dropped away and I found myself in up to my chest. And the current was pushing hard. So now I had a problem. The current was too strong for me to back up. To the right, the river only got deeper. To the left, it was flowing too fast. And ahead was the snag in the middle of the river. All that, and I had a fish on.

There was nothing to do but leap forward and make an attempt at a hefty branch hanging off the snag. Which is what I did; I was able to get me feet down, taking a firm grip on that branch, all while playing that fish. By this time my waders were filling with water, too. Not a good situation. And, of course, in my memory I kept hearing Karina's admonition to not drown. Everything was stacking up against me.

It took a lot of effort, but I was able to pull myself up onto that snag, and then work across a pile of logs in the rapids to the shore. At some point I realized this wasn't really an amusing situation - that fishermen drown every year, doing just this sort of thing. I was fortunate to get up on that log and extricate myself.

And all with only one hand, since the other was still playing that trout. Which I pulled in once I was safely on shore.

So I was cold and wet and tired and drained. But I knew there were fish in the river, so what to do but get back at it?  Only, this time I stayed firmly in the center of the gravel bar, and didn't get so close to the edge.

And sure enough, 15 minutes later I thought to myself, "If I was a fish I'd be sitting right past that concrete block in the middle of the river." Threw the line in, floated the fly down a ripple around said concrete block and bam! fish on.

All in all, it was a good day fishing. Caught a couple trout, didn't drown. Got to know the area better, so we'll be ready when the salmon come in. Got out of the office and hung out with good friends.

Oh, and Cabela's for lunch on the way home.

Sometimes the river wins

I took some time to fish the Stillaguamish last Tuesday. I hadn't been there before, so picked a likely spot not far from Stanwood. Put on the waders, assembled the fly rod, and headed to the water. It was a beautiful northwest Autumn afternoon; the maples glowed orange while behind them rose the snow-covered flanks of the Cascade foothills. The sun glistened off the river as a donkey brayed somewhere in the distance. And I had it all to myself.

There was a small boat ramp leading from the parking lot into the river. Next to the boat ramp was a little trail climbing over the bank, and dropping to the river's edge. Seemed easy enough.

Except the downward slope was a tiny bit more slipper than I expected. Which is why I ended up sliding the final 2 feet down the bank into the river.

Oh, and the river was a bit deeper at the edge than I was expecting. No gentle dropoff; I found myself almost chest-deep though I was at the river's edge.

But, I was wearing waders, so not a problem. Except for some concern that I could get back out of the river, what with the steep dropoff and the slippery bank. I didn't feel like wading further out from the edge to get around a large tree, which was blocking my path over to the boat ramp. So I stood there about 10 seconds, pondering my predicament.

Because it only took about 10 seconds to realize that, as I slid down the bank, a sharp root had sliced a large hole in the waders, which were quickly filling up with water. (I should offer the observation that these waders were all of 2 months old, and this was only the third time they'd been in the water.)

Did I mention I was all alone and nobody knew where I was?

Quickly taking stock of the situation, I grasped a strong root just overhead and pulled/slithered/crawled up the muddy hillside to safety.

So what's a fisherman to do? Keep fishing, of course.

The hole in the waders was high enough that I could walk out the boat ramp a ways. And the water really wasn't all that cold, and the sun was still shining. Why let a little thing like this ruin the day?

Of course, the problem with riverbanks is they have overhanging trees. And the problem with not getting very far out into the river is that your backcast has a great chance of getting caught up in those tree branches.

And so I cast, and so my fly line was caught 15 feet up in a maple tree.

Which is right when the first person I'd seen in hours drove up in her car. And offered the helpful observation, "You're not supposed to catch tree branches! {chortle chortle chortle}"

I tried a few more times, got in some nice casts, watched a few sea lions float lazily down the river, even got a nibble or two. But wouldn't you know it, the second time I got my line caught back in that tree, two cars drove into the lot. It's like they were just waiting to humiliate me.

In August, when Mike was giving me my first fly casting lesson, he said something like "you will embarrass yourself. Just expect it." I guess this is all part of the learning process.

So I drove home, water still sloshing around my feet, counting up the cost of a new set of waders, sad that I hadn't caught a fish, but glad that I didn't drown. 

Sweet Victory

It was a good retreat