Best of Times, Worst of Times

A tale of two anglers.

It’s the rare fishing trip that goes so well, it warrants racking the rod for the season. A day just so good, that it couldn’t possibly get better. On the flip side, it’s the rare fishing trip that’s so bad it crushes all desire to ever fish again. Last summer, we had a day that did both. Floating through a big chunk of private water, we had two very different experiences—and afterward, both of us hung up our rods for the season. This is the tale of that wonderful, awful, fateful day.

Corey: Fishing is one of those activities that I just don’t live for. I’m not proud to admit it, given my Treasure State heritage, but most of the time I’d rather be scratching some adrenaline-fueled itch. That said, I still do it from time to time. Some years, I’ll get more than a dozen days on the water, but I’m not buying a boat anytime soon if you catch my drift. Yet in order to keep my “made-in-Montana” card active, I make a point to go at least once a year.

If you look at a map too closely, you risk convincing yourself that whatever endeavor you have planned is a bad idea.

Eli: Fishing is one of those activities that just doesn’t get me that excited anymore—for trout, at least. After a few summers in Alaska, I’ve been spoiled. Catching ten-inchers on the Madison with driftboats swarming like flies isn’t my idea of fun. But off the record, there is one trout stream in Montana that still gets me excited. With only a handful of public-access points, though, it’s quite the schlep to fish it.

Corey: Last summer, with his typical enthusiastic, down-for-anything, irritatingly optimistic mindset, Eli pitched the idea of exploring a remote stream he’d fished a handful of times. Together, we schemed up an idea to explore a big stretch of this slow-moving river, guarded by private land on all sides. Thanks to Montana’s stream-access laws, we had a way in, but it would require packrafts and bikes.

“I don’t know, the map shows a lot of bends and braids,” I noted with logical hesitation, as we examined maps. “You think we can bike-shuttle and paddle it all with enough time to fish?” Eli said something to the effect of, “Of course, dude! We’re young and strong and who cares if we get caught in the dark anyway? We’ll figure it out.” His flattery convinced me immediately.

Eli: If you look at a map too closely, you risk convincing yourself that whatever endeavor you have planned is a bad idea. All those diversion dams and barbed-wire fences—we’ll cross those obstacles when we come to them. Plus, a lot of river miles just means more time to fish. What’s the big deal?

Corey: We left before dawn and were sliding into our packrafts as the sun broke the horizon on a beautiful July morning. Per Eli’s recommendation, we tied on pheasant tails and some sort of dry-fly indicators. Bets were made on who would catch more fish. With the same rig on, whoever tallied more could hang it over the other’s head for a full year—which goes a long way when it comes to young men who act half their age when no one else is looking. The loser would be sure to hear about it.

Not only had I already lost two of my nymphs to snags, but I had yet to have a freakin’ bite.

Fishing from the packrafts proved futile immediately. The channel was too narrow to both cast and control the boat without getting snagged. So, we took turns eddying out and wading small stretches of water. By 10am, two hours into the float, we’d barely made it a mile, and neither one of us had caught a fish.

Eli: Look, I’ll admit it. Progress was slow. And the fishing was not good. We were hitting pool after pool, without so much as a nibble. I was starting to wonder if this was a bad idea after all.

Corey: “Maybe we should make some miles?” I encouraged, as we plied a deep cutbank with our flies.

Just then, Eli’s rod bent sharply and danced to the tug of what was surely a big fish. Glimmers of golden light flashed through the murky water. “There he is! There he is!” Eli howled. “Told ya there would be one in there!” Not a minute later, he landed a fine rainbow, proving that the creek was holding fish after all.

Eli: It was a pretty nice rainbow, but nothing near what I knew this creek held. I’d seen 25-inch browns and ’bows in the past. It was just a matter of time. And anyways, it was Corey’s turn to hook one.

Corey: We paddled around the corner, and I eddied out at the next rock bar while Eli kept going. For ten minutes, I fished a run that looked identical to the one Eli struck luck in, but no dice for me. I hopped back in and paddled a couple bends to find Eli pulling another football of a fish out of the water. “Damn man, you’re crushing it!” I congratulated.

“This is the third one out of this hole,” he laughed. “We’re in ’em now!”

I paddled by and made my way to a deep blue hole under a log jam. After a couple of perfect drifts without strike, Eli came around the bend grinning ear to ear.

“Any luck?” he asked.

“Nah, are you still using a pheasant tail?”

“Yup, same one I tied on this morning. Caught another stud back there, too.”

This irked me. Not only had I already lost two of my nymphs to snags, but I had yet to have a freakin’ bite. What could he possibly be doing that I wasn’t?

Eli: The fishing was really starting to pick up. And this juicy hole with the big overhanging log—there had to be a fish holding down there. “Anything?” I asked Corey.

“Nothing,” he replied. It just looked too good, though, so I lobbed a cast into the current. Something big slammed my nymph, and my flies rocketed upstream. This fish was smart, though, and he made straight for the log, snapping me off in just a few seconds. I retied, took an identical drift, and landed another solid brown out of the same spot.

Corey: At this point, I didn’t even bother applauding him.

“Are you kidding me?” I yelled rather seriously. “This is getting ridiculous!”

We hopped in the rafts and floated around the corner to find another picture-perfect run. “C’mon, try this spot,” Eli offered. “There’s gotta be another one in here.”

I clambered onto the bank and took a high perch. “Hit that seam right where the riffle hits the slower water,” he said, lounging back on the other side, cracking a beer. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I grumbled.

A subtle rise in the side channel caught my eye. Without another thought, I began wading up the creek.

Sure enough, one cast was all it took; finally, I’d hooked one. I gripped the rod tight and held it high as line ran from my reel. Damn, this is a big ’un. The fight lasted a couple minutes and I relished every second of it. When at last I netted him I let out a “Yeehaw!” It was a hog of a whitefish.

“Ah nice,” Eli said facetiously. “A whitey, eh? Don’t they call them trash fish in these parts?”

Here I had caught a stud of fish, a native no less, and he had the gall to kick me just as I was on the up-and-up?

“I’ll throw you in the water,” I replied without laughing. “We should get going. We’re not even halfway yet.”

“Get going?” Eli exclaimed. “I’m just gettin’ going!”

Eli: I knew from past excursions on this river that the fishing would just keep getting better the farther down we went. Eventually, a spring creek trickled in—an irresistible, clear stream of water, chalk full of big browns. “Hey, I’m just gonna check this creek out for a few minutes,” I called to Corey.”

“What?” he cried, throwing his arms up. “It’s 3pm, there’s a thunderstorm brewing, and we’re not even halfway!” At that moment, a subtle rise in the side channel caught my eye. Without another thought, I began wading up the spring creek.

Corey: He was serious. Completely blinded by big fish, he’d forgotten that we had some arduous paddling to do and a 15-mile ride back to the truck after we hit the takeout.

“You’ve got six casts!” I spat.

It didn’t take long for cumulous buildup to replace what was left of our afternoon sun. I slammed another beer out of frustration as Eli took his sweet time chasing rising fish. Finally, he turned around to hike back and fetch his boat. A few minutes later, he paddled up with a toothy smile.

“You ready yet?” he asked. My tolerance for his sarcasm had bottomed out. We shoved off and paddled like hell. Not a mile downstream and the sky opened up in a torrential downpour, the storm’s outflow winds nearly blowing us upstream. Then the mosquitos came. Never in my life had I seen mosquitos in a rainstorm, but sure as the lack of fish I’d caught, they were out. Thirsty, too.

The rest of the evening continued as you would expect. Two dudes battling gusty headwinds as rain drenched them and bugs drank their fill.

Eli: It was raining pretty good, and we were paddling hard against a headwind, but I figured out that I could roll-cast a short leader with one hand and still paddle with the other. Casting to a juicy slot here or there, I picked up a couple more big browns, which had lost all skittishness in the rainstorm and were feeding hard in just about every hole. I was lagging behind Corey, and eventually decided I should probably catch up or he seriously might drive home without me.

Racking my rod, I took a few strong paddlestrokes and came around the next corner to find a huge bull moose standing in the middle of the river. I dang near bumped into him. Chill as can be, the moose took a glance at my bright blue boat and lumbered out of the river and into the bushes. Damn. Icing on the cake for what had already been an epic day. But as if that wasn’t enough, about a mile later, a whole family of river otters splashed off the bank and did a big circle around my raft; huffing, snorting, and playing with each other.

Finally, I caught up with Corey a few miles downriver. “Did you see those animals?” I asked, hoping to share the special moment.

“What animals?”

Corey: The rest of the evening continued as you would expect. Two dudes battling gusty headwinds as rain drenched them and bugs drank their fill. By the end of it, we had wrinkles on our fingers, blisters on our palms, bug bites everywhere, and nasty sunburns to boot. We arrived at the takeout as shivering, wet messes—with a long bike ride still ahead.

We deflated our rafts under impending darkness, and I succumbed to self-pity one final time. “I think I’m good fishing once a year.”

Eli: I have to admit, I agreed with Corey on this one. After a day this good, it would be tough to top. “Yup, me too!” I said, and I couldn’t help but let a little grin slip.