Seeing the Other Side

A stubborn old angler and an impatient young guide come to terms on the water.

“Nate Harrison has booked us for a week again—five days, starting Monday,” Betsy, the fly-shop manager announced to me one unusually sunny May morning. “The boss is out of town, so I told the old man he would have a new guide this year. I’ve assigned you to all the days.”

“Ah, gee, I don’t want to get stuck with the old man! And for an entire five days?” I whined. She ignored my complaints. The shop owner, Jim, usually guided the old man because of the codger’s demanding and unfriendly reputation. Even though he’s presumed to be wealthy, his tips are believed, without evidence, to be miserly. Worst of all, he always wants to fish exclusively with dry flies—no matter the time of year, no matter what the fish are eating.

Despite my complaints, I met the old man at the shop on Monday morning. He wasn’t a big man, although he probably was taller as a young guy than he was now. His face was a weathered road map of deep wrinkles from spending time outdoors. He wore heavy, oversized black glasses with thick lenses. He coughed and cleared his throat, “So… Betsy says you’re the top guide. I’m usually guided by Jim, but I’m told he’s not available.” He looked at Betsy as if he doubted her story, “Let’s get goin’—we’re burning daylight.” He headed for the door. I turned to Betsy with a look of alarm. She smiled and gave me a thumbs up.

My suggestion that we try wet fishing was met with a cough and a throat clearing, “Nope. In Montana I want to fish dry flies only.”

We loaded the old man’s gear into the truck and climbed in. He coughed again and cleared his throat, “I want to fish the upper Madison River today, then two days on the Missouri. Thursday will be the Yellowstone. I’ll decide later about where to go on Friday.”

“Well, okay, I guess. We’ll need some place to stay on Tuesday night. I don’t want to make the long drive to the Missouri four times in two days.”

“Betsy told me she lined up a cabin near Craig for me to stay on Tuesday.” Clearing his throat he continued, “You can stay wherever you want. I do like to get an early start every day.”

What the hell, I thought. This guy is pissing me off and we haven’t even moved. “I’m going in the shop to talk to Betsy about these lodging arrangements.”

“Don’t bother Betsy, let’s hit the road.”

I ignored him and entered the shop. “Betsy, what’s the deal with the cabin in Craig for the old man?”

“I booked him, as he requested, for a room at the Wilderness Cabins,” she explained.

“Didn’t you think to book me a room?”

“They’re full up for the week with other fishermen, I guess. Anyway, that’s what they told me. You’re on your own for Tuesday night.”

I wanted to curse her out. Instead, I angrily slammed the door on my way out. Pulling out of the parking lot with the boat trailing, we drove in silence to McAtee Bridge. The only sound in the truck during the hour and half drive was the old man’s coughing. At the put-in, he strung his own rod, but asked if I would tie on a two-dry-fly combination—a small caddis and a larger attractor pattern. He shuffled off to the outhouse, head bent and shoulders slumped.

I slipped the boat into the water, parked the truck, and waited for the old man. I could hear him coughing in the restroom. He was in there for a long time. Finally he emerged, and approaching the boat he said, “Let’s get going, there’s fish to be caught.”

He put on a very large set of sunglasses—almost like ski goggles—over his own prescription glasses and placed a battered straw cowboy hat on his head. He was awkward and slow getting into the boat, but refused my helping hand. The fishing was slow for the first hour, and I changed flies trying to find a pattern that might draw a fish to the surface waters. My suggestion that we try wet fishing was met with a cough and a throat clearing, “Nope. In Montana I want to fish dry flies only.”

Harrison, or the old geezer as I thought of him now, simply looked out the windows of the pickup. I mentioned it was a beautiful morning. He agreed with a terse, “Sure is.”

The day started to warm, but the fish weren’t looking up. Not that they could see anything on the surface, anyways. Runoff was just starting to subside, but we were a few weeks too early for the salmonfly hatch. The old man had picked one of the worst times to fish in Montana, especially if he preferred dry flies. After only a few hours, the old man surprised me by saying, “Pull over for lunch.”

As usual, I started to retrieve the portable table and chairs, but he growled, “We’ll eat in the boat so we don’t waste fishing time.” A little irked, I said, “Okay, it’s your trip.” I had picked up some decent sandwiches at a local shop—turkey, bacon, and avocado on good, seeded bread. The old man inspected the offering and with a frown, “I don’t like fancy food. Tomorrow, peanut butter and jelly on white bread will do just fine.” I put the lunch back in the cooler, pulled the anchor and rowed hard across the river. I tried to engage him in conversation, but he had little to say. He was focused on the floating dry flies, watching diligently for the strike.

The afternoon was long, and the fishing was slow. When we finally reached Varney Bridge. I loaded the boat on the trailer, and he climbed in without saying a word. On the long drive back to Bozeman, He wheezed several times but managed to say, “Not a very good day on the river, Jackson.”

As I dropped him off at a cheap motel in town, he said, “I’d like to get an early start tomorrow. Pick me up at 5am, so we can be on the Missouri before eight.” He left his gear in the back seat of the truck. It was going to be a long four days.

I pulled into the motel parking lot at 4:50am. Harrison was waiting. I had purchased two large coffees at an all-night convenience store and offered him one with a cheery good morning. He refused, “I not supposed to drink coffee anymore.” Great way to start the day, I thought. I eventually drank both coffees.

The sun peeked over the edge of the Bridgers as we drove north to the Missouri. Harrison, or the old geezer as I thought of him now, simply looked out the windows of the pickup. I mentioned it was a beautiful morning. He agreed with a terse, “Sure is.”

Three hours later we pulled into the Holter Campground adjacent to the Mighty Mo. Again, the old man insisted I tie on a small, dark caddis and a large hopper pattern. I flat out said, “There are no hoppers, it’s too early in the season for them. I really suggest you fish with small nymphs.”

“Nope, Jackson. As I said yesterday, I only fish with dry flies in Montana.”

Exasperated, I said, “Well, it’s going to be a very long day then.”

And it was. For hours, the old man flailed away with his dry flies. He never seemed to tire of casting, mending, and recasting. No fish were hooked. Other fishermen in boats, as well as those wading, were landing nice fish, all with nymphs and strike indicators. Harrison didn’t seem to notice or care about their success. He coughed intermittently through the day.

The old man seemed impressed by landing several nice browns and rainbows using nymph and worm patterns. He didn’t say so, but I was getting used to his quiet ways.

We finally reached the town of Craig around four. I was tired, bored, and overheated from the sun and rowing all day. As I dropped Mr. Harrison off at his lodging, he said we needed to be on the river earlier tomorrow. I wished him a good evening and headed straight for the bar to cool off. After feeling sorry for myself for an hour, and three bottles of PBR later, I made a visit to the local fly shop and inquired if any lodging was available nearby. The answer was no. I drove to Great Falls and got a cheap motel room for the night.

Early Wednesday morning we put into the river at Craig and planned to exit downstream at Mid Canon. Again, the old man started to fish with the same dry-fly combination from yesterday. I shook my head, wondering why he was so persistent. After an hour of no fish, I put the anchor down. Harrison turned to me with a questioning look of, what are we stopping for?

“I’m going to take a break from rowing and show you how to catch fish on this river.”

The old man was not happy about this and started to complain, “It’s my trip, bought and paid for, and I’ll call the shots.” He was clearly angry and coughed and cleared his throat several times.

I ignored him and slipped into the river with my own rod loaded with a small Czech nymph and a San Juan wire worm. Wading to mid-river, I was in full view of the old man sitting in the front seat of the boat. I threw the flies directly across the river toward the bank. On the third cast, a nice fish took one of the flies and sped down river taking out about 20 feet of line. The fish then leapt out of the water trying to throw the hook. It was a beautiful aerial display. I dropped the rod tip and then raised it high to keep constant pressure on the fish. Wading over to the boat, I retrieved the landing net and continued to control the fish. After five minutes, he was exhausted and slid into the net. I held the fish up to show the old man. With a disdainful look he challenged, “Humph… let’s see you do that again.”

In less than a half an hour, I hooked, played, and released four very nice, fat fish—all rainbows. With a self-satisfied grin I waded to the boat. The old man gestured to the rod, “Let me see those flies.” I handed him my rod and climbed into the boat, lifted the anchor, and replied, “Mr. Harrison, it’s your turn to catch some fish on this river.”

He started with, “But, I don’t—”

“Just do what I did. You’re an experienced man. Cast directly out at a right angle to the boat and keep a fairly tight line. And hang on.” I put his rod with the dry flies out of the way in the back of the boat. We moved a short distance, when his line went taut. He set the hook, the rod tip bent down, and the fish raced to mid river. The old man played it for several minutes. Each time he brought the fish close to the boat, it skittered away. At last, I was able to net the fish: a heavy-bodied, 16-inch brown. “Nice fish, Mr. Harrison. Good job!” I enthusiastically called to the old man as I released the fish into the river. “Cast again, up near the bank,” I directed.

I sat in my truck for long time thinking about the old man. It dawned on me that all his coughing probably indicated he was pretty sick.

The catching was steady for about an hour and then slacked off. The old man seemed impressed by landing several nice browns and rainbows using nymph and worm patterns. He didn’t say so, but I was getting used to his quiet ways. As we approached the boat ramp at Mid Canon, he hooked a fish smaller than the others. He brought the fish to the boat, reached down and retrieved a handsome rainbow. He held the fish in both hands, palms upturned, studying the shape and color of the wild creature. I heard him mumble, “Last one… goodbye, fish,” as he gently let her slip out of his hands into the water. Turning to me in the rower’s seat, he ordered, “Let’s head back to Bozeman, Jackson.”

We rode in the truck in silence for many miles. The old man had pulled his straw hat down, covering most of his face, and I think he went to sleep. Turning onto the I-90 on-ramp near Three Forks, the old man stirred, sat up straight, and looked out the window. He seemed surprised we were on the last leg of the drive. Settling back down he turned to me and asked, “Jackson, how old are you?”

“I turned 25 a few months ago.”

“Jackson, I’ve been coming to Montana to fish more years than you’ve been alive. I love to fish in this state,” he said in a sad voice. I wanted to engage him in this conversation, but when he turned to the side window, the time just didn’t seem right.

Dropping Harrison and his gear off at his motel, I asked about fishing on the Yellowstone tomorrow. Taking his weird sunglasses off, he simply replied, “Yeah, sure. Pick me up at eight.”

Early on Thursday, I drove to the shop to pick up some flies for the day. Betsy was there and handed me an envelope, saying, “This was taped to the shop door when I opened up this morning. It has your name on it.” Surprised, I opened the letter and began reading.

Jackson,

I won’t be back to Montana next year.
Thanks for the good day on the Missouri River.
Good luck,

Nate Harrison

I left the shop and drove to the motel. The desk clerk informed me that Mr. Harrison was no longer a guest. I sat in my truck for long time thinking about the old man. It dawned on me that all his coughing probably indicated he was pretty sick. He wouldn’t be back to Montana next year because he likely wouldn’t be alive. I remembered how he had admired the small rainbow as he held it in his hands, saying his goodbyes not only to the fish, but also to the idea of fishing in Montana. I felt troubled. A strong feeling of melancholy came over me. I was saddened by the old man’s very last days fishing in Montana.

I was startled from my musing by the cell phone ringing. It was Betsy. I let it ring to voicemail. Betsy’s voice again: “A couple of dudes want a half-day, guided walk trip. Call me ASAP.”

Seeking some solitude, I drove to my favorite place on the Gallatin River, As the roar of the fast-moving water silenced other sounds, I contemplated the world and my place in it. I stayed there until the sun highlighted the treetops and the evening chill rolled down from the high peaks.

This story is a work of fiction, and was submitted by the author’s wife two years after his death. It’s an excerpt from a self-published book, Musings of a Fishing Guide, that Dennis wrote and distributed to friends and family in 2018.