Teeing up a fun-filled multisport weekend in the Madison Valley.
Summer in Montana has a certain feeling. It’s the mix of rushing water, warm wind, and blowing grass. The purr of a bike wheel, the sound of fluttering salmonflies, the taste of cold beer. It’s late nights spent around the campfire, new stories and old jokes, and sleeping under the stars. It’s a long weekend that goes by in a blur, but lingers in the memory all winter until it can be re-lived the following year. Last summer, the O/B crew had many such trips, but one in particular captured the true essence of the fleeting season: an Ennis-area multisport. Here’s the tale of that weekend, told from the perspective of two riders, anglers, and semi-amateur golfers.
Eli: Adam’s always stewing up an idea, but he’ll never give it to you straight. Last summer, for instance, when he pitched a multisport weekend in the Madison Valley complete with fishing and mountain biking, I knew he was holding out on something. Finally he let it out: “And I was thinking… maybe we could leave a little early on Friday and golf nine holes in Ennis on the way?”
It wasn't my first rodeo. But it was my first time golfing in Ennis, and I’d heard enough about the course to know that we’d need a lot of extra balls. —Adam
“Okay, fine,” I told him. “But pack light.” With a raft, bikes, fishing rods, and camping gear already in tow, it was going to be a tight squeeze. The following afternoon, I swung by Adam’s house to find him sitting in the driveway with a mountain of gear.
“What? This is light,” he responded to my involuntary expression of shock. Whatever, I conceded, and began to sling the “essentials” into the back of the truck—twinkle lights and an entry mat for the tent, a queen-sized inflatable mattress, a boom box the size of a microwave, and bags upon bags of other random things. Excessive—yes, but I’ll admit, the man knows how to camp in comfort.
Adam: Look, buckaroo, it ain’t my first rodeo. But it was my first time golfing in Ennis, and I’d heard enough about the course to know that we’d need a lot of extra balls. Though the course is only nine holes, it’s packed with amazing views and some challenging, creative hole designs that make the most of the limited space.
The course starts on a high perch, with the tee box overlooking the fairway, the entire Madison Valley and namesake mountains framing it in the distance. My first ball settled down right in the center of the fairway, but the same could not be said for Eli, who quickly took advantage of a breakfast ball. After a couple warm-up holes, the scorecard started to look a little better for Eli, too, and we golfed our way through the evening, exchanging some solid shots along with friendly banter and a cold one—or three. Not a bad way to start the weekend, with lots more still on the books.
Eli: On the way out of town, we filled up growlers with Flyin’ Ant ale at Burnt Tree Brewing and walked next door to the Gravel Bar for burgers. There’s never a boring night at the “G” Bar. Sometimes it’s a local drunk woman recounting her latest breakup, and other times it’s live music and dancing.
This time, owner Scott Kelley was pouring beer behind the bar, and he gave us the latest rundown on the Southwest Montana Mountain Bike Association’s new Ennis chapter. They’d spent part of the season updating an old trail loop—Gazelle—in the southeast end of the Gravelly Range. The upper portions had finally melted out, and the whole ride was supposedly in great condition.
With alpine riding in the back of our minds, we drove up the valley and found a spot near the river to set up camp. It was a clear night; we laid our sleeping bags out under the stars and conked out.
The next morning, we woke up soaked with a thick layer of dew. We rung out our pillows and sleeping bags, then drove about ten miles up a Forest Service road to a locked gate. From there, we hopped on our bikes and continued to climb. Eventually, the road turned to singletrack and kept climbing into open meadows and whitebark pine forests, topping out on the precipice of treeline. Elk and bear tracks were plentiful in the dirt, reminding us of the creatures lurking just off the trail.
Dropping into the descent, we hung a left and plunged through several miles of marshy, wet meadows. At one point, we missed a sneaky bend and ended up carrying our bikes across a beaver swamp and zig-zagging through the woods to pick up the path again. Then, the trail cut across a series of dusty, rocky south-facing slopes. Again losing it, we walked our bikes up a steep slope to reconnect, passing a handful of grazing cows that looked up in confusion.
The last few miles of trail dropped through flowy meadows chock-full of both cows and cow shit. We hooted and hollered, dodging the lethargic creatures and their droppings. Suddenly, without warning, the trail popped out on the road, essentially putting us on top of our campsite. We immediately dove for the beer cooler and stretched out in the sun. Caddis and stoneflies buzzed overhead, foreshadowing the next activity—the nexus of the trip, really: fishing the legendary upper Madison.
“It’s amazing what you can squeeze into a weekend around here.” Eli said. “You’re damn right,” I agreed.
Adam: Eli and I waited for the rest of the river crew to arrive by indulging in a sunny siesta. Or at least we tried our best to, but the campsite was apparently shared with a nest of woodpeckers who were doing what woodpeckers do best. We’d just about had it with Woody and his posse when our pals finally arrived.
As expected, we weren’t the only ones who’d thought to hit the Madison on a sunny Saturday in early July. Lucky for us, though, our afternoon timing aligned perfectly with the end of most anglers’ morning starts. So while a mess of boats were all taking out, we wiggled our way through to the boat ramp and slid into the river—and into miles upon miles of fishy, buggy, wide-open bends.
Now, every fisherman on Madison has heard talk of the salmonfly hatch like, “You know, I honestly think we we’re too early,” or “We must be a couple days late.” I’d be lying if I told you some variation was never uttered along the way (one variation, actually: Eli’s outspoken opinion that “salmonflies are the most overrated hatch in Montana.”). Still, we gave it an honest effort and did alright, but we certainly caught more flies between our hands than we did fish throughout the day. “Surely tomorrow will be better,” I insisted as we pulled off the river and headed back to camp.
We had a good, hardy night around the campfire filled with the classic shenanigans. Everyone groaned as I told my favorite story for the hundredth time, knowing full well everyone had heard it before—which was now part of the joke. The fire died down and so did our spirits as we each trickled off for the night, this time into tents.
In the morning, the weather was good and we felt refreshed. Fortunately, the tequila hadn’t been too rough. The big bug buzz was still in the air, and we could sense the commotion already mounting at the put-in. We agreed unanimously to give it one last go. We were already here, after all. This time, the fishing actually was pretty good.
We brought a few small browns to the net, but really, we were just happy to be there together on another beautiful day in Montana, doing what many people pay thousands of dollars to do. We know these days are not infinite in the summertime or even in a lifetime, but in the moment they tend to feel that way. Even more so when the trip is thrown together after work on a whim.
As a mess of boats were all taking out, we wiggled our way through to the boat ramp and slid into the river—and into miles upon miles of fishy, buggy, wide-open bends.
As we approached the end of our float with the takeout in sight, Eli looked over with a big smile and said, “It’s amazing what you can squeeze into a weekend around here.”
“You’re damn right,” I agreed with a nod of approval for what we had accomplished, and an upwelling of gratitude for the friends who’d been able to join us for the weekend.
Eli: A good gauge on a trip’s success is the overall energy level on the drive home. If everyone’s zonked, it was one for the books. Such was the case as we pulled off the river and cruised down the highway toward Ennis: windows rolled down and the summer breeze blowing across a truck-full of drowsy passengers. A quick stop at Burnt Tree for pizza and one last round of Flyin’ Ant sealed the deal, putting everyone to sleep. Not too shabby for a long weekend—one well worth repeating next year.
