My brother-in-law, Rick, from Texas came to visit last week. Sister Marsha couldn’t make it because she’s not yet strong enough after major back surgery to correct scoliosis. She vows to come in December to go snowmobiling in Yellowstone.
We put Rick up in the Guest House – that’s our slide-in camper parked in the driveway. It offered privacy, a comfortable bed, shower, radio and microwave.
Then we took him fishing.
Sunday was supposed to be iffy weather, so we opted to take the little motor boat on Georgetown Lake. Although clouds obscured the surrounding mountain ranges and vast Montana skies, as we caught rainbow and brook trout (and one silver salmon), we could see Montana’s nature encapsulated in the spunky fight, vibrant colors and psychedelic patterns of these vivacious piscatorial gems.
Ron gave Rick some basic instruction on fly casting (we were throwing shades of brown jigs, then retrieving), and near the end of the day the two of them landed double rainbows!
We saw a merganser duck with a fish in his mouth be flocked by seagulls before he swallowed it whole. We also broke the tip off a Sage rod and almost capsized the boat when we all went for the save. Oh, and we got the stink off our new Fishpond light-weight composite net.
On Tuesday, we gave Rick a ride down the Big Hole River in the Saturn raft – a glorious late-August blue-sky day with temps in the 70s. We stopped in the fly shop to get a shuttle and bought a few of their new dry flies they said should work great on this particular day. They did not. I don’t think we got one fish on top all day. Ron’s clown worm and the bead head pheasant tail nymph were the winner winner chicken dinners of the day.
Fishing nymphs, we landed lots of native white fish. But Rick didn’t care – he was fly fishing. In Montana. On the Big Hole River. And the weather was fall t-shirt weather while it was 100 degrees back home in Texas. Plus, he had the company and instruction of both Ron and I!
We made the four-mile float from Jerry Creek to George Grant in about six hours. We stopped often to fish good holes. Ate sandwiches and Cheetos. Admired our surroundings. Rick’s casting continued to improve. As Ron rowed, Rick stood and cast off the platform in front of the raft, as I fished languidly in the back. Surprisingly, as we cast from side to side, our lines tangled just once. Rick’s stability in the front of the boat was also impressive. I only saw him bobble one time as Ron pulled back a bit aggressively on the oars. We fished each hole diligently and often went back up river to, of course, fish the other side.
Throughout the day we landed browns, rainbows, lots of white fish, and even one arctic grayling. We saw a number of raptors soaring overhead. A large flock of black birds made a ruckus in one small tree, then rose and fluttered off as we floated past.
The river flowed cool and easy, with riffles and rapids around each bend. There was barely a breeze. The sky was sunshine bright blue. Puffy white clouds, high rocky crags, and riverside trees offered just enough shade.
By journey’s end, Rick had caught his share of fish, and lost twice as many. For him, it seemed casting was easier than catching. Ron complimented him, saying, “Rick, you’ve developed a natural pause on your back cast.” Rick only nodded and talked about coming back to fish next spring. I think he’s catching on.
Making Memories with Family
August 23-27, 2014