A River Trilogy

by W. D. Wetherell

  What we need—what we need constantly—is to remember why fly fishing is worth doing in the first place. The difficulties and pleasures of mastering a demanding craft; the reinforcement, the enhancement, provided by a long and proud tradition; the solace of its locales, the inspiration these offer; the healing power of water; the miraculous living beauty of the trout we seek. All these things, and with them a quality that is harder to define—an anti-establishment kind of pleasure; the different drummer aspect that makes its practitioners favor the lonely places, doing their thing away from the crowd, independently . . . the quality about fly fishing that has always appealed to the dissident part of us, that stubborn non-conforming raffish heretical freelance something that even our materialistic culture can never quite snuff out.

  Perhaps this is why so many flyfishers feel uncomfortable with the current boom: fly fishing simply cannot afford to become too fashionable and still possess this alternative kind of allure. Let’s remember that ours is a quiet and simple pursuit in an age that is noisy and complex; one that rewards patience and prudence in a jittery, impatient world; a sport that requires thinking and creativity in a culture that often punishes both; a pastime that seeks to conserve the places our money-grubbing, joyless economy seeks to destroy; a soothing antidote to everything in the world that so bitterly goes down.

  Whosoever would be a flyfisher must be a nonconformist. A paraphrase of Emerson, but one that fits.

  Confronting the problems fly fishing is faced with as it enters its second millennium is in and of itself part of the solution; its adherents are a literate and intelligent bunch, highly motivated, and merely by their keeping one honest and critical eye cocked on their sport much healthy course-correction will inevitably take place. There are ideas we should continue to think about. The ethic of catch and release; an insistence on the primacy of wild fish; stressing a low-impact style of outdoor etiquette; the effort to preserve land through trusts and conservation easements; the heavy-duty political battle of restoring the purity of our water and air. Much has been written about this; much, in spite of serious and well-financed opposition, has been accomplished.

  More remains. Flyfishers have done a good job in fighting for what they love, but the brutal fact is that our future depends on our culture’s attitude toward the entire natural world—the whole terms of our existence on this planet, and not just the sporting fine print. That our attitude must change and change dramatically to preserve what resources are still left goes without saying; that growth and exploitation and needlessly skimming off the earth’s bounty without thought for tomorrow threatens a lot of things beside fly fishing is, again, so obvious it hardly bears mentioning. And yet even today this message has trouble being heard. That the economy is growing—that more resources, human and material, are being exploited at an ever-faster rate—is still considered by the movers and shakers who control things the very best news possible, though in reality it’s often the worst. The writers and social critics who are talking about setting limits, changing our exploitative philosophy, are the ones doing the most to preserve our fishing, though they may never talk about fishing at all, may even in extreme cases look upon it caustically as a blood sport whose time is over. There’s an attitude of taking we must hastily abandon, an attitude of putting back we have to speedily adopt, and it’s on how soon this transformation takes place that the future of our pastime depends. We’ve had fifty years of warning. Only a Pollyanna, a liar, or a fool would think we have fifty years left in which to act.

  And in this direction I’d like to suggest the adoption of a new fly-fishing motto, one that supplements the familiar “Catch and release.” Put, not take—a slogan, a commandment, that should constantly inform us, and not only when fishing. Put fish back when you catch them, of course, but don’t stop there. Order some willows or alders through your local nursery, plant one every time you go to your favorite stream. Put those fishing schools on an entirely new foundation, so they offer scholarships to local people or interested teenagers, help broaden fly fishing’s demographic base to the point where garage mechanics are doing it, not just CEOs. Put some thought into fishing etiquette and whether your presence on the river, your manner there, is causing it harm. Put more effort into forming coalitions with other groups that are similarly motivated to save the natural world, and forget about all the various differences that otherwise weaken us—let the birders lie down with the duck hunters, the flyfishers make pals with the bass boys, so united we holler up a storm. Put those new masses to work, so we don’t rue fly fishing’s popularity but harness it, thinking of all these newcomers as valuable, badly needed reinforcements. Put aside the whole mind-set of taking that has infected our sport since its earliest days; start thinking about what we can give back to the river, not just what the river can give to us.

  There’s another practical idea that should be considered in the light of this emerging philosophy. Put ten back—a slogan that would urge flyfishers to place a voluntary tax on themselves, contribute ten dollars to conservation organizations for every time they go out fishing. Certainly, this would be a modest enough tithe, considering that American rivers can be fished free of charge. Followed faithfully, boosted by the fishing magazines, made easy by the establishment of statewide chapters to handle the cash, it would result in an enormous amount of money to be spent on conservation work of the most direct, pragmatic kind. In line with this I’d urge the introduction in this country of a vocation long established in Europe, that of riverkeeper—a man or woman resident on each of this country’s major trout streams who functions as a combination watchdog—caretaker—public relations specialist—ombudsman—researcher—teacher. Put ten back, use the money to hire knowledgeable and dedicated people to live beside our rivers, and this alone would be a major step toward the moral and financial investment in our future this sport badly needs.

  And a last word for those of my friends who complain that fly fishing has been ruined. Yes, some will be appalled by the mob, find they’re too fastidious to deal with its pressures. Many—many of the sport’s best and most faithful practitioners—will quite literally give it up. Some will retreat into nostalgia, become collectors of tackle and trinkets, hardly ever venture out onto a stream. Some will cope by fishing less, others by loudly complaining—the cynical, bitter flyfisher is someone you will meet more and more. Some, finding their local trout stream too crowded, will save up for the airfare to Montana; others, finding Montana too crowded, will dream of fishing in Russia, hope they can get there before Russia becomes too crowded, too. Some, maybe even most, will get used to the new pressure and adapt, finding new interest and energy in fighting to preserve their rivers, so there is more fishable water for everyone.

  Me, I’m going to try to find in fly fishing’s new millennium what I’ve always found in the sport—the miraculous current that connects simple pleasure to great joy—and try ten times harder to put my delight back into the river from whence it all springs.

  Part Four: Trout Country

  The Grand Tour

  Bozeman, Montana boasts my favorite airport in the world; a late August afternoon is my favorite time to land there. The sun will be low enough to give the mountains that surround it the kind of purple-gray color that brings them into sharpest relief, hints at majesty and mystery both, so anyone sensitive to mountain scenery, pressing their face against the window to see better, will find their adrenaline rises as the plane descends, the two emotions battling in that turbulent zone between the esophagus and the heart until they all but choke from sheer excitement.

  The airport itself enhances this mood—it’s one of the few I know that seems a natural portal to the experience you’ve come so far to find. It’s low, low-keyed architecture contributes to this, with its suggestion of a comfortable bunkhouse; so do the decorative bronzes of grizzly bears, mountain men, and trout. Down by the luggage ramp a drift boat is displayed, making it seem as if you could start your fishing trip right there if you wanted;
most of the people getting themselves sorted out have rod cases under their arms, and the ones who don’t, judging by their clothes, the exuberant way they fling their arms around the suntanned women waiting to pick them up, look like they’re headed back home to the ranch.

  I’m traveling with my pal Ray Chapin this time, and for me it’s something of a comeback. When I landed here in 1988 the great Yellowstone fires were raging, and even downtown Bozeman was covered by clouds of heavy, sweet-smelling smoke. An interesting enough experience, one in retrospect I wouldn’t have missed, but as a fishing trip it was a disaster, and I’d spent the years since plotting my return. Ray, for his part, hasn’t been in this part of the country before, and he’s even more eager than I am to get our luggage together, fetch our car from the rental lot, find the quickest, most direct route to West Yellowstone, get rolling.

  If Bozeman seems the welcoming portal to the classic Montana trout-fishing experience, then Highway 191 seems the yellow brick road that leads to its heart. Just south of town the mountains close in, the sky darkens, and to our left out the window is the Gallatin, looking cold and high in a late-afternoon shower. We’ve been talking over our plans for more than a year, and yet only now, face to face with the rushing foaming cascading reality, do we really start bringing them into focus.

  “I want to fish it all,” Ray says, pointing not just toward the Gallatin but toward everything that lies beyond.

  “We could try,” I say. “Not all of it, but a good chunk.”

  Pumped up by the altitude, those high peaks out the window, that Western sense of limitless possibility and expanse, we make it our plan: to fish as many rivers as we can in our week and a half, think of the trip as a grand reconnaissance wherein we’ll learn as much as we can about as many rivers as possible. It won’t be a race either, at least not a sprint; we’ll think of it as a gentle half-marathon, and if we find ourselves rushing too fast, we’ll deliberately slow things down. Eleven rivers in eleven days? There’s a nice ring to it, and why the hell not?

  A last meadow stretch of river, the height of land where the park cuts in, and then were driving through the semideserted streets of West Yellowstone, scoping out the tackle shops and breakfast joints, noting with interest the drift boats parked in the driveways, searching for the cheapest, quietest motel in town. We finally find one, not far from the park’s entrance. Cheapest? Maybe. Quietest? Nope. Right across the street is what turns out to be the rowdiest bar in West Yellowstone—but that’s okay. What I’m determined to do this trip is give my imagination free play, and that means letting the little boy in me indulge himself in all the Western playacting it can handle.

  Impelled by this mood, our imaginations strumming out some lonesome, twangy kinds of chords, we mosey on downtown. The loiterers outside the bar eye us with both curiosity and disdain as we walk past, as if we’re hired guns with big reputations they’re more than willing to cut down to size. It puts an amble into your walk, this kind of thing. We pick out a shop that seems reasonably authentic, hand our money over, and come back wearing cowboy hats pulled down to what we hope is exactly the right angle over our eyes.

  “Howdy, boys,” one of the loiterers says, stepping aside.

  Howdy, boys. We are here!

  River One: Grayling Creek. It’s miraculous there’s any daylight left in what already seems a double-length day, but there is and we take advantage of it to go fishing. Over to the park entrance to get a fishing permit, back to Craig Mathews’s fly shop to buy a state license, then the short drive to Grayling Creek, that friendly tributary stream that plays peekaboo with the parks western boundary.

  I fished Grayling during the autumn of the fires, since it was one of the few streams (with a hysterical governor having slapped a ban on all outdoor activities in the state’s domain) that was both legal to fish—it’s partly inside the park—and safely accessible. It’s a pretty stream, just the right size to get us started, and with the kind of pool-riffle-pool alternation were familiar with from home. There’s lots of timber in the creek, fallen lodgepole pines, and they form an interesting network of jams, sluices, and undercut runs. In the near darkness, that adrenaline still pumping, we fish a little faster than we should—and yet the fish are there for us. That these turn out to be brook trout is both a surprise and an ironic kind of teaser—brook trout, after all, are what we have in plenty back in Vermont.

  An hour of them and there’s just enough light to get back to the car. We’re tired, but pretty high. We woke up in our beds back in New England and now here we are finishing up a night of Montana fishing. Talk about your magic-carpet rides! At the edge of the creek I kneel down and splash some water on my face just to prove to my jet lag it’s really true. And it is true. I close my eyes and shiver with it, that sense of traveling so far, the exhilaration of having crossed a continent, felt every one of those miles of prairie, wasteland, and foothill as a kind of adventure . . . so far, and yet in some mysterious, essential sense, coming via those miles to a place that is also home.

  River Two: The Madison. Anyone who travels much knows the whole experience can often present itself as a series of questions. Where shall we eat breakfast? Try the eggs or the Texas French toast? Decaf or regular? Fill up with gas now or take a chance on finding some later? Cash the travelers’ checks at a bank or save them for the motel? And which motel? Do the waterfall or the scenic drive? Which way is the rest room? Which exit do we take? Where’s the turn?

  To all these question marks the fisherman brings dozens of his own. Which river to try? Which pool? Which fly? Top or bottom or in between? Which boulder to cast to? Which side of the boulder? Twitch it or let it drift? There are thousands of decisions to be made, pretty much taken for granted at home, but once on a fishing trip they present themselves in capitalized italics, especially on a trip with no fixed itinerary when you’re traveling with a friend and these decisions have to be reached in collaboration.

  “Where do you feel like starting?” I ask Ray over breakfast.

  “The Madison would be nice. Or we could head right into the park.”

  “We’re both anxious to get going there. But maybe we should fish outside the park first, then have Yellowstone to look forward to.”

  Ray knocks back the last slug of coffee, waves to the waitress for our bill. “I’ll try wherever you want to try.”

  “Wherever you want is fine by me,” I say, reaching into my wallet for the tip.

  We could go on this way forever, Marty and Manny talking over how to spend their Saturday night, but after about a dozen of these exchanges it becomes obvious that what we’re both thinking about is the Madison outside the park. So be it. We go across the street to a bakery to stock up on snacks, stop at a convenience store for juices, decide that we’re temporarily all set for flies, then turn down Canyon Street and start north on Highway 191 out of town.

  The Madison flows out of the park and under the road—a glimpse and a tantalizing one, but it’s not enough to stop us.

  Where Highway 287 swings west to follow Hebgen Lake the trees give way, the mountains spread open toward the divide, and for the first time we get that characteristic Western vista of drop-dead beauty and heart-stopping expanse. Hebgen Lake contributes, even though it’s manmade; it’s like a mirage it’s so flat and still, the sight of float tubers—flyfishers with their bottoms cut off, hanging in what seems pure air—only adding to the effect. Where the mountains pinch in again comes Quake Lake with its dead, branchless trees. An eerie, haunted place, the land sliced sheer, so it’s as if the earthquake that formed it happened only seconds before we arrived.

  I pull some seniority here; I can remember reading about the earthquake in the newspaper when it happened, before Ray was even born. I remember how exotic the place-name seemed, Mon-tan-a, the difficulty of trying to imagine what it was like when an entire mountain slid to one side. There are trout in the middle, judging by those rise rings, but even now it’s not a place I would feel comfortable fishing—natur
e here is in its scornful mood, and you’d feel that dislocated mountain, the dark powers that still lurk below it, watching you on every cast.

  And then the highway drops, the spillway gushes out an enormous fountain of bright water, and the mood instantly changes as the Madison, the real Madison, the river everyone dreams about, plunges down into the channels at Slide Inn, gets its act together, and roars in choppy riffleosity toward Ennis thirty-eight miles away.

  We park downstream of the side channels, pull our waders on in the morning chill, then walk over to the bank, awed as we should be awed—this is Augusta, Wembly, the Eiger, the big time.

  “What a river!” I say.

  Ray nods, squints, then points. “What a fish!”

  My first impression is that a helium balloon is drifting on the water where it edges against the bank; my second, that the river has sent a special emissary to welcome us. It’s a trout, a twenty-five-inch rainbow, a dead one. Surely an omen, but of what? The impressive size of the fish were pursuing? The ominous fact that all is not well here (at this point in time neither one of us has heard of whirling disease)? Our best guess is that it’s a fish that was played too long or was clumsily released—but its size, it’s appearing instantly like that, gives us a second, even stronger shot of adrenaline.

  The riffle aspect of the Madison can be hard for a newcomer to adjust to, and we’re no exception—for that first morning we kept looking for the pools. I flush a good fish right against the bank, which should have taught me something, but we persist in fishing those vague slackenings out in the middle. At home, the fish lie behind the boulders, not in front, and we’re slow picking up on this. There are some caddis about, and a few times we think we see a rise, but these are hard to pick out in the broken, windblown water.