Spring in Montana scratched our itch... for about three months, so it was back to Montana in July, this time with the intention of doing more hiking into the alpine for some thin air fishing opportunities. The summer of 2021 was a rough one for wildfires, and I had spent the weeks before monitoring lightning strikes and wildfires in the area. The radius of safety continued to shrink so that our initial plan of a couple of longer backpacking trips became pivots to feasible day trip fishing opportunities. Thankfully, a plethora of worthy destinations awaited despite our modified timetable.
We decided to revisit an area where we hiked the previous summer, this time opting for a shorter hike with less intense elevation gain that still promised epic scenery and some hungry cutthroat. Because we had driven this particular forest road before, we knew just how awful it was and budgeted extra time to reach the trailhead as last year we had to hike a portion of the road due to huge boulders confounding access. Something I have long known but sometime need reminding, never trust google on forest roads. Just don't. The written directions we had found on a hiker's blog proved accurate after we initially started up the wrong trail, seemingly leading to nowhere. Finally on the right track, we meandered through wildflowers and pine forest before reaching rockier terrain leading us to the alpine where the wildflowers we more profuse, the grass more verdant as the outlet stream from our destination lake wound adjacent to the trail. Slowly, the stream widened, and we could already see trout rising as we approached the lake. Set beneath towering granite cloaked in wildfire haze, the lake sprawled before us, glistening in the afternoon sun. After a quick snack, we strung up the rods and headed first to the outlet stream for some easy pickings. Small but aggressive trout in the 6-8" range willingly took tiny Parachute Adams flies. We turned our attention to the lake, hoping to coax some larger fish from the depths. The wind had stiffened by now, creating some nice surface disruption but also more challenging casting conditions. Despite reading fish were stocked the prior year, it appeared there were plenty of fingerlings in the lake, taking everything that hit the water, flies almost their size. That's always a frustrating scenario because you can't get the big guys because the smaller guys are so eager. Shaun caught a stroke of good fortune and got a sizable fish to take a terrestrial pattern. It was a beautiful cutthroat and hard to beat the scenery. As the wind picked up, we packed up and headed back down to the truck to continue our journey.
Next stop was Island Park, Idaho to meet up with some friends and also do some fishing on the Henry's Fork. Lodging options book up quickly in that area, so we settled for a prefab cabin in a small resort area, but knowing us, we'd hardly be there anyway, so it worked. We hit up a favorite hike in fishing spot with our fishy friends, Halie and Cole and their two doggies. The water was high, a bit off color, and it was very, very hot outside, so we knew our fishing chances were not great. We enjoyed some time on the water with the boys getting into a couple of fish before the temps were too warm to justify fighting cold water loving trout. Strangely enough, this was my first time fishing with a fellow female angler. Wow.
We booked a cabin in McLeod for four nights, with a couple of days booked on the Spring Creek and a couple of days to hike around and fish around the West Boulder. Our host was a vibrant, high energy former Hollywood stunt man who brought us two bottles of wine as a welcome gift, and we exchanged a couple of Washington brews as a thank you. We explored the river surrounding the property that evening, coaxing a couple of risers, before settling in and organizing our fly boxes for the next morning.
We were advised by our host to take the scenic route, which was a grated gravel road with plenty of elk, deer, and pronghorn. As we rattled along, somewhere around 15 minutes into our 45 minute drive, we realized we had forgotten not only the crate containing our fly boxes (which we could replace at the fly shop), we also had forgotten our reels altogether (not as easily replaceable), so we turned around and headed back toward the cabin to retrieve our gear. Not a great way to start the day, and it would get worse. The 270 degree awning we had purchased for the truck for shade, literally fell off and ripped our crossbars off with it. I know we snapped at each other as we tried to figure out what to do while also realizing we were losing precious minutes on the spring creek. We finally were able to remove the whole thing, shove it in the bed, and resolved to just enjoy the time we had and deal with the fallout later. Back on the road, we clattered on toward our destination. Once checked in at the spring creek, we hit the water at our usual favorite spot that is often overlooked by others. Shaun quickly hauled in a nice rainbow as I continued to miss on fish after fish. Once the sun was fully up, the fish receded to the cutbanks and moss. Despite the constant water temperature, their protective shadows were all but gone, and the activity slowed drastically. The best thing about Montana weather is that it is always changing. As we awaited the impending thunderstorm, huge raindrops started falling sporadically from the sky, then more readily. Simultaneously, the fish faucet turned on full blast, and there were fish rising everywhere. We each tied on huge hoppers, and then I had a massive strike, and the fight was on. When the dust settled, I had a 20" Yellowstone Cutthroat in the net. We snapped a couple of pictures as the thunder and lighting descended on us. We hated to seek refuge as the fish were constantly rising violently, but safety is nothing to compromise in the name of fishing. As the hail began, we headed to the hut to wait out the danger. Post storm, the air was considerably cooler, but the fishing remained hot, and we each caught another sizable fish each. The sun setting, we headed home before collapsing into bed, ready to do it all again the next day, except for the rack falling off and forgetting our reels part.
Because we had checked in the prior day, we were free to enter the ranch at sunrise, which we did, and we headed straight for the last hole from the previous day. Shaun had some early action before we saw a caravan of 5 cars heading for the parking area near where we were fishing. It was a guided group of arrogant assholes. One particularly vile Southern specimen blathered on "I'm head huntin' today y'all." My eyeballs almost rolled out of my head. We had two options once it became clear they intended to crowd us out: combat fish or leave and go somewhere else. I had no interest in the former, and nothing good comes from conflict on the water, so we opted for door number two. We moved as far away from them as possible. A short time later, I floated a rusty spinner perfectly in front of a downed log, and a big brown we had seen rising earlier crushed my fly. We used the moss to our advantage, scooped her up and marveled at her beauty before releasing her back to her wild. I felt extremely validated in the decision to keep the peace and let assholes be assholes.
On a tip from our host, we drove up a long forest road to a campground that saddled private ranch property and national forest. We started off dodging free range cattle before moving deeper into the forest where we sampled huckleberries- some ripe, some not so. After crossing the river over a well constructed bridge, we skirted the ridge via switchbacks before traversing, eventually cresting at an overlook where the meadow section meandered before us. We battled frustratingly windy conditions for a few hours, predictably staying past our turnaround time, but it paid off when I was able to coax a riser to take a tan grasshopper. As we fished productively through a calibaetis hatch, the regular afternoon thunderstorm began to roll in, so we packed up and walked out in a soaking yet refreshing rain, counting the seconds between lightning and thunder, just as we had done the day before on the creek. It was a remarkably beautiful place to cast to backcountry brown trout, and Shaun even caught a whitefish on a dry fly. We were so thankful to find cold water during the severe drought and heatwave. (Forgive the horrid order of these photos... thanks Blogger)
One of my primary goals for the trip was to target some Arctic Grayling, and I had one particular region in mind, but life with drought and wildfires means you have to be ready to pivot and improvise, so rather than backpacking into my preferred lake that was just over the ridge from a growing blaze, we opted for a short albeit straight up vertical ascent to a gem of a lake where we were handsomely rewarded with take after take from some beautiful Arctic Grayling. They ate literally everything we threw at them: ants, beetles, hoppers, baetis, PMDs, even a blue damsel. We had just a fantastic day hauling in multiple fish while Birch either napped or investigated our catches. As we returned to the parking lot, after seeing a pack pony kick its owner, we saw a very feeble old man crawling into the passenger side of an SUV, hoisted by his daughter, presumably. She carried a solid adult brief, some clothes, and wipes in her hand which she placed into a bucket in the back seat before loading herself into the driver seat. It seemed to be some last road trip scenario as the guy couldn't have had more than a few weeks to live. Frail, cachectic, and pallor, he lit up a cigarette from the front seat, and even though I loathe smoking, I imagined him standing on the shore of the nearby lower lake, feet in the water, taking a drag and thought, "good for him."
At this point, it was time to make our way home, stopping in Missoula per usual while sneaking in one last morning on Rock Creek, catching some small trout before resigning to our fate. Leaving Montana gets harder every time.
