Leaning into the wall as best I can, my left hand wedged into a hole
in the rock at waist level, I violate a cardinal rule of wildwood
wisdom – do not reach where you cannot see. Nonetheless, I grope for
any sort of handhold so that I might proceed to a spot that will
permit me to cast to the head of the very deep run. The cork grip of
my fly rod is in my teeth, offering a free hand, and a reminder, via
the pull of the trailing fly line, of just how swift my trip down
river will be should I slip. Everyday stuff for a kid and, for ten
days, a dozen or so companions, and I are kids again. The Bob
Marshall Wilderness of Montana will do that to
you.
It all starts with
a call from John Elmer, college roommate and fraternity brother,
with whom, for many years, I have shared the woods to hunt and fish
and wander. Two spaces are open for a July, ten-day, outfitted
horseback trip into a Continental Divide straddling wilderness in
northwestern Montana. I agree immediately. John tells me we are
already signed up since he knew I would go before he even called me.
"Pack light. Jeans, riding boots, five, six or seven weight fly rod,
toothbrush, extra skivvies, rain gear and your lightweight sleeping
bag. "You tie up your Prince nymphs and I’ll do the elk hair caddis
dries. "Flathead River, the longest wild river system in the states
and it is full of big westslope cutthroat trout – you’ll love it."
(Scots on his mother’s side, the call is just this
brief).
Shave for the last
time and board the plane for Montana. Crusty hat, Justin boots, two
fly rods and a camera. We gather a promising mixed bag at the
Missoula Airport – Two mustachioed lawmen from Texas, some paper
makers and paper users from the woods (and shrubbery) of Michigan,
New York and New Jersey, an attorney, and a peddler. A quick check
reveals mostly scuffed olive drab luggage, no jewelry, no styled
hair or fashion statements, and some already bordering on scruffy
from the plane trip. An excellent beginning. Our baggage, in the bed
of the large pickup, is uniformly road-dust tan on our arrival at
the Seeley Lake main lodge 100 paved, gravel and dirt miles north of
the Missoula Airport.
At dusk the
carmine-colored Swan Mountain Range fills the horizon and towers
over the lodge…..warmly smiling now in the evening sun, yet at the
same time taunting from 8000 feet, as we sip our pre-dinner
libations and try to gauge the high pass we will ride through on the
morn. Then, the women arrive.
We have already met
the tattooed, female cook who will accompany our group, but we are
not ready for the four ladies from the Chattanooga Highlands.
Neither is the outfitter. Tumbling out of a van, bejeweled,
perfumed, "Orvised" and bubbling, amid what seems like the total
inventory of several tack, spirit and fly shops, they pile a
mountain of gaily-colored gear on the back porch, introduce
themselves, spill some gin and join us for dinner. Our
gemeinschaft is threatened. Aware of the many normal male
activities common to field and stream, deer camp and duck blind that
are generally frowned upon in your typical office or Sunday School
setting, we are now faced with certain constraints where none should
exist. But, our initial concern is soon proved much ado about
nothing. The women are, pleasant, well traveled, well read and
almost as unpretentious as we. We laugh at each other’s foibles to
be sure, but mostly we laugh together, share the conversations and
the spirits, and enjoy each others company. Albeit tenuous, camp
life will assume a slightly different tone.
One enters "The
Bob" on foot or on horseback. Our first day begins early with a big
breakfast and a twenty-odd mile ride over and through the Swan Range
to get to our tent camp. We travel with a long, winding string of
seventeen horses and as many pack mules, and the going is slow, hot
and dusty. At its worst, I can only see one or two horses ahead in
the clouds of fine trail dust. Those riding nearer the rear, hats
pulled low, bandannas covering their faces, cannot see beyond their
own horse’s head. Riding a mountain-bred horse on narrow switchback
trails takes a little bit of getting used to even if you trust the
animal, ignore precipices, enjoy scenery and get off occasionally to
rearrange your compacted and warped parts. "Horse ridin’ ain’t
but a little bit better’n walkin’," was a wise old Colorado
wrangler’s observation some years ago – he was
right.
A guidebook
says that, " The Bob Marshall Wilderness is 2,400 square miles of
rugged, unspoiled wildness that could change your life forever."
Another describes the 1.5 million acres as; "Land and rivers and
mountains still pretty much the way that God had fashioned them."
For once, guidebook palaver understates reality. This wilderness
does not cautiously ingratiate the visitor – she challenges, then
overwhelms the senses. She threatens with jagged, crimson mountain
peaks and fiery, rolling cannonades of thunder; then courts with
scented, purple-flowered meadows and breezes soughing through the
spruce. At one moment, the raw wildness calls forth the silence of
respect, yet at the next an echoed primal roar.
She stirs
the soul and sparks swirl up from somewhere deep within, to dance
with grace and majesty and kindle atavism.
Wranglers who
rode ahead have set our camp up one hundred yards shy of my total
skeletal failure. Clustered around a small clearing are four, big,
lodge-pole, wall tents, a leaning, bark covered privy and a rough
corral – home itself never looked this good. I dismount uncertainly
– panache be damned, a leap would end badly. We unbend and
unkink our bodies, hurriedly bathe in frigid Shaw Creek – so cold I
scan for floating ice – then stash away our meager gear for the
two-day stay. Except for the Texans, who find sadistic mirth in our
discomfort, we mostly stand or lean for cocktail hour.
The pains
assuaged by single-malt and liberal dose of aspirin, a meal, a cot,
a sleeping bag, speeds body’s restoration.
From now on the
morning drill is to splash in the creek, eat breakfast, pack a light
lunch, set out your fishing gear for the pack mules, and saddle up
for the ride to that day’s selected river. My daily fishing trip
thus begins and ends astraddle old, hardheaded, sure-footed Duke, my
equine sport/utility vehicle. We tolerate each other, Duke and I,
and with few complaints, he faithfully carries me through this
breathtaking wilderness to wonderful fishing.
The fourth day’s
ride to the outlying camp, on the banks of the Flathead River, is
far easier than our first. I am either getting "saddle-broke" or my
threshold of pain is rising to meet the daily abuse of horse and
leather. We stop to fish the Gordon along the way and quickly take
several nice westslope cutthroat trout. John takes a 22" cutt on a
nymph. I break one off under a log pile that I suspect was larger
still – aren’t they always? We take a quick dip in a cold pool to
flush away the grit, then vault into the saddle for the final,
mostly level, miles to the Flathead camp.
We set up our own
small tents and again sort out our personal gear – which likely
smells like mules by now, but I cannot tell anyway. Neither
photographs nor words could frame this spot. Tall spruce line the
gravel banks, with mountains as their backdrop. Trout are rising to
the evening hatch and mule deer wade but a long cast from my tent,
pitched farthest from the cook tent. There are grizzly hereabouts,
but I sometimes snore loudly, they say, so I am in no imminent
danger. The July sunset lingers late and the river turns to gold,
then to deep copper. The darkness comes, yet in the moonlight I can
still see the occasional rising trout -- no sound but the murmuring
river and a distant lonely owl.
The Gordon,
Youngs and Danaher are all feeder streams of the South Fork of the
Flathead and we will fish them all in the days that follow. All are
icy-cold and gin-clear, with deep runs, tumbling falls, limpid pools
and sparkling rapids, all home to the westslope cutthroat trout.
From these waters I drink and fill my canteen while watching trout,
ten feet down, holding in water only hours from its source. The
wading is mostly easy, with only the occasional logjam with which to
contend. This is the best of times. To be in this vast untainted
wilderness alone, and at one, with the river, the trout, the
mountains, the wildlife and my thoughts; to walk beneath ancient
trees on needle-cushioned ground where possibly no man has ever trod
before; to drink water from glaciers that are hundreds, maybe
thousands, of years old; to gently hold silvered, wild trout in my
hands, just long enough to imprint their beauty and offer thanks,
before returning them again to their river. Solitude like this,
without loneliness, is a gift of the Gods and these moments command
silence, reverence. There is a place, in time and in mind, where grace
and atavism merge without contradiction….. and I have been
there.
Six of us ride to
tumbling, rocky, Youngs Creek and split up. I wander upriver to fish
alone and come upon a narrow run so deep that the water is indigo.
The only approach is the narrow ledge along the far side abutting a
vertical rock face. "I dare you!", sings the river and the wall, and
the inner little kid accepts the siren’s challenge. There is an
unoccupied hand-hold around the blind corner, and just enough
sloping ledge to support both heels, after swinging round, fly rod
still clenched in my teeth. My first cast lands right on the edge of
the seam and the weighted nymph sinks deep and bounces along the
bottom, then hesitates. I raise the rod tip and feel the fish, not
large but fast -- it is only a small Rocky Mountain whitefish. I
quickly reel in the slack line and almost fall while doing so. As
the whitefish darts past I notice movement beneath and behind it
…and I freeze. Something, as long as my leg, that looks like a brook
trout is now in pursuit of the whitefish. The whitefish escapes
three or four serious rushes and the large fish disappears again
into the depths. I am surely saved a dunking for I have willingly
ridden waterfalls to land trout far smaller than that mysterious
fish. After describing the incident to Virgil Burns, our outfitter,
he tells me it was a Bull trout, a carnivorous and endangered
variety of the Dolly Varden, now found in the United States only in
the headwaters of the Flathead – "Yes, Ed, some of ‘em are as long
as your leg."
Fishing the
Danaher, the next day is a highpoint of the trip. The Danaher is a
beautiful, mostly gentle, mountain river that is open and easy to
fish with room for casting. I walk upriver thereby sparing a long
stretch of inviting water for a trailing friend. I am solo once
again, I am becoming a river recluse. I have stopped packing lunch –
talk and food dulls the edge, dilutes the experience, breaks the
spell. By mid-afternoon, when I reach the meadow where old Duke
stands browsing, I have caught and released over thirty bright, fat
cutthroats all over 15", four over 20" – all on my own home-tied
flies. My friend, John, is waiting by the meadow pool, and he has
had a successful day with his flies as well. He watches as I land my
last trout and then takes my picture holding it as the first drops
of rain begin to fall. A fusillade of thunder roars through the
mountains and the rain engulfs the forest and turns the river to
froth. Nothing dampens my glow on the long ride back to camp. Clop,
clop, squish, squish… Duke is an old buddy this evening and I sing
to him. He likes "Tumbleweed" best and walks in cadence to
it.
Later, back in
camp, the Chattanooga ladies, who have taken to calling themselves
"The Buffalo Girls", express their wish to have trout for breakfast.
A couple of us, still rain-soaked, venture forth and kill a few
small cutthroat each from the nearby Flathead and then swap trout
for brimming tin cups of the ladies’ secretly hoarded Wild Turkey
bourbon. I suspect simple barter of this sort led to untold trouble
for the Indians in an earlier time, yet it seems equitable to us.
Their demands have been few, and, we can gloat slightly as they
devour our catch, like squaws of old, hunkered about the morning
fire. We are still showing slight deference to the women but, true
to the old grade B, Republic Pictures westerns, only the
lawyer and the young "sheriff" are shaving. Talk about a decent
group to travel with – not one of the men has packed a mirror – the
two shavers are scraping by Braille.
We repack in
the morning and mount up for the ride back to the Shaw Creek halfway
camp. It is getting easier every day, not routine, but easier.
Camaraderie. We all know first names (including the horses);
a little biography about each other and the spots to needle (and
not); the fragile ones, and the ones with the bark still on. The
dust and rain, the creaking leather saddles, the icy rivers, the
trout, the daily kindnesses and the mountains have sloughed off some
layers from each of us, and as it turns out, we discover that we are
a pretty decent bunch. I recall a noisy, late evening horseshoe
game. Those not actually playing are involved in cheering,
kibitzing, officiating or offering dubious technical guidance. What
are the odds of such an assortment of mature personalities all
thoroughly enjoying after-dinner horseshoes in the semi-darkness of
a northwestern Montana wilderness in the 1990s?
It is
simply the magic of the place casting its
spell.
Our next day in
"The Bob" we spend on the upper end of the Gordon River with the
most wary and skittish trout of the week. We each take a few, but
they are well earned – from between roots, under logjams, beneath
drooping spruce limbs. Our inflated, imagined fly fishing skills are
jolted back into perspective – maestro to tyro in stunning
surroundings. An old burlesque comic’s line comes to mind: "If
it was raining soup, I’d be out there with a fork!" We have one
final day to redeem ourselves on the Gordon so four of us opt to
fish while the others ride to the top of the highest peak in the
area for a final "fix" on the Rocky Mountains. The sweeping vista
from the top, we are later told, is spectacular – the fishing is
not, but I do not care, for it was still a wonderful day. A final
icy dip to scrub off the grit and then a long, hot, dry ride back to
camp.
Across the
log bridge, through the muck, the trail bends right, and finally, up
the steep hill leading towards camp. The scant water remaining in my
canteen is hot and my horse is grunting and slipping as we climb. We
tug our hats eyebrow-low and squint, yet the trail dust filters
through the bandannas covering our faces. Grit sticks to sweat and I
chafe with Duke’s every lurch. I am riding "drag" so am last to see
the "Buffalo Girl" abathing. Through grit-filled narrowed eyes and dust a wood
nymph doth suddenly appear, with silver-blonde hair, wet skin and
suds, alabaster front and rear. Each in his turn the riders pass, a
touch of brim, a nod of head, no looking right or left, all gents
for sure within this group except for trailing Ed. Duke’s head’s
alert, his ears perk up, he snorts with mild confusion, while words
to speak crowd rider’s head in delectable profusion. The lady
strikes a timeless pose, the one that’s one hand short – and where
Duke and Ed once stood before, a grinning satyr snorts. A jaunty nod
and snap of brim, a "hello darlin’", not loud, I marinate in what
might have been, but Gary Cooper’d be
proud.
The ride back to base camp is long, and
dusty, and hot, and painful, and tiring yet wildly beautiful. We
retrace our steps past three aquamarine, alpine lakes, through the
many fields of wildflowers, down the narrow switchback trails and
across the icy brooks amidst the towering spruce – but always
surrounded by the snow-capped Rockies. The late afternoon
thunderclouds form yet we wait until the first drops fall to rinse
the dust before we unlash our slickers. The lightning fingers to our
left and thunder roars, rolls, and echoes. The rain comes in sheets
of giant droplets. Then, almost as suddenly, the evening sun breaks
through the clouds and dances up the valley. And, as the mountains
turn to carmine, the sky beyond turns deep purple, and once again,
it is all as clear as rinsed crystal. Shining times.