Montana, final report

When Barb and I started home, we decided to take the Nez Perce Trail. When we topped out at the final pullout at Dead Indian summit, we were 8,100 feet up in the sky. From that vantage point, it seemed we could see darn near to the end of the world.

Dead Indian summit and the creek of the same name are named according to a legend. Supposedly, as the Nez Perce retreated from the U.S. Cavalry, they had to leave a wounded comrade behind in this area. When the Pawnee scouts came upon this fellow, they promptly killed him—thus the name.

When Barb and I set out for Montana, we had high hopes of catching many good-sized fish. Alas, ’twas not to be. The consensus of a number of fishers we spoke to was that the fishing from mid-August through early-September was very slow. As for us, easy success should not have been expected. However, this was the seventh trip for Jim and Ed Graham. They were both confounded by their inability to do well on the streams they fished. In 11 days of fishing, these two excellent fly fishers managed only one trout of any size that came from the fast runs below the Three-Dollar Bridge on the Madison. The bridge is so named because the former owner asked people using this access to deposit three dollars in a lock box on the honor system. Eventually a developer attempted to purchase this property. Several conservation organizations, including the Nature Conservancy and the Orvis Company, raised enough money to purchase the land and keep this access open to the public. Every once in a while, the conservationists manage to win one.

Our fishing experiences were disappointing. Big Spring Creek was fair, but fishing on the Madison, Gibbon and the Gallatin were poor. We were also amazed at the large numbers of fishers almost everywhere we went. Little Soda Butte Creek gave us pretty good fishing despite heavy fishing pressure. Barb took the best fish of the trip here, a 16-inch cutthroat trout. With Barb pointing out where I should fish, I managed to take a 14-inch cutthroat from Soda Butte.

In Yellowstone Park, we saw elk, buffalo, coyotes and a mama moose with her calf. Thankfully, there were no grizzly bears. One evening, while fishing the Nine Mile Hole on the Madison, I had a very close encounter with a buffalo. Barb had decided not to fish and was sitting in the car. I was sitting on a campstool at the rear of the van changing into my waders. A fellow hopped out of the stream in a hurry and as he passed, he told me, “There’s a buffalo coming.”

“Where?” I asked.

“Right at the front of your car,” he replied, quickly getting into his vehicle.

Since I had one leg into my stocking foot waders and the shoe on the other foot already removed, I was in no position to react with alacrity. I sat dead still while a very large bull buffalo plodded by the car headed downstream, close by where I was sitting. His big brown eye on the right side of his head, looked straight at me as he passed. Fortunately, his only thought was to reach the large meadow downstream, where he bedded down for the night. Afterwards, I paced off the distance that had separated us. Fifteen feet. That is a wee bit too close.

Will Barb and I ever fish Montana again? On the one hand, we are glad that we went. It would be a shame never to have seen the vastness and the grandeur of the Rocky Mountains. On the other hand, we both have little desire to travel 5,000 miles for such a mediocre fishing experience. I can fish any number of pools within a short drive from the cabin and see only one or two fishers during the day. That was not the case in Montana. In addition, the fishing at the time we were in Montana has invariably been better right here at home. At least, that’s the way it seems to us.