30 Jan The Simple Things in Life

The July sun is high overhead, casting harsh shadows on the ground. Mid-afternoon summertime dust hangs heavy in the air as we pull the old Ford off the road near the hike-in access point. The farmer across the dirt road was out cutting hay late last night. Judging by the progress we see in the sweeping field of grass, he made good work of it. The scent of freshly cut hay lingers thick in the air, mixing with that distant tinge of wildfire smoke and the coating of dirt-road dust to create a perfume that, were someone to successfully condense it into a bottle, would simply be called “Montana Summer.” 

The author’s friend Danelle takes pause for a quiet moment, watching the water from the cover of tall summer grass.

It’s a scent that’s becoming harder to find in parts of Montana. The Big Sky State I recall from my childhood is fading away — the cities are growing ever bigger, the roads are becoming more crowded. Some of its best rivers could now double as boat bumper-car tracks during high summer, and the Bozeman airport now offers direct flights to at least 25 destinations during the tourist season. The times, as Bob Dylan said, are a-changin’. But this isn’t a rant on how Montana is evolving, the influx of out-of-staters, or how much more difficult it’s become to earn a living here. [/lgc_column]

No, this is a celebration of the good moments — the Montana moments — the moments that remind me there are still parts of the Big Sky State that hold true to their roots, and that sometimes, it just takes a couple of good friends and a fishing trip to remind us of that fact.

For a Montana fishing guide, sight fishing to happy trout instead of guiding clients is time well spent indeed. It’s rare to get a day on the water during busy guide summers.

Jake and I met more than a decade ago while we were both working, shuttling drivers between the river and Headhunters Fly Shop in Craig, Montana. The mighty Missouri was formative for both of us, just in different ways — as anglers, young adults, and as friends. Over the years, we’ve stayed in touch, meeting up to fish when our work schedules allowed. Life has a funny way of making sense in the long run, and we both ended up with busy careers in the fly-fishing industry. Jake is a successful fly guide for trout in Montana and steelhead in Idaho. And me? I spend my year sprinting around the globe, photographing fly-fishing destinations from Colombia to Russia to French Polynesia and many strange spots in between.

Complete with dirt roads and wide-open fields, it’s hard to beat the sights and smells of a Montana summer.

As it turns out, it’s stupidly hard for two people in the angling industry to find the time to fish together. (Welcome to one of the deep, dark secrets of working in the fishing world: The more it’s your job, the less you actually get to fish.) So, when Jake and his fiancé, Danelle, proposed a weekend meet-up on dates I was stateside, 
my answer was an immediate yes. I’d been souring a bit on fishing; it had been too much work and not enough play. I needed the time with friends in a big, open place.

I needed some Montana river medicine.

Any trout angler knows the value of a well-stocked hopper box when the summer months come around.

For those who haven’t had the pleasure of spending time in one of the many small towns that dot our state, you’re missing out on one of the best experiences under the Big Sky. Leave behind the glitz of Big Sky, the grunge of Missoula, and the city streets of Helena, and head to a small town — ideally one with a population under 1,000 residents. It’s almost guaranteed you’ll find a bar (or two), a mechanic, a diner-style restaurant (likely combined with a bar), a laundromat, and some form of a gas station-casino. The Montana small town is a slice of America, with its own unique slant, of course. This is still Big Sky Country, after all. Ranchers still work cattle in the valleys; farmers still tend their fields. It’s pretty likely that, at some point, you’ll fill up at a Town Pump alongside a rancher and farmer and probably be joined by Fish, Wildlife & Parks personnel, fishing guides, or wildland fire crews while you’re at it.

Out here, cows still dot the fields, trucks reign supreme, and a simple meal of a good steak and a cold, crisp beer isn’t hard to come by. In these parts, wildlife thrives in the proximal wilderness, which means big-game hunters know these small towns well, and it’s common in the autumn to find local cafes flooded with camo and blaze orange once the season opens.

The author’s friend Jake quickly whips up a homemade creation to get on the water when the party realizes they don’t have the fly they need.

Still, it’s the summer season when these small towns shine the brightest. Tourists come through, but they’re doing just that — passing through — and usually not in overwhelming droves. Summer is dusty dirt roads, cool mountain rivers, and lazy nights at the town bar after a good day of fishing. But mostly, summer in these small towns is Montana as it was meant to be.

Needing a dose of that Montana, I met up with Jake and Danelle. The latter is the kind of woman I’d have wished for as a sister if indeed I’d ever had a sister: straight-shooting, fun, smart, and game for just about any adventure. We were three friends with a quiver of rods, a couple of freshly tied flies, and a water bottle filled with a home-wrangled cocktail. 

Life was good. 

With the smile of a man happiest on the water, Jake ties on a fly in hopes that a hungry trout will come to play.

We rigged rods and left the truck and freshly cut hayfield behind us, bushwhacking through high-summer grass to reach a meandering stretch of river that cuts through fields and just might be one of the most classically Western scenes I’d viewed in a long time. The sun was high but slowly dropping; shadows had begun to grow, the light leaning from that harsh overhead sun toward something a little softer, a little rosier. Evening was coming, and we were ready to fish. 

Every angler should, at some point in their lives, walk alongside a great Western river and wade fish on a hot summer afternoon. Ideally, it’s a meandering spring creek cutting through hip-high grass and lined with undercut banks hiding hungry trout. There’s something special about this spot-and-stalk ritual, something innate to a certain kind of angler who wants to learn to think like the fish, to get in the mind of their target. This isn’t the blind indicator-watching of many guide trips on bigger water; this is sneaking along grassy banks, casting from a stealthy crouch to that one rising fish along the far bank and bouncing hoppers off dirt banks to let them dead-drift down the lazy current.

There’s little question of how Montana earned the nickname, “The Big Sky State.”

Jake is one of the most methodical, focused anglers I’ve ever met. He’s also one of the best casters. (To no one’s great surprise, the two factors are related.) Danelle and I hang back and chat, catching up on life as we watch Jake pad toward the first promising bend in the river. His fly is in hand, a bit of line out, and the rod is ready to cast once he spies a feeding fish. 
Watch. Stalk. Step. Wait. It’s a routine I’ve observed in good anglers around the world and one that’s seemingly innate in Jake. 

Soon, he entices a healthy brown trout to come up from its hiding spot tucked underneath an undercut bank. The fish is quickly brought in and released, and we head for the next bend in the river.

The evening flows along, just like the quiet waters we’re walking alongside. Conversation is easy with these two, and these days, more than ever, I’m grateful for the few people in the world with whom that’s true. We take turns casting and spotting, walking and talking, and before we know it, the high overhead sun has faded. The purples and pinks of a Montana summer evening have replaced the bright golds and greens of the afternoon. We meander — 
perhaps that’s the only word for it. We meander, and it is glorious.

Tag-teaming for success, Jake and Danelle release a healthy trout back into the river, ready to be caught again in the future.

In true Jake form, we fish until darkness falls. It’s a long walk out by headlamp — we may have meandered farther than we’d intended — but we wade through the high grass in the darkness and chart our way back to the old Ford waiting patiently by the dirt road. Only as we put our rods on the hood-mounted rod holder, do we hear a distant rumble and look over our shoulders toward the hayfield. The farmer is out there again, the light of his tractor a sentry to match the sound carrying across the darkness. He’s cutting in the night, working the land once more. The steady sound of the tractor is the only noise aside from the crickets and nighttime critters.

While Montana rivers are famous for their rainbow and brown trout, they hold a few other treasures as well, such as this beautiful brook.

The scent of hay is strong on the cooling evening air, mixing with that inevitable tinge of wildfire smoke, and I smile. It’s a Montana scene — a Montana scent — that I hope endures for just a little while longer. Because thankfully, there’s still some Montana left in the state.

For more than 15 years, photographer and writer Jess McGlothlin has traveled the world managing fly-fishing lodges, pioneering new fisheries, and exploring unique waters — documenting it all. She writes and photographs for editorial and commercial clients around the globe; jessmcglothlinmedia.com.