Words: Ryan Sparks 2017-06-26 18:49:34
It’s frustrating to ask a friend where they went fishing and they just use the river’s name. It doesn’t say anything to mumble the words Madison, Gallatin or Yellowstone. Speaking in river generalities gives the impression someone’s hiding something. To a tourist or a non-fishing acquaintance the proper name might suffice, but to someone who knows the river, more depth is required. Tell me where you really went.
Becoming intimately familiar with a river changes it from a singular body to a series of places, each containing its own history. The back eddy where we caught several nice brown trout becomes Brown Town, and while there may be a collection of brown towns scattered along the river, this one is ours. When my buddy said, “I’ve got this,” and proceeded to swamp my boat—whether he likes it or not, that sweeper is Tommy’s Folly. Only time and runoff can wash that name away.
When I tell my wife I’m headed to the Junkyard, she knows I’m going to a mud-bottom flat on the local reservoir that was once a dumping ground for old cars and trucks. It’s now notorious for tailing carp. Getting one to eat is only half the battle. The real fun starts when you zigzag between an Oldsmobile Starfire and a Chrysler LeBaron, struggling not to snag your line or flounder in the mud, all while trying to avoid the inevitable tetanus shot that comes from cutting yourself when you jump on the hood of a clunker to land a fish. Clostridium tetani is not a phrase you want to hear spill from a doctor’s mouth.
Some names are universally known, even sanctioned by the state. In Montana, brown rectangular signs emblazoned with a cartoon fish, presumably a trout, proclaim to the fishing public that the put-in is Grey Owl or Mallard’s Rest. These names are obvious while others are more obscure and unrevealing. Tell anyone who has spent much time on the Yellowstone you floated the Bird, and they will know exactly what you mean. Names separate the home team from the visitors. They decide who has earned it and who is still working on it.
Names can be sacred words, never to be spoken in public. While the name may exist on a map, it isn’t part of the collective vocabulary in the fishing community—in other words, it’s a secret. Ask how Hush Hush Creek has been fishing at your local fly shop and watch those in the know openly cringe as they lay a single finger over their lips. We name our secret places like lovers give each other private nicknames. Names like these are traded only among a select few.
On the lower Madison, my friends and I had come to calling a winter run the Trailer Hole, after the mobile homes that lined the bank. Later, I learned from an older fisherman it was called Bonnie’s Run after the pleasant old woman who had lived there and ran the shuttle service for many years. He spoke about her with a warm familiarity and, out of reverence, I corrected my friends the next time I heard them call it the Trailer Hole. Bonnie had earned it, and to deprive her of that would be a disservice to her, those who knew her and that place. Names carry that sort of weight, that sort of history. So when someone asks where you went fishing, give them the real name. It matters.
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Hush Hush Creek
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