RIGHT After spending a few days on the Yellowstone River, we hit the road toward a tributary of the Missouri. The Yellowstone offered an endless drizzle of tourists and rain, so we were happy to leave it behind—little did we know, it would provide the best fishing of our entire trip. From Box Canyon to Thibodeau Rapid, we came up empty-handed. I began sacrificing old flies in the campfire, drinking beers out of fishing boots—anything to appease the fish gods. We drove by fields and sandstone cliffs and I marveled at the abrupt transition that the Rocky Mountains provide. Driving into Glacier National Park, it finally felt like we were at the end of sum-mer. Each night the frost pulled more colors from the trees and our imaginations wandered among the proud cedars and towering mountains. And while I didn’t so much as see a fish over 14 inches, we ended every day happy. We met with guide Abby Montgomery for a Kootenai River day trip. Known for giant rainbows, only a few bull trout came to inspect our streamers. We found no giants. I watched Abby catch fish after fish. Jonathan, always with his camera, was glad he finally had someone catching fish to photograph. We moved to the Blackfoot River. After four days, we were in a slump—a big one. From Box Canyon to Thibodeau Rapid, we came up empty-handed. I began sacrificing old flies in the campfire, drinking beers out of fishing boots—anything to appease the fish gods. Nothing seemed to work; dries during the day, stream-ers at dusk, mice under the moon, nymphs when we got really desperate. In a last-ditch effort, we went back to Box Canyon on the Blackfoot. We floated into a thickly forested canyon with deep holes that only Hog Johnson could inhabit. As the sun set, I tied on a jet-black sex-dun-geon and ripped it over the shallows and then slowly dropped it over a rock ledge. I felt a tug and knew I had him. I reeled slowly until a cutthroat the size of a fish stick came up. I walked back to Jonathan, immersed in the wiz-arding world of Harry Potter . I asked to no one in par-ticular, “Where is he? Why can’t we find him?” I was just about out of funds, summer had passed. October was almost over. THE FLYFISH JOURNAL 085
The Flyfish Journal Volume Eight, Issue Four: Page 85
