Fall in “Big Sky Country”

After 15 long years, I was finally going back to Big Sky Country. The anticipation had been building for weeks as I prepared for my upcoming trip. Every day, I would go over a mental checklist: was my gear in order? Did I have the right flies? I even checked the weather multiple times to make sure I had the proper clothing and be prepared for the fishing conditions. These were all routine details that went into planning a trip, but this year felt different. My excitement was at an all-time high because I would be joining my good friend and guide on the many waterways surrounding Missoula.

The last time we had seen each other was during an interesting trip. I was visiting the group I would be traveling with this year, not as a member, but just stopping by to say hello on my way through Missoula. What made it interesting was that I would be floating in my trusty pontoon boat, following my friend and some of the guys on a float trip down the Lower Clarks Fork River. Our journey has been a frequent topic of discussion within our group since we finished it years ago.

As the day of our trip grew nearer, my preparations became more meticulous. Checking and double-checking everything, making sure I didn't forget any essential items. This wasn't just any fishing trip; it was a reunion with my love for Montana and an old friend. And I wanted every aspect of it to be perfect.

I could already imagine the sun shining down on us as we navigated through gentle rapids, casting our lines to the wily trout that call these Montana waters their home. The smell of fresh pine and earth filling my nostrils as we drifted deeper into Montana's wilderness. It was going to be an unforgettable adventure, and I couldn't wait to experience it all with my good friend by my side.

The day had finally arrived, and it was an early morning drive to the airport as I embarked on my journey to Missoula with a layover in Chicago. After a bittersweet goodbye kiss from my wife, I made my way through the bustling airport towards my gate. The flight to Chicago was short and smooth, the clouds gliding past beneath us like cotton candy. As we touched down in the Windy City, the iconic line from "A River Runs Through It" came to mind: "Chicken in the car, the car won't go, that's how you spell Chicago." It played on repeat in my head as I navigated the busy airport towards my connecting flight.

But just when I thought the journey would continue seamlessly, fate had other plans. The stewardess announced that they were looking for volunteers to give up their seats due to a weight balance issue. My stomach dropped as I realized it could have been caused by the bagel I devoured earlier. Despite my initial reluctance, the temptation of a $2400 credit, overnight stay, and meal voucher proved too enticing to resist.

As luck would have it, no one else on the flight was willing to give up their seat either. It seemed everyone on board was eagerly anticipating being reunited with their loved ones at the University of Montana for family day. But then, a glimmer of hope appeared as the stewardess sweetened the deal with her announcement of a potentially lengthy delay. With an extra day of fishing already planned in Missoula, I saw this as a silver lining and eagerly volunteered to deplane.

As I stepped off the plane, my fellow passengers thanked me for being the designated "team player" while laughing. I turned to them and jokingly reminded them that they owed me a beer in Missoula. The group burst into laughter at my remark. And honestly, what was one more day of t

As I arrived in Missoula, a sense of familiarity and warmth washed over me. The crisp fall air greeted me, carrying the sweet scent of pine and earth. But as I looked at the blue sky above, an uneasiness settled in my stomach. Was the weather too perfect for fishing? Would the fish even be biting? My companions were already out on their float trips, leaving me to enjoy a day of rest and preparation at the lodge. The hours flew by as I unpacked my gear and readied myself for tomorrow's adventure on the water.

As evening approached, some of the guys returned to the lodge, tired but satisfied from a day of successful fishing. We gathered for cocktails and dinner, with my friend Doc taking charge as head chef for the week. I was his trusty sous chef, tasked with assisting in meal preparations and getting to avoid all clean-up duties - a secret deal between friends. As we cooked and laughed together, I couldn't help but feel grateful for this time spent in the great outdoors and surrounded by good company.

The sun was setting and the travel of the day was starting to take its toll. I retreated to my bed, knowing that an early 5:00am rise awaited me in order to prepare a hearty breakfast for the group. As the men stumbled into the dining area, their excitement was palpable and I could feel their eagerness to hit the water. We made a short trip into town to meet our guides for the day. I had the pleasure of floating with Kyler on the Upper Bitterroot River, where he promised us stunning scenery and plenty of fish, with the occasional chance at a large trout.

Pulling up to the boat launch, I couldn't help but be amazed by the breathtaking surroundings. As we continued downstream, our hopes of spotting any bugs or fish stirring to the surface were quickly dwindling. It was time to resort to our last resort, the infamous Hopper, Dropper rig. Though I was hesitant and doubtful at first, I figured it couldn't hurt to try Kyler's recommended dropper fly, aptly named "The Turd.". Never did I imagine myself using a fly with such a name, but as they say in these situations - listen to your guide.

And boy, was Kyler right. The “Turd” proved itself to be a successful choice as I quickly hooked into a beautiful 16 inch native Westslope Cutthroat Trout. Throughout the morning, we continued to catch numerous trout on this unconventional fly while completely ignoring the hopper floating on top of the water.

Just as I was starting to get annoyed with constantly fishing with "The Turd", something unexpected happened. A large and healthy brown trout boldly took my hopper fly, but due to erratic nymphing techniques, I missed hooking this monstrous fish. It swam away untouched, leaving me feeling frustrated yet determined.

By the end of the day, we had caught multiple impressive trout on "The Turd". But there was a sense that something was missing, perhaps the thrill of catching a fish on a traditional fly. However, as we headed back to shore, I couldn't help but be grateful for this unique and unforgettable experience on the river with Kyler and his trusty "Turd".

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, we gathered for a night out with the guys at a renowned restaurant called "The Keep." The atmosphere was casual and relaxing, setting the perfect tone for our dinner of their famed duck dish. With satisfied bellies and a few drinks in us, it was time to retreat back to the lodge and prepare for tomorrow's fishing expedition.

The word was out that we would be possibly fishing he Upper Clarks Fork, known to be a fantastic steamer destination. Anticipation bubbled in my mind as I imagined the Turd being put on limited duty due and bringing out the streamer outfit. I smirked as I readied my trusty Winston Air 6 weight rod, equipped with a sinking line in preparation for what was to come. I was determined to catch these fish with my streamer, and I knew they were going to put up a fight. There was no way I was going to let them refuse my streamer.

Morning came and we made our way to the usual meeting spot where our guides awaited us. Today, I had the pleasure of being paired with Silas, a new guide that brought a contagious energy and dedication to his craft. Excitement coursed through me as we set out for the upper Clarks Fork, where Silas promised we would be swinging and stripping streamers. As much as I loved dry fly fishing, nothing compared to the thrill of chasing after trout with a streamer. The visual aspect and explosive strikes never failed to get my heart racing as I stalked my prey in the water.

With a quick detour to The Kingfisher, our local fly shop, we loaded up on streamers before heading to the launch site. To my surprise, we were the only boat there, adding an extra boost of excitement as we prepared to be the first ones on this section of river. I eagerly set up my gear with an articulated bright yellow streamer, ready to push off and float downriver. For those unfamiliar with streamer fishing, it's a physical game - standing all day and casting accurately to the banks, then quickly varying the retrieve before repeating the process. As expected, the morning started slow due to the cold water temperatures in Missoula – dipping down into the 40s at night. But it's precisely these chilly mornings that keep the fishing hot, as the afternoon temperatures rise.

As I floated along, I couldn't resist trying a hopper-dropper rig (minus the Turd). Stowing my streamer rod, I picked up my dropper setup – I always have two rods ready and rigged for whatever fishing situation may arise during the day. This time, I tied on a pheasant tail nymph behind a smaller hopper pattern. Usually a magnet for whitefish, today it proved its worth when right out of the gate I hooked and landed a beautiful 16-inch rainbow rout on the pheasant tail.The rest of the morning followed a similar pattern - numerous fish hooked and landed on the trusty pheasant tail, including some whitefish mixed in. But what really surprised me was how many fish couldn't resist grabbing onto that hopper, despite the cold water temperatures.

Despite this, I couldn't resist the temptation to switch back to my trusty streamer and try my luck at luring out the larger, more cunning predators lurking beneath the surface. After taking a short break to eat a sandwich and quench my thirst with a cold drink, I eagerly returned to stalking the banks, determined to catch one of these elusive creatures. It wasn't long before I felt a slight tug on my line - a quick strike that got my adrenaline pumping. I could see the fish darting towards my fly with fierce intent, only to miss it in the end. Perhaps we were both still waking up after a slow morning, lacking sufficient caffeine, but this brief encounter only fueled my determination to keep casting my trusty streamer in pursuit of that legendary big fish.

As the afternoon wore on, my body was overcome with exhaustion from hours of continuous casting. The repetitive motion had taken its toll, causing my arm to pulsate with pain at every movement. The shoreline was lined with banks, one after another, as I continued to pound the water's edge. But despite my efforts, it seemed that every spot was empty. My mind started to wander back to the comforts of sitting down and floating my hopper- dropper rig, but a voice in my head screamed at me to keep going, to not give up on this streamer just yet.

As the day wore on and the sun began its descent towards the horizon, I could feel the exhaustion starting to set in. My arm was growing tired and sore, but I refused to let that stop me. Suddenly, I spotted the perfect ambush site along the bank. With precision and patience, I cast my streamer just upstream and let it swing into position. Two aggressive retrieves later and there it was - the moment I had been waiting for.

A massive brown trout, with vibrant spotted markings and a glistening buttery belly, struck at my fly with determination. It was a long and intense battle, but eventually I was able to land this magnificent 19-inch remarkable fish. As I held it in my hands, I couldn't help but feel content and satisfied - my day was complete.

As the evening approached and the shadows grew longer, I took a break from fishing and cracked open a cold beer. Sitting at the back of the raft, watching my friend reel in his own catches of the day, I couldn't help but smile in pure bliss. My shoulder may have been sore, but it was all worth it for moments like these on the river. We spent the evening cooking up a delicious rib dinner and chatting about our day on the river over cocktails and good company.

The anticipation built as the last day of our trip arrived, and I couldn't help but feel a tinge of sadness knowing my buddy would soon be heading home. But today was a special day, I could feel it deep in my soul. I had planned a full day float with my longtime friend, who preferred to remain anonymous. It was just the two of us on the Bitterroot river, searching for the elusive big fish and reveling in the simple pleasure of casting dry flies to big targets. And of course catching up on the past 15 years since we have seen each other.

We met at the usual spot and made our way to the boat launch in hopes we would be the only boat at the launch but, unfortunately we were not and to make things worse, the electro shocking truck was at the launch, preparing to do their research. We quickly gathered our gear and headed down river way below the Montana FWP boat. We were on a time schedule, my friend wanted to be at certain spots to coincide with the hatches of Tricos, Hecuba and Mahognay’s. As we floated down river at a pace I leisurely cast a Hecuba- dropper rig and caught some decent trout along the way. But, I knew my friend had a plan and I wanted to be ready to live up to his expectations of my fish catching abilities, so I was just resting and reserving my energies for the start of the game.

As we drifted closer to where my friend had scoped out a pod of large fish, I could feel the anticipation and excitement building within him. With just a short phrase of “oh yeah” I knew he had spotted some heads breaking the surface. Our boat glided smoothly through the crystal clear water, expertly steered by my friend to give me the best possible shot at the biggest and most elusive fish in the pod. He pointed out a spot at the head of the riffle, where tiny tricos were being devoured by hungry fish. My eyes focused intensely on that exact area, and sure enough, there was a magnificent fish rising and sipping delicately at the surface.

This fish was clearly the dominant one, perched at the top of the riffle and surveying its kingdom. It would take skill and precision to hook this wily creature. My Winston Pure 5 weight rod was set up with a delicate 6x tippet and a size 20 trico dun as my primary fly, trailed by a size 22 trico spinner. This was my chance to join the coveted 20/20 club and I was determined to make it happen.

The current was tricky, with various areas of the drift that required perfect upstream mends to ensure the fly would reach the fish before any other part of my line. On my first cast, I made a perfect mend and let the fly drift over the trout, but there was no response. Perhaps my timing was off. For my second cast, I let the fly line swing far below the fish before picking it up again. These were smart fish, easily spooked by any disturbance on the water's surface. But on this cast, I could feel it – this was going to be the one.

The tiny trico spinner drifted directly over the fish and with just a subtle sinking of my top fly, I set the hook. The fish was on, and it had taken the size 22 trico spinner in its mouth. I knew immediately that this was a big one, possibly over twenty inches, giving me a real shot at the 20/20 club. But now, I had to land it!

The fish put up a fierce fight, trying to make its way back to its sheltering lie. With careful pressure and without breaking the light 6x tippet, I managed to guide the fish away from its stronghold and keep it in open water where I had a better chance of landing it. After a lengthy and strategic battle, my companion finally tired out and rolled over, allowing my friend to gently slide the net under it. And there it was – a beautiful, vibrant rainbow trout measuring in at 20 inches. My dream of joining the 20/20 club had become a reality thanks to this smart, cunning and dominant fish.

The longer we stayed in the area, our presence became increasingly known to the fish. The sun's glare danced off the water's surface, making it nearly impossible to see our fly and rely on our guide's direction for a successful catch. Frustrated, we decided to move on, seeking out a more promising spot. My friend suggested we stop at a nearby side channel, claiming that there would be "PHD fish" - sophisticated trout that required skill and precision to catch. Enthralled by the challenge, I eagerly agreed and we carefully anchored the boat on the riverbank before wading into the channel.

At first, all was quiet and calm as we cautiously made our way through the channel. But suddenly, a large trout darted away from us in alarm, reminding us of the importance of stealth and composure. We continued up the channel with renewed focus, watching as several fish delicately rose to feed on tricos in a back eddy. As luck would have it, my cast was perfect and my Winston 5 weight rod performed flawlessly once again. The fly landed just along the inside seam of the riffle, with a big upstream mend to counter any drag.

With bated breath, I watched as a massive head broke through the surface and gently took my trico spinner fly. This was a truly impressive fish - even larger than the one I had caught earlier. The battle began, with the trout using its strength and the surrounding structure to its advantage. With only 6x tippet holding me back, I had to exert just enough pressure to tire out the fish without losing it. Back and forth we went, each gaining and losing ground in turn. Just when I thought I had the upper hand, the trout would make another powerful run. But I refused to give up or lose my determination. It was a game of patience now, waiting for the perfect moment to slowly reel in the exhausted fish.

Finally, our efforts paid off as we gently netted the beautiful specimen - A 22-inch rainbow trout with a prominent hooked jaw was caught on a size 22 trico spinner. Another successful catch for the 20/20 club! The thrill of this experience would stay with me forever, a reminder of the rewards that come with perseverance and skill in fly fishing. As we rejoiced in our accomplishment a fellow guide was watching the whole scenario play out and as we returned to the boat he yelled out “that was impressive, they are grumpy fish up in that channel”. I chuckled and resounded “yeah that was fun”

The setting sun was a fiery orange, casting long shadows over the mountains and fields as we ended our day by the rushing river. The water glimmered with golden light, reflecting the brilliant hues of the sky. We had spent the remainder of afternoon fishing in the riffles, catching numerous trout with a delicate mahogany dun fly. It was an incredible end to an already amazing day spent with one of my closest friends. As we loaded up the truck to head back into town, I couldn't help but turn to my friend and make a promise: "We can't let another 15 years go by without seeing each other. See you next year!" Montana is a place filled with magical memories, and this year was no exception. I couldn't wait to return to Big Sky Country and create more unforgettable moments.