“Take your fishing rod! You’ll regret it if you don’t.” We were headed off to the us of A for a holiday and in between planning on how many hundred miles a day we would drive and the quality of the barbecue, I had mentioned that Montana was famous for its fishing. I knew this because the Montana Department of Tourism brochure had a guy in fatigues modeling a fly rod on the cover.
I do a little fishing with all the hallmarks of the gifted amateur. Unfortunately, I’m stronger on the amateur than the gifted. I once caught a trout in the Hutt River, but the satisfaction was tempered by the fact that I was trying to untangle my line by floating it through a rapid when the sad creature became attached to my fly.
So with little enthusiasm, I pushed the section of PVC pipe that is my rod case down into my over-stuffed pack and tossed a few essentials such as a bit of line into the top and flew across the Pacific.
As our flight from Salt Lake City to Bozeman, Montana bumped its way over the mountains, my naïve fishing optimism began to return. Despite my inability to land other than sub-normal fish in the mighty Hutt River, I became confident that I would discover trout that leap onto the bank at the sound of a footfall. Maybe I would be the only one standing on the side of a wilderness river. After all, I’d never heard of Bozeman until I’d booked a ticket.
These rosy thoughts were brutally dashed as the plane shuddered to a halt outside the terminal. In an instant, a plane-load of athletic, tanned blokes behind polaroid sunglasses leapt to their feet and lovingly lifted a phalanx of expensive rod cases from the stowage bins above. These people were here to fish!
This impression was confirmed when I spied the statue outside the terminal: a life-size bronze of an over-equipped fisherman completing a backcast. To complete the scene, a doggy bronze Labrador waited patiently for the cast to be completed. I could see that I was out of my depth and resolved that my PVC pipe and its contents would not creep outside my pack.
But I did have to browse in the specialist trout outfitting shops on the main street of Bozeman. It became clear that in Montana fishing is not a sport, it is a lifestyle. Racks of gear competed with the latest Fall fashions for apres fishing, while patrons dripping wealth lazily discussed insect life cycles.
I gathered up enough courage to ask a shop guide about access. I assumed that to fish in Montana you would need permission to access private land.
“Where do I go?” “Well, I drive my 4WD until see a good spot and I walk over to the river.”
I wondered if this was a cruel joke perpetrated on foreigners as they drove halfway across Montana looking for a bit of road that didn’t say: Private. Keep Out. Trespassers Shot.
The real purpose of our trip was to head to Yellowstone National Park and soon we had entered its hallowed portals. We enquired about hiking trails at the Ranger Station and I was surprised to find that it was possible to fish all of Yellowstone’s rivers. With dreams of hikes along the riverbank with the odd flick into the water, I queued for my licence.
The customer in front was being warned that due to a dangerous parasite, fishing in one part of the Park required carefully scrubbing all your gear to prevent its spread. It was the hazardous New Zealand Mud Snail. When my turn came to confess my details, I debated the merits of claiming Australian citizenship. But, I am pleased to say, the diatribe directed toward my nation about the damage caused by a snail I’ d never heard of was preferable to self-identification as an Aussie.
The Yellowstone River itself was beautiful and looked like prime fish country to me. Yet there was not a person posted on its banks. Maybe this was because it was raining. This wasn’t going to stop me, since my entire gear consisted of shorts and jandals.
There was a certain satisfaction in dropping your line into American waters and trying in some small sense to restore the balance of all those good Kiwi trout slain by visiting anglers here. Unfortunately, my satisfaction was short-lived as it began to snow rather heavily and I found my shorts and jandals a trifle spare. This ended my first effort, but by now I had the bug.
I also had a secret plan. We were doing an overnight tramping trip that would bring us out to the Firehole River in Yellowstone. Our car would be parked a few kilometres up the road. So I slipped my rod into my pack with the intention of allowing Marjory the luxury of walking back to collect the car while I would have about an hour to have a few flicks in the river.
One look at the Firehole and I was ecstatic. A small river with riffles and slow moving pools surrounded by low grassland and the odd quizzical tourist looking for geysers. I donated Marjory the map, indicated how to get onto the track that would take her back to the car, and loaded my rod. It was simply magical with a superb river, wildlife wandering along the banks, and a warming sun. Most important, after a few minutes with nymph I noticed that fish were rising to take insects off the water’s subsurface. With victory assured, I reeled in my line and changed flies. Imagine my surprise to see a despondent Marjory reappear. She had managed to get lost. We would now have to hurry to meet our car mileage quota. I dejectedly packed my gear and plodded back up the track to the car. Cunning plan defeated.
My third attempt occurred on the Snake River. I had already decided that the Snake would be too big and too crowded for me. However, one morning outside of Jackson Hole I faced a dilemma: I could join Marjory clopping along on a horse trek or go fishing. As my opinion of horses is similar to my view on dung beetles, I elected for the closest bridge and the water. By the bridge I found a gravel road that followed the river and almost instantly I was alongside about a kilometre of river without another fisherman to recoil at my unconventional attire. The banks were gravel offering unobstructed casting from the shore and the water was superb.
Full of certainty I began with wet fly. As I faded into mere optimism, I tried nymphing. As dark doubts descended, I reached into the film container that comprised my fly box and pulled out a single grass hopper.
My first cast and as the hopper tumbled down some rapids, I saw a flash as a trout struck from the depths to attack my hopper. Nirvana! Trembling, I cast again upstream, but this time my hopper dragged through the current. With a sick feeling I realised that I had no fly floatant and that my hopper wet fly was not going to do the trick unless I foul-hooked the fish. Now, however, I was excited. I knew there were fish here and I knew that hoppers were on the menu. Success was only the next tackle shop away.
Armed with two new hoppers and a bottle of Gheke’s Gunk, I moved my battleground to the Gallatin River. More horse riding gave me a morning to harvest the waters. There was not another soul on the river for miles, which allowed me to pick the most likely stretch. Alongside a cliff were a series of deep pools interspersed with runs.
I strolled down river, aiming to work my way back up. As I walked I noticed that hoppers were leaping in panic over my jandals and a fair number leapt too far and fell with a satisfying plop into the river. I compared my imitations with the bounding insects and was delighted to find no difference except for a barbed hook. I kept telling myself not to be greedy. Catch and release.
To cut a long story short, I neither saw nor experienced a whiff of fish. I was more likely to hook a passing buffalo than a trout. After a couple of fruitless hours, I mournfully retrieved my beloved hopper from the current and regretfully concluded that my American catch success rate was going to equal my New Zealand one.
But for all you readers who actually have some fly fishing skill, I can’t recommend that part of the world highly enough. The water is lovely and during October there were relatively few competing anglers. The scenery is magnificent and you have easy access to a range of rivers in Montana, Wyoming and Yellowstone Park. It would have been nice to say that I caught a fish, but I certainly can report with a straight face that I had a most enjoyable time.
So if you get the chance to get out into that part of the Rocky Mountains, take your fishing rod. You’ll regret it if you don’t.