ADVENTURE The City Girl Goes Flyfishing

NO ONE EXPECTED ME TO LIKE IT. This fly-fishing trip had been on the calendar for almost a year. With only one last son in college, I could no longer claim motherly responsibilities or financial concerns as an exemption. I kept my misgivings about the vacation to myself. My husband. John, is confident that when the Pearly Gates swing open, we will see Montana in the summertime. When lawyerly stress threatens his sleep, he mentally places himself in the cold, clear stream and lets the rhythm of the water and his casting send him Letheward.

His euphoria over my willingness to accompany him on a fishing trip was too apparent for me to confess that I was banking on excessive snow runoff from the Rockies to cancel the whole thing. Late June, after all, is a bit early for optimum river conditions on the Smith River. I could afford to be a good sport, borrowing waders, boots, and rain gear from women friends who had already embraced this sport with enthusiasm that I never expected to feel. I even allowed my husband to give me some rudimentary casting lessons in full view of the neighbors in the front yard. This trip would never happen.

Standing on the banks of the Smith on J une 22,1 met my companions for the week. The Montana River Outfitters included six young men who would see that our party caught fish and were well-fed for the whole week of camping along the river. These were capable and uncomplaining guys who probably shared my unspeakable dread at having to ferry yet another novice woman through this idyllic wilderness.

Our fishing party was comprised of two couples and four men who had left their wives behind. Five of the men knew each other from previous fishing expeditions in Canada and Russia. We knew only the other couple, good friends who had been transplanted to Atlanta. Anne, my only female companion for the week, is an accomplished fly-fisherwoman. For that matter, 1 can’t think of anything she does at which she is not accomplished. She grows orchids and very smart children. 1 wasn’t surprised to learn on this trip that she also ties her own flies and refuses to fish with anything other than dry flies made with no synthetic material. A boon companion, yes and no. She was as intense about fishing as Alan, another member of our party, who fastidiously cleaned his line between casts all week.

The Lewis and Clark National Forest Ranger, who seemed like a cast member from the movie Fargo, lectured us briefly and earnestly on river conditions. Was I the only one in our parly disturbed by the fact that the river was running at a velocity of 1800 CFS (cubic feet/second) when it should be running at 300 CFS?

My husband was too excited to listen to the ranger. The sun was out, and the rest of the party was easily reassured by predictions from OUT Outfitter-who wasn’t exact-ly eager to refuse our money-that the velocity of the river would drop 300 CFS per day. We separated oui’ gear into what we’d need for the rest of the afternoon and what could goon ahead with the guides. My afternoon gear included my son’s felt fishing hat secured to my head with a pair of shoelaces, a sketch pad and colored pencils, and a book called Little Rivers, Tales Of A Woman Angler. I figured if I couldn’t do this, 1 could at least read about it

Despite the sunshine, the water that first afternoon was swift and high and very cold. Jim, our first guide, rowed against the current to slow our boat enough for my husband to cast into the “slick” near the weeds on the bank, The rapid flow seemed far more suited for kayaking than fishing.

Having recently read Stephen Ambrose’s Undaunted Courage, I settled in tes see this river valley, with its thousand-foot canyon walls and soaring osprey, with the same goose-bumpy freshness that Lewis and Clark had seen them nearly 200 years earlier from their dugout canoes.

The headwaters of the Smith rise in the Castle and Little Belt mountains, ranges formed by raised fault blocks exposing basement rock nearly three billion years old. Spruce and Ponderosa pine trees 70 feet tall shoot skyward from the sedimentary rock shelves hundreds of feet above our heads. I blunted all shades of my green and brown pencils trying to capture enticing Indian caves and clear springs pouring out of the sides of the cliffs over moss-covered rocks. Meadows full of primrose, wild iris, and a lovely but destructive golden weed the guide called yellow spurge exhausted my pink, purple, and yellow pencils. Nobody warned me how many ceruleous blues the Big Sky would require.

White the guides set out a late picnic lunch on the bank, Anne and I scouted out the ladies’ room behind a distant bush. Hearing the men comparing notes on the relative merits of colored strike indicators, I felt vaguely superior. Not confined to keeping eyes on the water’s surface, my experience on this trip would be undeniably richer than theirs. WE SEITLED INTO OUR FIRST NIGHT’S camp early enough to take a brief hike up to a lovely meadow. Our awkward, heavy-booted presence in this unsullied stretch of grass interspersed with delicate wild flowers made me think thai somewhere in the thicker brush, Bambi’s mother was whispering, “We can’t go into the meadow today. Bambi. Man is in the forest.”

Back at camp, we broke out the wine and hors d’oeuvres while the young men who had rowed against the current all afternoon began dinner preparation. Cocktail conversation this first night was quintessential male talk of previous exotic fishing trips and the ever-more-perfect gear that they had brought on this trip. There was no letup during our sumptuous dinner of halibut steaks and fresh asparagus. Bait fishing at Girl Scout Camp High Point in Mena, Ark., in the ’50s just didn’t come up. The men eyed me with some suspicion when I announced that we’d better have the camp dance early in the week before we all smelled too bad. My brain numbed at the thought of having to listen to the tales of fishing the Miramichi for six nights running. 1 was glad that I had brought my books and small clip-on reading light.

John and I retreated early to our two-per-son tent. As one whose idea of “roughing it” was formerly La Quinta (which in my household translates as “next to Denny’s”), my immediate affection for our spiffy tent was surprising. The dome-shaped tent was floored and double-skinned with a zippered screened window and a sky light. The efficiency and simplicity of my multi-zippered camp duffel bag was equally satisfying. I had packed well, which meant I had enough clean underwear and socks, so that I never minded wearing the same outer clothes every day. My jacket stuffed in a pillowcase was a perfect pillow. My jeans were draped across the foot of my cot, and my new hiking boots stood by the bed should I need to hike to the distant latrine during the night.

On day two, the most taciturn and earnest of the guides, Jim. agreed to teach me a bit about casting after breakfast. As one who has flunked golf, tennis, and who despite raising three sons, still throws like a girl. I was relieved mat my fishing companions were too occupied with organizing their gear to take notice of my initial Hailing efforts. Standing there on the gravel bank, 1 remembered the father in Norman MacLean ’s A River Runs Through It saying, “It is an art thai is performed on a four-count rhythm between ten and two o’clock.” I play the piano, and 1 can tell time. Maybe I wouldn’t be a complete stooge al this after all. Nothing I had read prepared me for the sensual and seductive grace of line loading, looping, and landing so quietly on a clear stream. I emerged from this first lesson not caring if I caught fish. No wonder asking “how many?” is a secondary question for the fly-fisher.

Anne, who had brought along her portable fly-tying equipment, agreed to fish with me that first day. Fortuitously, our guide Mike is, in off-season, a kindergarten teacher. Rigged out in my lumpy, borrowed neoprene chest waders with shoulder sirups rolled around my waist, I looked like an overgrown toddler with a loaded diaper. My heavy wading boots felt like something Neil Armstrong wore on the moon but without his advantage of weightlessness.



ANNE FISHED QUITE INTENTLY FROM THE front of the boat, and I took (he swivel seat strapped on the back. My feet didn’t reach the boat floor, so Mike made me wear a life jacket, which was wise. Midday, when he bumped our boat into a rocky shoal, I slid right off my perch into the cold but fortunately shallow water. The promise of rhythm, elegance, and grace would not be mine that day. Mike, probably forewarned that there were lawyers in our group, was wildly apologetic and solicitous. He had a Band-Aid on my bloody finger almost before I saw the scrape.

Less than an hour later. I unintentionally evened the score with Mike by hooking him in the cheek with my golden stone fly imitator. He is bearded, so I don’t know if I scarred him for life. Anne expertly extracted the hook, and Mike acted as if this was part of his job description. Still, my eagerness to cast from the boat, especially in the wind that had risen, was greatly diminished.

Mike pulled up on a weedy island bank and placed me at a sale distance from all living things to practice casting upstream and slowly stripping in my line. I regained a little confidence and surprised myself by actually catching two small brown trout Later in the afternoon, when we again anchored near a promising creek, I was content to sit on the bank and watch the serious artistry of Alan, the most intense member of the party, as he waded in to work the riffles and fishy pools. When I accused him of being Brad Pitt’s stunt man in A River Runs Through It, he modestly replied, “Yeah, I put ice cubes in his glass for him.”

Dinner was more convivial this second night. We all had stories from the day to tell, and frankly, having tried to fish, I was a little more interested in their endless tales of fishing in New Zealand with elkhair caddis and humpies.

The third morning on the river, 1 pronounced it too cold to fish. Not surprisingly, my opinion carried no weight. We had 60 miles of river to cover and unscheduled dawdling meant we’d be overtaken by fishing parties a day behind us. In the cold, gray mist, I sal defiantly in the prow of our boat bundled in most of the clothes I had brought.

My husband John, my fishing companion for the morning, reiterated that I didn’t have to do anything In this trip I didn’t want to, so I crammed my hat low on my forehead and attempted the new New Yorker cryptogram puzzle that I kept stuffed in one of my fishing vest pockets. Half a mile downstream, the sun broke through and I fell like a spoiled Cleopatra being borne with great braking effort slowly down a swift-flowing Nile. I asked for a Madame X nymph and rejoined the fishing party.

Brian was so expert in maneuvering our boat that I actually felt my placement of flies was improving. In retrospect, I am certain that he anticipated my miscasting and positioned the boat so that my line floated close to the cliff wall or near the weedy bank. I caught no fish that morning, but the boat guide’s praise of my improving skills was so fulsome that I could hardly wait to get back on the river after our picnic lunch.

My fishing companions changed twice daily. Since none of them felt obligated to lecture me on the etiquette of this sport. I rewarded their good manners by earnestly ensnarling their lines and spoiling their fishiest opportunities with my novice flogging. Jim, the always gentlemanly friend who had invited us all on the trip, said midweek. “’Well. I knew the men would be clamoring to fish with you. Prudence.”

Sure. I was being handed off like the Queen of Spades in a game of Old Maid. I was frankly relieved when one of them lost his cool and yelled, “For God’s sake. Prudence, stop that sidearm casting if you’re going to sit up front.”

I fished like a woman possessed that afternoon. I cast by the sheer wall, now by the bank, into the eddy, just behind that rock, back to the sandstone cliff, then into the riffle. It began to rain and the temperature dropped. The wind came up. Still. I fished. I tied a dozen wind knots in my line. My arm got so tired that 1 had to stand up in the boat, getting my whole body into the act. to cast any distance. Despite my persistent efforts, I was always stunned when a fish took my fly. So accustomed to hooking weeds, the boat rope, the guide, or a rock, I instinctively apologized the instant 1 felt resistance on my line. The guide pronounced my two fish “nice browns.”

The rain and sheer exhaustion finally forced us to lake shelter in our camp. I was shocked to realize that it was nearly 8 p.m. I had fished nonstop for more than eight hours. My husband showed up an hour later. Clearly not only the novice had become obsessed. John was too wet, cold, and tired to leave the lent for the stuffed mushroom appetizers and enormous plate of chicken parmigiana our exhausted guides cooked up for our dinner. The rest of us ate with chattering teeth. The steady wind whipped our dining room tarpaulin and threatened to collapse the oars that staked the cooking-area tarp.

I was up before anyone else the next morning. After a breakfast of blueberry pancakes around a fire, we hiked s .steep rise to a breathtaking yellow meadow, then down to Tenderfoot Creek. The hiking uphill and straight down was fairly arduous and I was rather proud of myself for making it. I hope no one has a picture of me being carried piggyback the last five yards by one of the young guides. I could have made it. 1 just didn’t want to ruin my new hiking boots in the marshy approach to the creek.

Tenderfoot proved loo swift for my short legs to cross, so I spent much of the day watching the others disappear around the bends in the clear stream.

I fished the remaining days with little success by a fisherman’s standards but with great success by my own. I almost hooked a small disoriented bat who dive bombed our boat early one afternoon. I drank water from Indian Springs and tried to capture on a treble clef 1 drew in my notebook the melodic triad warbling and staccato of the meadowlark. 1 discovered that baby wipes are almost as good as a shower and won the Sacajawea look-alike contest by wadding my dirty hair into dog-ears midweek. Before Montana, I had never quite believed in the constellation Orion, the hunter. 1 could spot his belt, but the rest required more imagination than I could muster. Standing outside our lent at night in the last boat camp, I could swear that I saw Orion’s head, arms, legs, perhaps his shoelaces.

’TU bel your sons will be so happy you learned to fly-fish on this trip.” one of the guides said as we floated toward the take out point at the end of the week.

“Maybe,..”

A week after returning to Dallas. I mailed a photo of me with my Smith River fishing buddies to one of my sons in New York, whose fishing hat I’d borrowed. “This is a terrible picture you sent me,” he said later on the phone.

“What’s wrong with il?” 1 asked. “Even thing. My mother is having more fun than I am.”