The UA was spawned in September 2009, but please hold off on the drumroll. While a decade of unaccomplishments may sound like quite an accomplishment, I can’t really take credit for a full ten years because the past couple have entailed little more than paying the hosting fees to keep the lights on. Meanwhile the shelves have been pretty bare.
Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, let’s move on to a bit of
Weekly Drivel® Occasional Drivel® .
In mid-July (should that be hyphenated? Looks like it should be so I’m sticking with it) I made a jaunt to Montana’s Flathead Valley to fish with my buddy, Chuck the Cook, and my old pal, ol’ Lary Hutcheson. Chuck is fairly new to fly fishing, having taken it up in moderation since moving to Whitefish about 3 years ago. We hadn’t had a chance to wet a line together prior to this trip, and I was rather looking forward to seeing how his stick-waving abilities had progressed. I hadn’t fished with ol’ Lary in a few years, though I had bumped into her since then when I convinced her to buy my boat a year and a half ago. Since then she’d been insisting that I come to the Flathead Valley to see the boat. I figured the only way to get her off my back was to give in and finally accept an invitation. And so a date was set for a mid-week float in mid-July. Lary set aside the date on her busy summer guiding schedule and Chuck arranged to take a sick day off from his job as assistant daytime manager at Chuck E. Cheese. I told him to tell his boss he couldn’t come to work because his arm was in a cast (come on—that joke never runs out of funny and you know it).
Back home, July had been struggling to resemble one of Summer’s months, appearing more like March, April, May and June (which are horribly disappointing months in the PNW). I departed western Washington under cloudy, moist skies that persisted for much of the 9 hour drive, with intermittent, heavy downpours. A final, intense deluge ceased just before I arrived at Chuck’s driveway, where a cold beer and a plate of ribs welcomed me after my long drive. Chuck knows his way around a grill, and upon consuming no less than 8 pounds of pig flesh, we had a few more beers. After a few more, the time seemed right to teach Chuck how to tie an Albright knot so he could splice leader to tippet. Up this point I think he’d been fishing a single leader all season long, wondering why, by the end of summer, was so hard to tie a size 18 Royal Coachman to the end of his remaining 4 feet of leader. He looked in wonder at this magical thing called 5x that could be acquired in multiple yardages, all nicely wrapped around a thin spool. There was some fumbling with thick fingers and choice words, but I assured him that the knot would get easier with time. And if that failed, his young kids—with their small, delicate fingers—could certainly help him out in a pinch.
The plan was to meet up with ol’ Lary at her fly shop in Columbia Falls (
Hilary’s Fly and Supply) at 8 the next morning and we did just that. Greetings were exchanged between old friends, introductions made between new, and we embarked on a long-ish drive up the Middle Fork of the Flathead River to our put-in. No rain fell that morning although there was a promise of it later in the day. As we rigged up our rods I noted to myself that it felt more like a mid-September’s morn, although truth be told the last time I fished with ol’ Lary on the MF Flathead it was September and it was a much warmer day than what we encountered on this trip. But enough about the weather, for now.
With the assurance that there would be mustard for our sandwiches, ol’ Lary loaded us into my old boat, which is her new boat, and we were off. Chuck took the hot seat in the bow and quickly revealed that he’d been doing some casting since moving to Montana. He handled his rod with deftness and looked like an experienced fisherman. If one didn’t know better they might think Chuck was a dirtbag fly fishing guide, what with a scraggly beard and long hair and Patagonia hat. But he’s no poser and didn’t suddenly transform himself when he moved to Montana. No, he’s looked like this since I’ve known him. I don’t recall exactly how long it’s been since he shaved or got a haircut, but he’s been farming hair far longer than the UA has had a blog. But I digress, back to fishing. We caught some fish throughout the day (all native Westslope Cutthroat trouts with the exception of one whitefish), enjoyed a beautiful float on a beautiful river, consumed sandwiches that included a magical yellow condiment, and only got rained on incessantly for the second half of the day. I think Chuck learned a lot, which was exactly why I wanted him to spend a day on the water with ol’ Lary. It was a fine day of fishing with a couple great people. I look forward to going back, assuming I get the invitation.
The next morning I woke up in ol’ Lary’s driveway, wondered how I got there, and reluctantly took my leave of the Flathead Valley, driving south toward my next destination—a favorite Idaho Panhandle River—where I would meet up with Jimmy for 3 days of hiking and wading. It rained (again) on my drive south, and as I pulled into the campground it was coming down hard. I must admit it was dreary, and the only bright spot was that on this Thursday, not many campsites were occupied. The other good thing was that typically dusty drive was dust-free, and not surprisingly the fire danger was low. Also thanks to the weather I was able to procure the best site in the campground (one that we’ve never managed to get before). Fortunately the drizzle let up and I was able to set up camp in relative dryness. It wouldn’t rain again the rest of the trip, but the tail end of the low pressure system that had been parked over the region for days ensured cooler than normal temps the first two days. Fishing was slower than we’d have expected for this time of year due to cooler than normal river temps which translated into fewer hatches. Fishing was—at best—hit and miss, such that on the first day Jimmy caught one fish while I landed several; the next day just the opposite occurred. Overall it was not as productive as what we typically encounter on this river in mid-July but the weather cooperated and it was hard to complain about anything, other than the fact that we did see more angling types on the river on the second day than we have ever seen before.
Well, thanks for the last ten years. I can’t promise that I’ll keep the shelves well-stocked, but I’ll continue to keep the lights on for at least a while longer.