Big Sky Journal: "Outside: Fish on the Brain" by Greg Thomas

I thought my brother John would like this one. He's fished the Clearwater and wants to go back.

Outside: Fish On The Brain

Twenty-four hours for steelhead

Written by Greg Thomas  
Illustrated by Fred Thomas  
February 2016

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Giving yourself just 24 hours to catch a steelhead and then setting out on the road to do so is one of angling’s worst gambles. Especially when you must drive three and a half hours along one of the windiest roads in the West, over a notorious mountain pass, just to reach these fish. Steelhead don’t exist in Montana. You have to get to Idaho or beyond to find them.

A friend and I took that bet in November. He somehow convinced me that leaving Missoula at 8 p.m., just after I coached my girls’ basketball team to an overtime loss, was a great idea. I had no voice and seemingly little sense, the latter due to my friend’s propensity to drive at the very limits of physics. On this trip I have to remind him that all that waits ahead are a couple whiskeys and a night of sleep; we won’t miss a thing if he drives a safe 60 miles an hour versus 80.

I say this each time he drives, mostly as a valid mark of concern, but also to see his reaction. “You worry about the songs on the iPod, and I’ll drive,” he says, adding, “You’re just nervous because you’re not used to the sway.”

The “sway” is a sensation brought on by the tipping of his 3,000-pound Lance camper. At each bend, as he hits the brakes and my eyes get wide, the whole truck seems to lift onto two wheels before, miraculously, finding purchase again. On this particular road, Highway 12 between Lolo, Montana, and Orofino, Idaho, we go through this process perhaps 600 times. While negotiating one particularly sharp turn he glances up at me and says, “My girlfriend has to medicate when she rides with me.” I ask the obvious question: “Does she have any of that stuff stashed in here?” By the time we park at an access site along the Clearwater River, I am worn out but glad to be here in one piece, with nothing more to do than swing flies for steelhead.

Read more.

"He Sets Me In the Stream," a Story by David James Duncan

Photo: Thomas Ives

THE OLD STORYTELLERS OF INDIA, according to my brother Peter, said that when you reached the end of even the longest story you should still be able to remember all the way back to the beginning. I have to work to remember what I had for lunch yesterday. The only thing I remember from the paper this morning is the baseball box scores. But the one and only time my father took no one but me fishing I can still remember the smell of the hot gray cloth that lined my door of the Forty Ford, the motes of dust that burst from that cloth when I slammed the door shut, the stifling heat though all the windows were down; I remember Papa at the wheel, a warming beer between his legs, tuning in the radio (some announcer I’d never heard before, sounded like an Adventist preacher, I wished Dizzy Dean and Pee Wee did the play-by-play for radio and TV both); I remember Whitey Ford still pitching, the score still knotted at 3, Moose Skowron headed for the hospital to have his head examined, the Indians up again, top of the tenth. But for me the game had turned boring. All I wanted was to get to The Wind.

Read the full story.

Brothers

Brothers. What are you going to do? My younger brother Pete saw my comments about John in the last post and picked right up on it. He has been known to bait the two of us around the campfire, trying his best to get an argument going. And his best is pretty good.

In this photo Pete took on a trip to the Grande Ronde a few years ago John and I are obviously getting along rather well.

But in an adjoining dialogue in the email in which he sent the photo Pete picks up on the negative yet again. Still baiting. And he throws in brother Mark for good measure:

John speaking: "Jim, I've got to say I'm a bit disappointed. I tell you exactly what to do to catch fish, and then you go out there and do whatever the hell you want to."

 

Jim's response: "Did you see that woman fly fisher this afternoon? Nearly as sweet as Miss Wyoming. Or was it Miss Montana? Anyway, she looked at me."

 

Mark's response: "I saw her. She wanted to do me right there. I'm not kidding."

 

Pete's response: "Hand me another beer."

I have to hand it to Pete. In a few brief lines he pretty much nails it.

There are some factual errors, however. It was "Miss Missouri," named such by me in subsequent reminiscence because she was beautiful, and she told me she was from Missouri. When she talked to me. While we stood out in the Henry's Fork on a peaceful August evening. First time on the Fork. First time fly fishing. Looking at me with her big eyes. Asking about her fly--"do you think this will work?" Wondering about her casting stroke--"How am I doing? Like this...?"

So I said, "Wait here. I'll go get my brother John. He knows a lot more than I do."

The actual Miss Missouri Pool, the Henry's Fork

So. Where was I?

Oh yeah. Brothers. What are you going to do?

Give thanks for them every day. Love them. And go fishing with them every chance you get.