We retreated to the trailer at Desert Aire, barbecued some steaks, and slept the night. The next morning at seven we all piled into the Bonanza and lifted off on a heading of 90 degrees, perpendicular to reality, I remember thinking, over the Blue Mountains and the Grand Ronde, Hells Canyon and the Snake, the Clearwater and the Salmon, higher and higher over two, then three craggy wilderness areas, the Great Divide, finally cutting power and landing in our Montana destination. Two hours. Helluvaway to go fishing. Dave and I loaded our gear into the rented airport car with instructions to return at 4 to pick up Frank who needed to continue on to eastern Montana for a short business meeting. We bought groceries and rehydration supplies, caught lunch, and drove 20 miles to our final destination, a private ranch of immense proportions that totally encloses 17 miles of a river feeding a fertile public reservoir known for producing trophy trout. The first glimpse of the river was disappointing, more a creek by Oregon standards. But then, I was disappointed by my first view of the Madison, but patient and open-minded enough to stand corrected. It was a creek, sorry, river, in which a 20 inch fish would seem to be a monster. We stopped at the farmhouse and settled our accounts. The bad news was it cost an arm and a leg to fish there. The good news was I had four of them and therefore a few to spare. Reservations to fish are taken on only one day in the winter. Calls are accepted starting at 9 o'clock in the morning. By noon, the season is completely booked up. You have never heard of it. As we bumped over the one lane bridge leading to the cabin where we would stay I spotted dimpling in the main flow. The Pale Morning Dun hatch was on. Dave and I unloaded the car, sorted out the groceries and our gear and suited up for fishing. I still didn't know what to expect. There were supposed to be some big fish in this river. But hell, how many times have you heard that before. There are some big fish in just about every river, and especially Montana rivers with Browns. Everyone knows they are there, and every year a few are caught to prove it, usually by Clyde Dumfickle with a 1/0 hook and bait or live sculpins, or at best with laborious fishing with sinking lines and big downstream streamers. But for the Averageman, the "big suckers in the river" are as likely as winning the Oregon lottery, a calorie-less spice that adds a flavor of anticipation to the whole of the fishing experience, but little else. Dave was mildly anxious. Last year the fishing in this river had not been as good as previous seasons. If the trend continued this year, we had come a very long way to fish a very small stream.
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