Latest
Update: June
20, 2001 by Ben Marcus
9:45
JUNE 20, 2001 WISE RIVER CABIN, MONTANA
To
work, or to fish? That is the question. It's 10:46 Mountain Time.
The sun is up, the sky is blue, the mosquitos aren't out yet and
I am fully rigged and loaded forƒ trout.
I
guess I'll sit here until noon and try to get some work done,
then head for Sportsman's Corner and get some fish. We're going
to be out of here Friday and I'm going to drift the river half-day
tomorrow, so I need to make some phone calls: Cory Lopez, Jeff
Clark, Frosty Hesson, Kim Moriarity, Mike Johnson, Peter Mel,
Doug Moriarity, Jay's step-father who lives on 36th Avenue. Lots
of people.
This
morning I got an e-mail from Bill Morris, the photographer who
wrote that rough description of what happened in the Maldives.
I asked him for more details and he referred me to Renaldo, the
Brazilian judge who was once married to Lisa Andersen. I sent
an e-mail to ASP North and South America asking for a contact
e-mail address or phone number, so hopefully I'll make that connection.
Better too much information than not enough, so I'm going to dig,
dig, dig.
I
just got back from a trip into ñtown.î I stopped at Troutfitters
and bought some gear: a spool of 5x tippet material, some tapered
leaders, some fly floatant, a plastic fly box and an assortment
of dries and nymphs. Got into a conversation with Frank, who has
lived here for 52 years. His family owns the ranch across the
highway and it's been in the family for more than 100 years. I
found out that a yearling calf goes for about $500 on the hoof,
and an older model will fetch about $800. I asked him if raising
beef was worth it, and he said, ñBarely.î
Frank
talked about caddis hatches where the air is so thick with flies,
you can't see a hundred yards up the river. He also talked about
the Idaho and Montana fires last year, which raged from July to
October, and shut down the valley for a while. We talked about
this and that and he gave me some used flies that his guides had
discarded. So I walked out of there feeling ready.
Then
I went to the Wise River Store and tried to put together a dinner.
I bought some beef pasties and tamales that were locally made,
and bought the ingredients for spaghetti marinara: A jar of Ragu,
two cans of shrimp, a can of chopped clams, a can of olives and
two sacks of macaroni shells. That might work.
Now
I'm back at the house and the cleaning lady is here. She's telling
me that the local beef doesn't taste very good either, because
it isn't corn feed. She was wrong about the elk, in my opinion,
so who knows. Mayhe I'll come up here next fall with a .270 and
try to bag me one a them black angus cows out in the field. I
wonder if that's legal? They're good eatin'.
I
might hang around here until August, because Rockin' the River
in Three Forks is featuring 30 bands, including: Mountain (Misississippi
Queen) BTO, Blue Oyster Cult, Eric Burdon and the new Animals,
Steppenwolf, Edgar Winter AND MANY MORE!!!!
I'm
gonna make some phone calls and do one of my all-time favorite
things: Try to pull information out of grieving people. Fun, fun,
fun.
21:45
WEDNESDAY JUNE 20, 2001 THE CABIN
MONEY
Fly box, assorted flies, floatant, leaders, tippet: $48.00
OJ, Ragu, shrimp, clams, shells, Newtons: $15.43
Updated 240 minutes on phone card: $52.99
Three nights at the Cabin: $90.00
Used up phone card: $27.00
Fishing license and groceries $66.78
Elk preparations from Wise River $29.77
Dinner for three at Cholesterol CafÚ $26.00
Last
night when Rich was showing me how to nymph fish at the Sportsman
Corner, we talked about God and Heaven. Rich said that the innocuous
looking hole in front of us probably had 100 to 200 fish in it,
and who knew how many close calls we were having, big browns checking
out the nymphs and backing out at the last minute.
I
suggested that that was one of the things you learned when you
went to heaven, along with all the killer Scrabble moves you could
have made, and a lot of other answered questions, major and minor.
When you go to heaven, God or an underling sits you down and shows
you the replay of all the giant browns and rainbows and steelhead
you almost had, if not for a better-tied knot, or a lighter flick
of the wrist.
ñMaybe,î
Rich said, and smiled quietly to himself as he cast into the fast
water.
That's
part of my theology anyway. In heaven, all of your questions,
no matter how small are answered: ñWhere does the Universe end.î
ñHow many times could I have used my whole rack of seven letters
in a Scrabble move but was too stoned to see it?î ñWho stole my
Canon Super 8 movie camera from my car on Plum Street.î
Those
sorts of questions.
And
as for hell. Hell is eternal moving and eternal painting. The
damned have to paint the stairs to heaven for all eternity, a
never-ending job, like the Golden Gate Bridge. And the other damned
are locked in eternal hauling and lifting, moving the furniture
of the righteous up those same endless stairs.
But
enough about God and such, even though I am in God's country.
Today
was an interesting day, no doubt about. Mike and Rich took off
early for a long day of flogging the river, sunburn and mosquitoes.
Metiver
on the river.
I
worked for a few hours in the morning, making some good contacts.
I talked to Jeff Clark, who lost not only a good friend but also
his tow partner. Getting anything out of Jeff beyond ñYou knowî
can be like prying abalone, but he had some good things to say
about Jay the guy and Jay the surfer. I also talked to Tom Brady,
the Team Manager for O'Neill who illuminated a few things and
gave me some numbers. He also told me NOT to talk to Kim just
yet, as she is walking the tightrope.
I
sent an e-mail to Renato Hickel, the Brazilian ASP judge who was
once married to Lisa Andersen. Renato was on the island when it
all happened, and talked to the Brazilian guys who were snorkeling
around Jay and were the last people to see him alive.
I
did some other business here and there, bought some fly-fishing
equipment, bought those groceries, then headed up for the Sportsman's
Camp at around noon.
One
of the questions I'd like to ask God, eventually, is: How did
m backup pair of Maui Jims show up like magic? These were my darker
pair and they were gone. They were gone when I left my mom's house
and they were gone when I was at Dan's. I had grabbed a cheap
pair of dark plastic sunglasses in my mom as a pair of desperation
backups. I kept seeing them and thinking they were my missing
Maui Jims. But they never were, until today. Somehow, all of a
sudden, I had two pairs of dark sunglasses in the car, one of
them in the basket on the dashboard. My heart skipped a beat,
and there they were. Might seem trivial to you, but polarized
sunglasses are a must for fishing in Montana in the summer. Everyone
here has raccoon eyes. The sun has some potency.
So
I had my backup Maui Jims back, by an Act of God, and I drove
north along the Big Hole in a very good mood.
The
Big Hole.
The
weather was flawless, light clouds through a blue sky and lots
of sun. There aren't a lot of people around Wise River on weekdays,
and it is fun to drive with your only worry being running over
dumb prairie dogs. I saw a few people fishing along the river,
but no more than six, and not man boats.
I
got to the Sportsman Hole and the first order of business was
to strip my leader off the fly line, because it had been completely
snaggled during the lessons the night before. With that done,
I poked into my new plastic fly box (which hangs from a chain,
good idea) and tied on a bead-head nymph. I got nibbles on my
second and fourth casts, and then caught a fish. Unfortunately,
it was a whitefish, but I didn't deal with it harshly. I just
reeled it in, popped the hook and let it go. I got lots of nibbles
and a few close calls and two more fish within the first hour
or so: both of them whitefish. I thought maybe my leader wasn't
long enough and the yellow fly line was spooking the trout, so
I tied on a longer butt end and tied the leader to that.
That
didn't seem to do much, but it was nice to stand in the sun, casting
and retrieving and just enjoying the day, and the lack of mosquitoes.
There
were some kids playing and running around and a few of them were
fishing. After an hour or so, a blonde haired kid walked up to
where I was fishing and started to talk-and didn't quit. He was
a nice kid with blonde hair, throwing little Panther Martin lures
with a spin-casting rod. I saw him lose a little trout and then
bring another little one to shore. He put it back. He said he
lived in Helena but was originally from Anaconda, just up the
way. He said he preferred Anaconda to Helena, and I told him he'd
probably move back the first chance he got. The kid said he'd
been fishing that hole for years, and had pulled a lot of fish
out of it, some pretty good ones.
Pretending
I knew what I was doing, I passed on the information Rich had
given me the night before: The fish hang out in the deep crease
between the slow and fast water. They don't want to work too hard
in the fast stuff, but they don't want to be exposed to birds
in the shallows, and they want the food to come to them.
At
one point I cast and snagged my fly in the middle of the river.
I remember Rich telling me that all of the four big browns he
had caught he thought were snags at first, until they moved. For
a moment I thought that was my situation, but then the fly broke.
As I was reeling in I got crossed up with the kids line and he
untangled it. We both apologized.
As
I tied on a new nymph I told the kid about brown trout and how
the big ones can feel like snags. At that point he cast his little
yellow Panther Martin and hooked into a beautiful fish. A big
fish. A pig, as they call them. I caught a glimpse of it as it
turned sideways in the middle of the river, and I knew the kid
had a big trout.
He
reeled the thing right in and the closer it got, the bigger it
got. Just as it beached itself the line snapped but the kid moved
quick and pounced on it.
A
boy and his big old brown trout.
It
was a beautiful fish. A brown trout a little on the skinny side,
but the kind of fish Rich and Mike are paying $500 a day to catch.
And this little bugger had caught a fish half his size on a Panther
Martin.
I
went lunging for the camera to get a photo and snapped a few quick,
thinking he was going to let it go. He didn't. The kid was pretty
nonchalant about the fish, and after a few photos he walked up
to his camper, where a man was playing guitar and yodeling, and
some other kids were screaming.
All
together, it was pretty damn funny. You kind of had to be there
and hear the conversations and see the sequence of events, but
that kid snagged a great fish. I would kill to catch one of those
on a fly. Whitefish suck.
Austin
and the girls. And that damn fish. Again.
The
kid came back down from his camper without the fish, and he brought
his family in tow. He had three cute little girls with him, and
a crusty old cowboy/mountain man who spoke like Popeye. He just
king of grumbled and rumbled and I could understand every fifth
of sixth word or so: ñGrumble rumble I got 11 kids and 27 grandkids.
Grumble rumble damned kids making all that noise. Grumble rumble
hey that was a good fish my grandson caught. I do a lot of grumble
rumble hunting and fishing. Lotta elk. Lotta moose grumble rumble.î
He grumbled about motorcycles and working for the railroad and
said something about $400,000 and in all that I learned that the
kid's name was Austin, he was 11 and his dad had recently been
shot dead. ñGrumble rumble, yeah they said suicide but I don't
know grumble rumble.î
Montana
Gothic
I
felt bad for Austin but also good. He was a good kid who'd just
lost his dad and was living in a city but belonged in the backwoods
of Montana. I prophesied that he'd be back soon, taking suckers
down the river in small boats for $300 a day.
I
have to admit that I ran to the van to get my spin-casting gear,
but God spoke when my one Smith River set-up had a broken tip
and wouldn't cast, and my other spin-casting rig didn't have a
handle. I used my Leatherman to crank in a few casts, and then
figured I'd go back to casting flies. I tied on a bigger bug and
got a few nibbles and an almost, and then called it a day.
On
the way out I showed Austin the photos I had taken and took a
few more, with him holding the fish in different poses, and with
the girls, and with the grumbler/yodeler. Grandpa had kind of
a Mel Tillis thing. He didn't talk so good, but when he sang it
came out clear as a bell. I took a few photos and told Austin
that I would write up a story and submit it to some magazines.
I wondered if there was a Montana Magazine.
I
drove back to the cabin smiling quietly to myself. I had finally
caught some fish-although they were just slimy devil whitefish-but
had been shown up by a kid. It was nice to know fish like that
were in the river, though. Maybe tomorrow, on a fly.
When
I got back to the cabin there were e-mail messages from Renato
and Wingnut and a few others. Jeff Galbraith made some grumble
rumble noises about joining me in Montana, and I hope he does.
I want to do some driving and see some other rivers and maybe
check out Yellowstone.
I
have one more day to collect as much information as I can for
the Jay Moriarity Memorial piece, and then I'll be on the road.
I'm going to drift a half day tomorrow, taking over from Mike
around noon. We'll stay here tomorrow night then those guys are
going to go explore other parts on the way back to Butte and their
flight out on Saturday. I may go with them, I don't know. I may
need another night with a room with a phone, and that's too expensive
here.
I
got back to the house and transferred all the photos from the
discs to the computer. I think they came out good enough to be
published in a magazine. Online I found that there is a Montana
Magazine and they do accept submissions from ñMontana wannabes.î
That would be me.
I
was still chuckling about the fish story so I went down to Troutfitters
to find the lads. They were sitting with their guide, shooting
the shit with Frank, who is a good storyteller.
I
told them my fish story and showed them the fish and they were
sincerely impressed. ñThat's what we've been trying to get,î Rich
said. Apparently they had had a bad day. Mike got skunked and
Rich didn't get much. Eight hours of drift-boat fishing and casting
is harder than it sounds: It is hot, there are mosquitoes and
it is a fair bit of work. They were beat and drinking beers. I
bought a cheap pair of Croakies for my beloved Maui Jims and listened
to them shoot the breeze.
When
I showed Frank the photo of the kid I said his name was Austin
Wyant and Frank made a face. ñOh those people are terrible,î Frank
said. ñAll they do is hunt and fish and kill everything that moves.
They live up in opportunity, near Anaconda.î
I
suggested that Austin was okay, but Frank wasn't moved: ñThey'll
ruin him. He's doomed.î I guess the Wyants are the Montana version
of hillbillies. I will say that Grandpa spoke like no one I had
ever heard, and he looked like he had some Indian in him.
Eventually
we got out of Frank's and went back to the cabin. Mike and Rich
weren't intrigues by the spaghetti marinara idea, so we drove
into Wise River for dinner at the Cholesterol CafÚ. I passed on
the chicken fried steak, since we'd had chicken fried elk the
night before, and got my favorite standby, a BLT. Rich drank several
glasses of wine, flirted with the linebacker of a waitress, and
it was a good end to an interesting day.
I
paid for dinner and after delivering my usual line-If I had any
friends I'd tell them about this place-I walked out with all three
receipts. The waitress ran us down, Rich got in a few more cracks,
and we drove back to the cabin.
Where
was Ike in all this? He slept on the couch all day and he's sleeping
there now. I think all that running away from me wore him out.
Now
it's 23:33 Mountain Time. Rich and Mike are snoring and I keep
hearing something big moving around outside. I don't want to poke
my nose out and look. I would if I had Mr. Walther, but he's tucked
away lonely and unwanted in mom's safe deposit box.
I
called Renato Hickel in Australia and got his side of the Jay
incident. He had a lot to say, including the fact that the Brazilians
who last saw Jay were Spaniards. Evan has been sending me e-mails
asking me to stay away from the gory stuff and keep the focus
on Jay's life. I'm going to collect as much info as I can, and
then sort it out.
I
also called my mom and told her to find books on barns. When all
that money falls from the sky and I build my Montana dream ranch
house with all the trimmings, I want to be ready.
Last
night I read the parts of The
Journals of Lewis and Clark that had to do with this part
of Montana. Lewis and Clark named the three forks of the Missouri
for their President and sponsor, and also the Secretaries of the
Treasury and State. Thus, the Jefferson, Madison and Gallatin.
Further
up, they found that Jefferson forked and also named those forks
to honor his virtues. The west fork was the Wisdom. The middle
fork remained the Jefferson and the east fork was Jefferson's
Philanthrophy. Today, the Wisdom is the Big Hole. The middle fork
is the Beaverhead and the east fork is the Ruby nee Stinkingwater,
nee Philanthropy. Lewis and Clark came through this part of the
world in July and August and they were tormented by mosquitoes.
I can only imagine.
Time
to hit the hay. I'm going to drift off and dream about drifting.
Today was a good day.
P.S.
Hope I win the lottery tonight. I'm gonna buy land and build the
barn and buy every hillbilly toy ever made: Ford F250, driftboats,
ATV's, sniper rifles, the works. And you're all invited.
P.P.S.
I just went outside in the pitch black to get my camera from the
van, after hearing all that bumping around outside. My mom thinks
Mr. Walther is a flamboyant affectation. No, it's not. There are
times out here on the wild prairie where you just feel safer having
a gun. The mind plays tricks, and you just never know. It's like
surfing Waterfalls in October. Ike went out with me. Gotta go
get him.
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