Backcountry Bulls

Rummaging through my basket of cords I knew the charger for the inReach could be lost within any inch of the house. Unplugging my battery that felt like the weight of a brick, I set yet another thing to be charged on the counter. Making my millionth trip to the garage, I took one more glance at the massive tarp on the garage floor that displayed all of the necessary gear I had slowly accumulated that was supposed to somehow fit in my pack. I grew up chasing my brother, and the fish in this river each summer, but had never ventured this far to its source. Selecting my dry flies carefully, I started to place each one in my fathers old fly box. On one side of the box were various dry flies that were more familiar to me than the calluses on my hands. On the other side I placed various streamers that seemed as foreign to me as the moon. Having spent hours on the phone learning all I could with people who dedicated their lives to such places, I marveled at the idea of finally catching what I had been chasing for years. Having never caught a bull trout, I wondered what it would be like to finally see one in my net. The excitement, and nerves in my stomach brought an even deeper attention to detail, and an even heavier pack. 

In the early morning I was up before my alarm, and most of the state of Montana. I knew the first day was going to be hardest and I braced myself, and my feet, for the grueling trip up and over the mountains. Gaining almost three thousand feet of elevation in six miles we made it to the first lake that hid in the saddle of snow capped mountains. Filtering some cold creek water, and opening my favorite freeze dried lunch, I was reminded we were not even a third of the way there. Maybe it was growing up with a brother where I feared I would be left behind, I indistinctly found myself racing to put as many miles behind me as possible. Forgetting to enjoy the wild country that was before me, we passed a pack of mules and a cowboy swaying to the rhythm of his company. Little would I know that would be the last human for the next few days. It's a wonder why we spend so much time and effort to escape to such places with the intention to be present in them, but more often than not I found myself falling asleep to the repetitive steps, and my mind wandering to other places. Maybe it's the way the woods makes us feel, and exposes the parts of life that we feel uncertain about. Either way grace seems to surround me and I felt more at home than ever.

Crossing over a creek my bare feet, with the start of blisters, loved the feeling of the cold rushing water. I'd like to believe that these rivers were a part of me somehow, I depended on them just like my veins, and they ran directly to my heart. Ten miles in, I took my pack off and leaned up against a large tamarack tree, opened my first bag of candy and sat with not a care in the world. 

Somewhere along mile thirteen and fourteen we ran across a waterfall that seemed hidden away from any map. Taking only a moment to enjoy it, we trekked on. Crossing over various other creeks and passing old fire burns, my back made it clear of all the ways I had misused it, and my feet started to look like a blistered mess. I dove back into my candy and started to hum to my favorite Willie Nelson song. It was about 7 o'clock and we had about five more miles to go and were yet to eat dinner. Putting my pack back on I felt every ounce of its uncomfortable weight on my shoulders. I told myself I could do it, only half way believing it. We would pass another large burn filled with wolf tracks and bear scat along with the occasional bone. As the sun slowly crept behind the mountain we could see its orange reflection reminding us light was slipping away. We came to a large creek with big deep blue pools and trees stretched far across it. I marveled at the idea of how many rivers were out there unknown to anyone, as if such places were created regardless if someone was there to appreciate them. I watched it as it meandered through the woods, and everything that hurt seemed to fade away. I could see myself wading across on each corner with only the elk to talk to and the wind to hear. A version of myself lived here, and I left her to wander. 

We would hike until 10:00 o'clock, coming into the lake just as the last light of the day faded away. Math was never my best subject, so misjudging our nineteen mile hike for a total of twenty three miles did not come as a surprise for me. During the night I could hear fish rising to the various hatches of bugs that filled the water, and our tent. 

That next morning, I could feel the sun start to warm my face, and the sound of a bush plane far in the distance. I eagerly put my fly rod together like a habit I couldn't rid myself of. Seeing my first cutthroat rise to the surface I screamed in excitement. Heaven looks different to everyone, but I knew this was mine. I peered into the blue water wondering how long I could stay here and how many different fish would come to greet me. Then I saw him, hiding behind a large log at the mouth of the river. Swimming like a great white shark, he looked as though he was the wisest bull trout of them all. It was like hearing the story of Casper the ghost, but then actually seeing him in your attic. Tying on my first random streamer I threw it as far up in the river as I could, and let it drift down. A small part of me believed I might have been able to hook him on my first go. Tying another, and another, none seemed to spark his interest. Lost in confusion, I got out of my packraft and slowly crept down the river bottom. Clay filled my toes and the freezing water numbed my legs. As I crept further down the river and more into the lake, the water rose over my waist and up to my chest. I threw my streamer up river and waited for it to swing down right in front of his nose, and then quickly stripped it back up stream. Almost immediately he hit it and ran deep down and as far as he could go. My reel zipped to its backing as I struggled to keep tension on the line and my head above water. My fly rod had never bent to such drastic lengths and I could feel my arm tense from the fight. In my heart I attempted to enjoy every second but wavered in fear of him breaking off. I reminded myself of the over pouring joy regardless of what was in my net but wondered if this was the moment I had been waiting for. Then I saw him. White outlined his fins as I noticed the pink spots that shimmered in the crystal clear water. As I scooped him into my wooden net I wondered if I was the first person he had ever seen, and for a moment my world flipped upside down. Staring into his thick black eyes, shaded with blue and enclosed with a hazel brown ring, I saw them shift to meet mine. I was mesmerized by one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen, yet it wasn't the fish, it was the story that I had somehow missed. Seeing the faint reflection of myself in his deep black eyes I wondered what he saw. A part of me would like to believe he felt I was worthy enough to experience him, and maybe he saw a young girl that had spent hot days and long nights chasing after him. A girl that would spend summer after summer foraging up river to untouched water where she might find him. She would spend her nights sleeping under the stars deep in the woods surrounded by what used to scare her, but now felt in place. Most evenings she would return with wet shoes and scratched legs, feeling vulnerable enough to lend herself to experience such a place. She would eventually learn that a piece of her belonged here, untouched and discovered only by her. As he peered back at me, maybe he saw the story of a girl who thought she was out to catch a fish, but found something entirely more. The story of a girl who loved such a place deeper, and stronger because she was willing to take all that it would give her. She spent her days looking for him, but ended up finding herself. 

As I felt his tail slide from my fingers I knew I could keep him only for a moment, and some part of me felt the same. Only here for a moment, and never meant to be kept. Maybe one day I would return much older, and he would recognize me, not by the wrinkles on my face, but the love in my heart. He could see the girl who ventured far into the woods that grew into a young woman who still elicits the spirit of her childhood. As I watched him swim away I knew in that moment this feeling couldn't be summed up to words, and this story was one to be held closest to me. Not as the story of a fish, but the story of a girl. 

Turning around I saw my fly line wrapped around each leg as if I had gone to war. I felt air come back into my lungs as if I hadn't been breathing. That day we would pack up camp, and soak in the sun as we paddled across the lake. The lake eventually would merge into a creek where we swam and I could feel the cold water run through my hair. Only a mile hike from the creek to the river, we pulled the packraft over our heads and attempted to make it. There is something about carrying a boat on your head that reminds you of high school, and ideas only your brother could think of. Staring at my feet and I yelled out hoping to not spook Mr. Griz as I knew he would probably express the same concern as my mom, had she seen us. Sliding down the side of the bank I recognized the rush of cold blue water and comfort poured over me. That evening we would float dodging big rocks and cliff walls. As I laid back and peered at the moving clouds, I could feel the rushing water underneath me. It glistened over rocks in a million different colors and I didn't care where it would take me. We would find another sandy shelf and set up camp. Fishing until I could no longer see my fly in the darkness I wandered back watching the last bit of sun fall behind the mountains. Leaning up against a log, whiskey burned my lips and the glow of the fire reflected off my face. The sound of the night reminded me it was my turn to sleep as I crawled into my sleeping bag passing the torch to the wild things that came out at night.

We would spend the next day floating out the rest of the river and making it back to the truck in the late evening yet again. After returning home I found myself even more appreciative and graced by places I had known all my life. Somehow, in some divine way, it seemed to balance every other part of me. I would return to work as a fly fishing guide and begin each morning asking myself how I could express this feeling in my heart. Maybe it goes unwritten, or maybe it's something that's hidden deep in the smile on our face. Either way, these places have become a part of us, and us a part of them. That bull trout is the story of a fish, and the story of a girl, and also the story of the people who loved them enough to protect them. It is the story of conservation.  

Going through pictures with my grandpa, he was far more interested in the story I would tell, maybe because he hates phones, or maybe it's because my story tells more than words. A man now in his late eighties marveling at the idea of his granddaughter catching far more fish than he ever did. It is the story that requires no words or understanding, only a heart that is willing to listen.