First-time Fly Fishing Adventure

I am standing in the middle of a stream. The sun is out and hot. The crystal-clear water cools me down as it gently flows around my legs. The fact that I can feel the chill through my thick, waterproof waders tells me just how cold it is.

I look upstream and spot my husband, framed by the snowcapped mountain range behind him. We are both sporting big grins. Today, we are checking off an item on our bucket list with our very own “A River Runs Through It” moment.

We are fly fishing outside the small town of Pray, Montana, on a private ranch. The ranch owners granted access to us (for a fee). Our private guide, Dan, looks every bit the part with his long, unkempt beard and unruly curly brown hair tucked under a well-worn, dirty sweat-stained cap. He is a true “mountain man” who fishes in the warmer months and hunts in the winter. We learn he is a transplant from the East Coast who came west, like many before him, looking for a simpler way of life surrounded by land and nature.

Our guide is methodical and patient, which is a good thing since it is our first time using a casting technique that is the exact opposite of how we’d both learned to fish. In fact, besides the goal of catching fish, everything is different between fly fishing and spin fishing. The poles are different, the set-up is different, the lines are different, and the item used to “lure” the fish into biting is different. We are newbies to using “flies” instead of bait.

Fly fishing is not as easy as it looks. Sure, once you are standing in the stream and gently, but purposely, casting your line, it is every bit the peaceful experience you’d expect. It’s the getting to that point that is challenging.

The day before our scheduled excursion, we visited Angler’s West Fly Fishing Outfitters in Emigrant, Montana, which is a couple miles away from Sage Lodge, where we were staying. This is the company the lodge staff recommends. Sitting on a bench in a small clearing at the back of the store, we are greeted by an employee who brings out our gear to try on.

The gear consists of waders and steel-toed boots. Waders are waterproof overalls that have built in wetsuit-like “socks.” You put them on by fitting your feet in the socks first and pulling up the pants and putting your arms through the shoulder straps. In standing position, you add a thick, fitted belt to your waist. Then, you sit on a bench to put on your boots. The boots, which look similar to work or hiking boots, are reinforced by steel on the bottom and throughout the toes. They are designed to protect your feet from rocks and other sharp objects, while also keeping the water out. They are heavy, awkward and hard to lift when taking a step. (I haven’t skied in years, but they reminded me a little of ski boots in the way they are snug and confining. We are perspiring as the staff member checks each of us for an appropriate fit.

My husband looks like a model for a flying-fishing ad, looking fit and ready for sport. I, however, feel like a person in a sumo wrestler “fat” suit cemented to the floor. The look is not flattering! What’s worse is the waders are really designed for men, so in order to get the pants, which are semi-fitted in the leg area, over my ample curves, we had to go up in size, making the top of the pants very large. Cinching the belt makes me look like pig-in-blanket.

My husband told me to get over my vanity and embrace the experience. (I eventually did but cringe every time I see the photos.) We paid for the rented waders and boots and were told to have them on when our guide picked us up. We were quite the pair walking through the hotel lobby on our way out to the guide’s truck. Every step without stumbling a small victory. (Turns out, we should have brought them with us and put them on just before entering the stream because the bulkiness and weight made it hard to climb in and out of the truck. Also, because we had to stand around while the guide selected just the right “fly” and prepared the rods.

The flies really are works of art – every size, shape and color. From one of the three colorful trays, I was disappointed he chose an unimpressive brown “fly” for each of us no bigger than a nat. He assures us that it was the right size for early spring when the fish are smaller and the water is colder. Like everything else on the adventure, we had to trust his expertise.

An hour later, after casting practice on dry land in the hot sun (it was 80 degrees that day), our guide slipped on his gear (which is what we should have done and will do if we do this again) and announces we are ready to go fishing. Since we will be fishing for the next three hours or more, my husband and I make a quick trip to the outhouse (no easy feat in our waders and boots) and then follow our guide along the bank of the stream while he looks for an easy entry point.

We are fishing in a stream rather than a river because at this time of year (May) the melting snow makes the river level too high and the current too swift for wading in. The stream is an offshoot from the Yellowstone River a few miles southeast. (We had our choice of a lake or a stream and chose the latter so we could wade into the water rather than fish from a boat or shore, which we had done many times before.)

We walk along a narrow dirt, overgrown path for what seems like a mile but, in reality, was probably the distance of a couple long city blocks. The path is about 20 feet above the stream, and it quickly became clear we would need to walk down the steep incline to access the stream. My husband and I both have bad knees, and (as we compared notes later) were worried we would fall and twist something before we even got in the water. (Remember, we are wearing “cement” boots which feel like anchors.)

Mike, our guide, finally selects a spot, and we make our way, with his assistance and a using the handle end of the fish net as a steadying device, down the slope and to the stream’s edge, where we begin to wade into the water. From the shore, it looks like a shallow, easy trek to the center of the stream, which is 3 or 4 feet deep. But no one warned us about the mossy rocks, which were slippery and moved, or the soft sand, which caused our boots to sink several inches, the mud acting like suction cups holding our feet in place when we tried to move. There was a learning curve to it, and we were slow to get to our spots: Kevin upstream, and me about 20 yards downstream with our guide moving back and forth between us to coach us in our casting.

Before we were assigned our separate casting spots, the guide did a test cast to show us how it is done in the water (versus our practice casting on dry land). As soon as his fly hit the water, he caught a trout. No one was more surprised than him! He swore that in two decades of his own fishing and as a guide that had never happened. We teased him that it was a plant to show us how easy it is. That did not turn out to be true since (spoiler alert) it was the only fish caught that day.

We were patient with ourselves the first hour, working on our casting skill motions and experimenting with the timing of how long to let the line drift downstream before recasting upstream. The most challenging part was un-learning the overhead cast, which involves casting the line from behind your back and thrusting the hook and bait a ways out (usually to deeper water), letting the line unspool.

Flyfish casting (also called “false casting”) involves lifting the pole straight up (to the midnight position on a clock) or straight sideways (at a 3 o’clock position) and then whipping the line forward, pointing the rod where you want it to land. If you don’t stop directly up or sideways when casting, thrusting the rod behind you, your string will float for a second in the air and land a few feet in front of you. The technique is also different from spin fishing in that you can let the fly drift a few yards and then repeat or you can constantly be doing the casting and recasting in one continuous looping motion. The goal is to fool the fish into biting just as the fly is above or lands on the water’s surface (like a real live fly would).

Once we got the hang of the motion, the casting becomes a rhythm, almost hypnotic. At times, it is easy to forget you’re there to catch fish. Standing in the middle of the stream provides an unique view of the water. You are part of the action and motion, like a rock or log firmly planted, while the water goes around you and through your legs like it would a natural barrier. The current is brisk and constant.

From our vantage points, we had a great view of where the water was coming from and where it was flowing to. Beyond the water sounds, we could hear the cows and other animals on the nearby ranch. Other than our own, no manmade sounds could be heard. Our constant soundtrack was that of nature and the scenery like something surreal off a movie set: green fields leading up to rock formations capped with snow. It was also a bird-lover’s dream. Our guide pointed out several different kinds of birds unique to the region, including various birds of prey. (They weren’t catching any fish either. Neither was the only other human we saw beyond our party of three: a rancher who went upstream with his pole to fish on his lunch break.)

At about the two-hour mark, we headed for shore to take a lunch break. We sat side by side on a small rustic bench, eating the sandwiches, chips, fruit, and soda the guide supplied, while swapping fish stories from more successful outings.

Once fortified, we entered the stream with renewed energy and hope, trying our luck in a different spot. Not long after, one of us (I’m not mentioning who to protect egos), ended up falling in the stream after a boot got stuck in the mud. The waders are waterproof until you fall shoulder deep and the water floods down into the pants. In May the water from the melting mountain snow is frigid. The fisher who fell might have warmed up enough to keep going, but a second fall (this time slipping on a rock) made it too cold and miserable to keep going.

We’d had enough anyway. Five hours of casting and wading with no success caused our motivation wane. Despite not catching anything, we were satisfied with our outing. We accomplished what we came for: we learned how to fly fish while standing in a stream at the base of a mountain range on a ranch in Montana. It doesn’t get much more river-runs-through-it than that!

At the end of our fly-fishing adventure, Mike dropped us back at our lodge where we had massage appointments scheduled at the spa that afternoon to work out our sore muscles (and slightly bruised egos) from our first foray into fly fishing.

We were elatedly exhausted and excited to check this item off our bucket list. We plan to go fly fishing again in the future, but most likely closer to home in a season when the water is warmer and from the shore.

Angler’s West Fly Fishing Outfitters

206 Railroad Lane

Emigrant, MT 59027

(406) 333-4401

https://www.montanaflyfishers.com

A variety of packages are available that include either float trips (boat), walk ‘n’ wade trips, and private water (stream or lake) like we did. Full days (7-8 hours) cost an average of $600 per (for 1-2 people) and half days for around $500. If you don’t have your own, fishing equipment is supplied but you will need to rent waders and boots for a fee. Additional costs include Montana fishing licenses for each person and permit fees if accessing private water. In the late spring/early summer season, there is also a 5-day river trip option for around $5,000 which includes camping and a night’s lodging.