Niece Mattison's 19-incher!

June, ca 2018

I write these words alone again here in this mountain valley, missing kinfolk who come visiting these northern parts most recent. Brother Matthew and his young’un, Mattison, joined me this week past on a trail what led us to the banks of the Bitterroot River and also beyond, their presence here being a joy to my heart. 

We made camp along river’s edge at Otto’s Cabin, a rustic place that is to this day filled with the comfort and warmth of Otto Teller, the man who built it some years back. 

Otto's Cabin on the Bitterroot River.

Tho now passed, he was a man possessing a profound passion for these natural surroundings and the wild things living here and, I hear tell, quite the genuine and decent fellow. Local folk Brett and Sherrie Adolphson kindly board travelers here in the Bitterroot and did as such for us as proprietors of bitterrootcabins.com. Theys good people and ready always to accommodate the weary wanderer on this valley trail. The river was flowing fast and raged furious at the tributaries, creeks and streams what was bringing snowmelt to it from the high mountains. The crashing of water against stone and sod and fallen tree was ever present, yet also an ever pleasing song. We laid in supply for seven days coming and then spent leisurely hours in shaded sun and cool breeze the afternoon of our arrival.

Our days was then set with adventure as we trailed up toward the Twin Lakes, two confines of cold blue water besieged on every side by towering, powdery white peaks, and located some twenty mile into that wilderness. Tho having pushed some eighteen mile up, snow still present on the trail in them high places prevented reaching destination. Still, we was not one speck disappointed in the high meadows or forests of lush pines and the many whitetail spotted within. 


We then rid alternate track to mountain’s crest where one can gaze horizon to horizon across the Bitterroot wilderness what stretches from Montana to Idaho. It is a wonder to behold these delights the Great Creator has given as gifts to human eyes. 




The young’un, having not yet reached an understanding of her own mortality -- at least by this old man’s reckoning -- dangled toes out over mountain’s edge to procure a photograph of her visit.


Tho she was safe certain, it liked to kill me and her pa.







Next day there was fly fishing on the Bitterroot with long-time friend and masterful guide, Chris Pragnell. If any a man can find where those fat trout is holding in fast waters, it is Mr. P. After he went scouting river the day prior with a woman name of Jenny West, who is a friend and proprietor of Go West Outfitters and one of the finest fly fishers here in these parts, Mr. P. come and picked up kinfolk, father and daughter. Whilst I was left behind, I was content nonetheless to see niece Mattison leave off on her first ever attempt at presenting fly to fish. 

Guide Chris Pragnell, Go West Outfitters

Upon return late in the day, both father and uncle owned the purest pride (and perhaps some small envy, as well) at her landing of a beautiful 19-incher, along with a handful more of browns, bows and cuts. 


I reckon she is now firmly counted as a wader-wearing woman of the west.




That night company come to the cabin, Mr. P. and Madeline, and friend Bill, and we feasted on beefsteaks, homemade bread and corn fresh from a farm here in the valley. We built a campfire late in the evening along river’s shore and was kept warm by ample flame and abundant whiskey while an expanse of starry wonder spread out above us against the rich black of night sky. In a life of moments worthy of remembering, this was one most satisfyingly added on. 

Further on in the week, we dined at friends' table. Bill Feille and Lane Norman-Harris, of down Darby way, set before us good whiskey, gracious conversation, and a fine meal of pasta and sauce, Bill's homemade bread and Lane's own Huckleberry/Rhubarb pie. Were it not for thought of table manners and fearing loss of future invite, I'd a licked that dessert plate clean.

Of course, time, which seems to dawdle during the hard parts of living and pass hurriedly by the good, had us saying our fare-thee-wells all too soon.

Bitterroot Valley.

I have often pondered what draw these mountains have that binds me so close to them, and leaves me so distant from the people I am closest to. I suppose I will never know. But I am here, and somewheres deep inside family is here with me. As are these high Rocky Mountains and cold-water streams what fill my soul with intense pleasures at the mere looking upon them. 

I have not died today. And that is a fine thing. Yours truly…