A Montana Journal, ca July, 2023

We left when there was still no shadows. Them Bitterroots was dark and spread out wide and weighty against western sky as we rid north through valley. Making way to the Hells Gate, old mister sun had by then found his way to preordained perch. Me and ol’ Black Tahoe, my trusted steed, was aiming this day to cross them high Rockies out of St. Regis and push over to the border, then deep into them Idaho panhandle territories. 


They’s a cold and comely river in them tall mountains, name of the St. Joe, that runs tight along trail for a hundred mile, leading to a small logging town called St. Maries. I had heard tell that river was holding plenty of Westslope Cutthroats and I planned to take me some with golden stone, yellow sally, adams, haze or prince. I had not traveled these territories afore, but as I knowed the Great Creator was present with me on this trail and present also where I was heading, I was not fearful of what be ahead. Riding easy so as to fill these wanderer’s eyes with all what was given of His masterworks, we left Montana at 6,000 foot high in them mountains and made way into the panhandle.


As time and trail took us deeper in, we come to rein up along shaded shoreline. For this soul anyways, they’s an unrelenting reverence what is part and parcel of stepping into strange water. Covered over by the Creator’s better beauty of towering trees, steep canyons, mountainsides rising to cloud, and smooth stone under foot and under clear, cold current, it is impossible not to pause and praise the One what made all this. Heading in to that river, we cast our flies for three hour and brung none of them cuts to net. Not a one. 


Maybe if I was better at this angling game or had more learning about the bugs them fish was feeding on, well, I suppose it still wouldn’t much matter. All said and done, we was fully content just having breath and place among these wonderous glories. And I would return another time to try my hand at these finicky fish (though this was not the precise language harshly leveled at them trout when fishing). So packing up, we traveled on over to St. Maries, drank whiskey, chatted with the barkeep, slept soundly at the local boarding house, and lit out for current homestead with the coming of early morning. 


And, gratefully, again this day, He is where I am. And on my last, by grace, He is already where I am going. I have not died today. And that is a fine thing. Yours truly…

 


 

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