Beaverhead River, Montana (and a hidden gem)

I fished the famous Beaverhead River on and off over two days. Fishing such an esteemed river offered a great deal of pleasure. This was after all Al Troth's stomping ground for much of his life. I did my best to honour him by catching a trout from its waters on his peerless Elk Hair Caddis. Sadly it wasn't to be. The trout of the Beaverhead are largely known to be reluctant to rise to dry flies.

I caught a modest return of five brown trout and two large whitefish. Four of the trout were caught in a twenty minute blitz.

The Beaverhead is a much smaller river than the Missouri and Madison, the two other 'big name' rivers I fished immediately prior to arriving at Dillon. I felt more at home the minute I first saw the river. There's also one of the friendliest fly shops I've been to, in Dillon, in Tim Tollet's Frontier Anglers. It's nice to have a friendly place to call in when you need to pick up some flies and obtain advice. Tim walked around barefoot the first time I visited, a lack of pretension which makes one feel completely at ease.

There isn't much room for both boats and wading fishermen though. At least on the Missouri (my first experience of a flotilla of boats drifting by when fishing) the river was big enough for the boats to give me a wide steer, which they are supposed to do by the established etiquette - the wading angler has right of way. You can cast across the Beaverhead in most places which means the boats pass right under your nose. It can be a bit distracting. Most of the guides quickly steer past, but one slowed to allow his clients to fish through the pool I was already fishing. I could have reached out and plucked the offending angler's bobber indicator right off the water, that's how close it passed by me. I thought it was a little rude. 

The river flows parallel to a major interstate highway, a secondary road and a freight train line. It was hard to find the much sought after 'escape' but this is only a minor gripe. Some of the best trout rivers in the world are next to busy roads. What such convenient road access does mean is that fishing numbers are high and a great deal were spin fishermen who seemed to have no qualm in jumping in the water just in front of me. I'd hear their pick up trucks skidding to a halt on the gravel beside the road, and see them jump out, clutching their blunt little rods already made up, charge down to the river's edge, and try hit the opposite bank with their shiny spinners. They all seemed to be in a hurry. Perhaps with more time I may have discovered quieter sections of the river but I didn't feel especially motivated to do so.

Many people speak highly of this river, indeed some have called it the greatest river in the West, so clearly one man's meat is another man's poison. Don't let me put you off trying it - you may love it.

I camped right beneath the dam wall - described as the start of the Beaverhead's best water

I have glossed over the Beaverhead in this report because I found something much better. I looked at my map and noticed two blue lines over a mountain ridge. They seemed to run longer on the page than the average metre wide willow-choked creek does. My fishing guidebook failed to mention them which I thought was pretty alluring. It could be a pretty hit or miss affair but I took a chance on them. 

The first creek was just big enough to fish but access was a problem and right near where I could have gained access from a bridge a moose sat in the shade of the willows. I don't know the first thing about moose except that they are very large animals. They could be timid and harmless for all I know but I wasn't about to find out if they are mean sons of bitches. So I pushed on, taking the gravel road over the mountains, through stunningly remote scenery, where I didn't see another car for three hours until the very moment I needed to pee. It wasn't necessary to park the car off the single track road so I stopped in the road. Result? Not one but two cars suddenly appeared out of nowhere, hooting, me trying to hurry and finish while they waited, with just a little embarrassment on my part.

There's a moose hidden under the willows if you look close enough

After three hours of enjoyable driving I came into the next valley at the river's headwaters and even where it is tiniest I knew I was onto a winner. The river had some size to it and looked thoroughly inviting, increasingly so as I drove down the valley. I parked where the river first met the road and within minutes, just as heavy grey clouds started to show and a distant thunder rumbled I caught a little rainbow.

I entered into private land where the river meandered through pastures and, always ensuring that I stayed within the high water line, caught a mix of rainbows and cutthroats at regular intervals. I had caught eight before the rain set in and thunder claps sounded above my head. I followed the river channel back to my car and drove down river through a gorge which looked equally inviting but for the storm. I was happy to call it a day and find a campsite when the rain lightened and the river emerged from the gorge into a meadow section of clear water flowing over lush weeds and fine gravel. I spied a rise from the car so I pulled up and watched the water for a while. Another rise, then another and another. I donned my rain coat and went fishing!

The start of the gorge section

This section of the river was a magical place. It was hemmed in by mountains and fields of wild yellow flowers and better yet there was no sign of another fisherman. I had the entire river to myself. A car would drive along the gravel road once an hour at most. As I began to catch a pleasing mix of rainbows, browns and cutthroats - all on dry fly and a match for the size of the trout I caught from the Beaverhead - I began to wonder why this place was left alone when the Beaverhead was pounded by everyone. The three hour drive to get there was me taking the long way round into the valley - the quick route is a short drive from the interstate, so access is not the problem. I eventually decided I didn't care why, that in this day and age of overfishing and the majority settling for what's served up to them on a plate there needs to be places like this - rewards for the few willing to take a gamble on the unknown and perhaps miss out on a guaranteed but crowded bet. The effect was intoxicating. I put this down as one of my best days of fishing ever. That's no small feat. My only regret is that my camera's battery died and I didn't get to take as many photos as I wanted.

Montana is full of little creeks such as this, mostly left alone while the crowds float and flog the banks of the famous names. I decided to make a concerted effort to find more of these hidden little gems.