A Creek in Montana

With all the high water about I've been hunting around for a small stream to fish. It hasn't been easy because Americans don't seem to share my idea of what a small stream is. I've been pointed to several 'creeks' and 'upper' rivers on the premise that they are small only to arrive and find them at least the size of the middle sections of the River Usk back home (a big river in my books). And high, turbulent and mostly discoloured from the run-off spates. But someone finally got it and sent me along a back road (the Pintler Veterans Memorial Scenic Highway from Drummond) to what is quite simply one of the prettiest little meadow streams I have ever fished. At times I was compelled to pause and marvel at the white-capped mountains in the distance and the lush yellow flowering meadows. It's hard not to be happy and carefree in a place like this.

Fishing Flint Creek would be incomplete without a stop at Philipsburg, a 19th century mining town laid out with colourful Victorian era buildings, and a fine fly fishing store.

Being a meadow stream in a flat basin of soft soil, the river snaked its way through many tight 'S' bends. I discovered that the leading edge of every meander had incised deeply beneath the grass banks, offering ideal habitat for the stream's resident brown trout. Brown trout just love undercuts don't they? A stonefly nymph cast right up against the bank had a good chance of being swallowed. Any more than 10 cm too far from the bank and it would be ignored. It called for precision casting and more than a few occasions of snagging grass and willow.

Brown trout generally hugged the margins or concealed themselves in undercuts while whitefish preferred the faster water and would also be taken from the head of the deeper pools where the current tumbled in. The fishing has been tough in Montana so far - I have drifted nymphs through perfect looking water with not so much as a nibble - but today was one of those days when I just knew that if I presented the stonefly nymph in a likely looking spot, then more often than not my heart would be set racing by the disappearing act of my indicator, followed by a jarring jolt in my rod. My final tally was something like eight brown trout and eleven whitefish and I lost many more. My fishing trip in Montana has finally come to life!

I even caught a little brook trout. When I first caught sight of it I grew excited, thinking it may have been my first bull trout, but the vermiculated patterning on its back and tail soon dispelled that notion.

To satisfy my craving for truly small stream fishing I spent the afternoon before right up in the headwaters of this river, at the Flint Creek Campground, where I could unleash my 7'6 3wt rod for the first time this trip. Here the stream flowed crystal clear, having recently emerged from Georgetown Lake, through a primeval looking forest where the trees were covered in moss, and the place had a feeling of perpetual dampness. This forest felt very different to the typical pine forests of Montana. I managed to tempt only one brown trout to take a nymph but it happened to be my first brown trout in America so it will be remembered forever.

My first American brown trout

The fishing is improving and with several weeks to go yet in America, that thought fills me with much excitement.

[With apologies for some of the poor photo quality in this post]