Wise River, Montana

After a bitterly cold night camped beside the Big Hole River, I enquired in a fly fishing store if there was a motel nearby. The assistant said "It's not a typical motel, but you might try the Wise River Club. Otherwise, there isn't anything else nearby and you'd have to try Butte." I didn't want to travel 40 miles to Butte, so I made for Wise River, a collection of dwellings beside Highway 43, in the vicinity of the eponymous river. Small enough that if you were to blink, you'd miss it. Set right beside the road, the Wise River Club looked something like an old fashioned saloon bar straight from a Clint Eastwood western, with rooms above a bar. One of the rooms was available. I enjoyed a burger and a beer in the bar for dinner, before turning in and enjoying a very welcome and warm night's sleep.

The Wise River drains from the Pioneer Mountains in the south, and travels a length of 30 miles to become a major tributary of the Big Hole River. The following afternoon I fished it for a few hours beneath an almost cloudless sky. 

It was an engaging few hours as I ran through the species list of trout, just as I had on the Big Hole River itself. I was pleased to land a brown trout, as it was the one species which had eluded me when I fished the main river. The trout were caught with big salmonfly nymphs, dredged through the depths.

It was a relaxing afternoon, hidden in the trees, away from busy roads and other people. It was nice to fish a river without passing boat traffic too. My best fish was the last, a brown trout, coloured chrome-blue.

I was completely lost in my thoughts, but then I felt the presence of eyes on me. I hadn't seen another living thing (besides several fish) for a couple of hours and I quickly scanned the pine trees. As my eyes settled on a large shape in the shadows, I involuntarily swore from fright. An unusually large dog, almost white, stood stock still and stared at me with intensely dark, baleful eyes. We stood frozen in time for seconds, just staring at each other, and then the dog started to bark at me, deep sounds echoing from its enormous frame. I shouted something, fearing a charge, and the dog turned tail and ran off into the woods, when I let out a sigh of relief. I was done fishing and followed the river downstream and eventually came across the dog's owner. We chatted for a while and when I mentioned that I'd just split one of the sections of my rod he offered to fix it for me gratis. It was one of those chance meetings when you know the stars are aligned. 

I'd just met Zac Sexton, rod maker, part owner of Montana Rodsmiths, video maker and fly fishing guide. A couple of hours later I was at Zac's home in Butte, having a beer, talking long into the night about fly fishing, with a spot on his couch for the night. By then the dog, named Chetco, a Golden Retriever/Kuvasz cross, and I were on friendlier terms and in the depths of the night I woke to find Chetco snuggled up on the couch next to me, like we were old pals.