8. "Somewhere In The Middle of Montana"

Author's Note:
I found myself struggling with trying to complete the assignment along the stylistic lines called for. After more than a few discouraging attempts,  I just hit shuffle on my iPod and wrote the first idea I came across.

"I'm tired of this dirty old city.
Entirely too much work and never enough play.
And I'm tired of these dirty old sidewalks.
Think I'll walk off my steady job today.
 
Turn me loose, set me free, somewhere in the middle of Montana.
And gimme all I got comin' to me,
And keep your retirement and your so called social security.
Big City turn me loose and set me free.
 
Been working everyday since I was twenty.
Haven't got a thing to show for anything I've done.
There's folks who never work and they've got plenty.
Think it's time some guys like me had some fun." 

Big City by Merle Haggard

I didn't walk off my steady job. I just took a vacation. A wonderful week in the land where I was born, the middle of Montana. The Bitterroot Valley to be exact. I took my son to meet his Great-Grandmother for the first time, and get in a little fishing.

Western Montana is the place where I feel most liberated. There's something about how being engulfed by mountains brings me comfort. No dirty old sidewalks, just clear streams and fresh air. The waters are teaming with fish, and the air smells of rich pine. I'm in the stream with a fly rod, and feel completely set free.

With me on this day is my Grandmother. She's eighty-nine, I'm twenty-seven. We're just two people enjoying nature, separated by two generations and two different angling styles. I'm a fly fisherman, she a bait caster. It doesn't matter much, she's caught more fish than I'll ever dream.

We make such a startling contrast, it's hard to believe we're related. I'm wearing chest waders, a fly vest, and sunglasses. My Grandmother is clad in jeans, a red flannel shirt, and a straw hat. My rod is a fragile and expensive combination of space-aged fibers, her's is twenty dollars worth of the best fiberglass 1982 had to offer. I struggle to tie minuscule flies onto hair thin leaders with my gigantic paws. Grandmother loops #2 hooks onto her thick monofilament easily with her tired old hands. While I struggle to adopt new means to trick fish into my hand, she's perfected the way to land them on her dining room table.


We leave her fishing car, a 1979 Ford Courier pickup, on the road and walk down to the creek. It's late August and I'm hoping to take advantage of the abundance of grasshoppers to make my catch. This matter's not to Grandma, she's brought an old Hills Brother's can full of gigantic worms, nightcrawlers, she pulled from the ground at midnight last night.


I ask her where she's going to fish from, she tells me that she's going to watch me try first. I make my way out into the stream and start stripping line. I make a cast upstream and land the hopper pattern as near as I can to a rock. I watch as my fly drifts by without a fish taking an interest. I repeat this a few more times, still nothing. I look back at my grandma, she's smiling.


"Haven't got a thing to show for all that fancy gear, do you?" she jokes.


"Not yet Grandma, but I'm working on it," I say.


I move upstream, repeating the process. Finally, after what seems like forever, I hook into a six in Brook Trout. I bring it to my hand and look back smiling. All the while my Grandma has been watching me, not casting once. She looks at me, smiles and says, "You gonna turn him loose? It'd be a shame to keep a baby."


"Yeah," I say defeatedly. Then I pull the forceps from my vest, and gently remove the hook from the juvenile fish's mouth. Gently, I slid him back into the stream. In a flash, he's gone.


Even though this little fish was laughable, I feel fully content. I've got my fix for the day. I turn to Grandma and say, "Are you going to try today?"


"Yes, but I was just waiting for you to quit messing around."


She turns and starts walking back towards the road. I'm puzzled.


"Where are you going?" I ask.


"To catch a real fish," she replies.


I didn't know fish swam on the road Grandma. I get out of the stream and follow her. Instead of going towards the truck, she walks a few yards down the road to where it crosses the stream.


"You see that patch of brush?" she asks.


"Yeah."


"Pull them branches back."


I pull back the branches, and look down. There's a huge deep pool of blue water just below me.


"Thank you," the worm-fishing sage says as she drops her baited hook into the water. In an instant she has a bite.


This is why I hate fishing with her! I allow myself to joke.


"Do me a favor and pull him in for me."


I reach down and start working the line in by hand. When the fish comes to the surface, my disappointment at being out shined by a retiree on social security can't be any higher. I get the fish in my hand and look at the wise old lady.


"You want me to set him free?" I ask


"You know me Matthew. I came out here to get dinner."


With that, I set about cleaning a sixteen-inch Cut-throat Trout that my Grandmother has lured from the deep with psychic precision. As I pull out my knife and begin the process, I begin to realize a few things. I had just hoped to one day be able to out-fish her in her lifetime, but I know now that will never happen. A peaceful feeling sets in, and I'm thankful that I'm able to share this moment with her. I know this might be the last time we ever get to do this, and it means the world to me.


I finish washing the fish in the stream and place it into a Ziplock bag. I gather up our tackle, and change out of my waders. She watches with a big smile as I load all of our gear into the back of her ancient little brown truck. I walk over to help her into the cab and she hugs me and tells me she loves me.


As I climb in the truck I smile and laugh a little. The thought that crosses my mind makes me even more happy to be where I'm at. The only thing Grandma does better than catch fish is fry them!