27th Street

I was thinking today about some of the mad road trips I used to regularly take with my friend East Texas Red. It’s been a few years since we’ve done one of these together and as much as I loved every second of every one of them, I don’t know if I could still go about them the same way today.

Our goal was to drive out to the mountain west to do some fly fishing in places like Idaho, Montana, Wyoming and British Colombia. I should really say that our goal was to drive out to the mountain west in as short a time as we possibly could. One trip we made it to Cody Wyoming in something like 36 hours, spelling each other off on driving duties, stopping occasionally for breakfast or gas station rot-gut coffees.

The Shoshone River flows through Cody and it’s valley makes the town the gateway to the East entrance of Yellowstone Park. Once we arrived at Cody, we could start thinking about chasing trout. Of course by then we were disoriented from lack of sleep and really needed a solid 8 or 9 hours to recover.

Typically we drove west in September. Although there are always plenty of tourists in The Park, it seems to me it eases up some in September. Some years it snowed on us. I recall sitting at a picnic table eating dinner in a snowstorm, and waking the next day with plenty of snow on the tents. I like the cool sunny September days in the mountain west. Sometimes, though, the cold nights could be a little colder than I’d like.

We would fish in Yellowstone or on the Henry’s Fork or on the Silver Creek Preserve in Idaho. Sometimes we would fish smaller streams as well. The Tongue and the North Tongue in Wyoming were stunning places to be. East Texas Red and Ken will remember the afternoon that stream came alive with an emergence of “flav” mayflies.

Once we fished some very lovely smaller streams in the Bitterroot Valley that I particularly enjoyed. Our car broke down near Hamilton Montana. We had it towed to a garage and then visited the local fly shop. The proprietor called the car rental lady, who was closed, and arranged for us to get a car. And he pointed us to one of the prettiest little streams you could imagine. The only other thing I remember about Hamilton Montana was a sign that just read: Beef Trout Karaoke. I later made a large painting titled Beef Trout Karaoke.

Often we would meet up with our friend Ken in Idaho and he took us to quite a few places we never would otherwise have found. I recall “going for a float” on the Teton River. I was wading and I stepped on some gravel that disappeared underfoot. Good thing I had a wading belt over my chest waders. Otherwise my waders would have quickly filled up. I got plenty wet that day but but I was safe and regained my footing on the next gravel bar.

Then there was the day we drove deep into the woods in British Colombia, in grizzly country, and fished a river so colourful and beautiful it just about took my breath away. Was that a dream or does that river really exist?

The direct drive west was never so difficult because it was filled with anticipation of a couple weeks walking trout streams. The drive back on the other hand seemed to take forever, when all we had to look forward to was the end of our trip.

The mountain west is a fantastic place to visit. It’s been a while since I’ve been out there, and I have to say I’d love to walk some of those streams again. For me to do a road trip out there today though, I think I would want to take it at a much more relaxed pace, enjoying my time in places along the way, rather than roaring across the country as fast as I could. More likely, the next visit I make west, I think I’ll fly out and rent a car to get me around while I’m there.