All morning Charlie insisted on standing up in the boat to fish. This wasn’t a problem except whenever I pulled to the bank. Then the Madison’s swift current shoved the boat sideways to bang the rocks, bringing things to an abrupt halt. So the drill was to somehow encourage Charlie to sit before the inevitable crash landing. Unfortunately, “Charlie, sit down!” did not elicit the same instant response from Charlie as it might, for example, from a well-trained bird dog. So, each time I pulled on the oars toward shore, I began a minor chant, “Charlie sit down. CHARLIE sit down. CHARLIE SIT down. CHARLIE, SIT DOWN, NOW!”
At the unavoidable crash, Charlie, blessed as he was with a low center of gravity, would lurch sideways, bounce upright, and somehow manage to stay in the boat despite repeated near misses. “Charlie, please, one of these times… like you know it’s just a matter of time, so c’mon man, help me out. If a guide has to rescue his client, it’s embarrassing as hell for both of us, not to mention you might bust your head. Heaven forbid, you might drown. Please, next time-”
“Say pretty please, with sugar.”
“Yeah, right.”
With apologies to Trick Pony, you know what happens next.
Charlie waited to do his swan dive until I pulled into a swift, deep spot at the base of steep cliffs, where I could not get out to save his butt. The rescue effort all had to happen from the boat, and hauling 250 pounds of floundering, half-drowned, severely panicked Charlie around with one hand, while trying to keep the boat off the rock wall with the other wasn’t exactly fun. Well, somehow, Charlie and the boat both survived though we never did recover his, “1000X Beaver brand spankin new custom white cowboy hat,” which was sucked under and is still going for all I know.
Another Madison River adventure started innocently enough. I had two young clients, from North Carolina, I think. From somewhere in the Deep South, anyway. “Hay Chuck, ya’ll evah feesh back east?” They used that sort of lingo. Anyway, neither had much experience. The youngest, in his early 20s, had never held a fly rod. “Sammy Boy, you wait here, while I get ol’ Abe Lincoln here going downstream,” I said. I must admit that I made up the nicknames. Anyway, Abe L caught on pretty quick, so I turned to help Sammy Boy, just in time to see him stagger to the bank and drop down on his knees, almost as if in prayer --Abe L saw it too. “Holy crap, something’s wrong with Samuel,” he said.
“Yep, sure appears so,” I said, since by now Sammy Boy lay stretched out, belly flat, face in the mud.
I ain’t much for sprinting anymore, but --not to brag-- I beat young Abe L to his stricken buddy’s side by at least two lengths.
We rolled him over and immediately his ashen color and the sweat pouring off his forehead, which I guess his crushed hat kept from becoming mud caked, struck me. This ain’t good. But just then, Abe L spied what later turned out to be the culprit, a #16 Beadhead Pheasant Tail stuck firmly in Sammy Boy’s left ear. “He dun stuck hisself, and fainted clean out,” said Abe L, sounding evening more incredulous than I felt.
“Yep, appears so.” Having pinched the barb myself prior to the sticking, I knew pulling it would be no great shakes, and proceeded to unceremoniously and quickly yank it, leaving not so much as a single drop of blood to mark its passing.
Subsequently, water splashed on his face brings Sammy Boy back, sort of, but not before drawing a crowd, one of which happened to be the outfitter I was guiding for that day. Poor Tom was in a panic, big time. “Anybody got a cell phone? Call in life support. Anybody know CPR? Any med techs in the crowd? Holy crap, Chuck, is he gonna make it?”
Please.
“Tom, back off buddy, just a hook in the ear, not a very big one at that, he’s coming around, no need for a helicopter. We’re cool.”
Too late. Already a Good Samaritan has taken off running to find cell service. This is Montana, after all, and cell service is rare at best.
“Abe, my man, how about running the cell phone guy down. Tell him to call off the posse. Tom, trust me please, we’re okay here.”
In the meantime, Sammy Boy, back from the dead, was at least sitting up, though he was still a touch gray around the gills, and --considering the cool morning-- sweating way too much. All in all, I guess you could say he was still not looking all that hot. Someone in the crowd produced orange juice and Snickers bar. Sammy Boy guzzled the OJ, took a bite of Snickers. Then he was out again, flat out on his back this time, for all intents and purposes dead to the world.
Now Tom was about to flip, but, lucky for us, an EMT arrived on the scene. He wasn't helicoptered in, but rather was a fellow guide who happened to be an EMT. He came in armed with a wet towel and ice and in no time has Sammy Boy sitting back up, still not looking so hot but at least coherent. Sort of.
We actually lost him a third time, but finally he came around for good. Getting back to the fishing Abraham put things in proper perspective, “Wah hail, Chuck, ol’ Samuel ain’t no worse for wear than my old coon hound, once she shed herself of a big old she coon that grabbed ahold her ear th' other night, no sir!”
Indeed.
Dedicated to fly fishing for anything in fins, Chuck is a
full time writer, photographer and Montana fly fishing guide--Beaverhead, Big Hole,
Ruby, Jefferson. etc. He is author of three books, Odyssey At Limestone Creek
(1999), On the
Fly Northern Rockies (2003), Flyfisher's Guide to Montana
(2005) contributor to the anthology Whitetail Tactics of the Pros.
He has published dozens of articles in a wide variety of national and regional magazines
and newspapers; he currently writes the Sagebrush News column for Big Sky Outdoor News
and Adventure. Chuck can be reached at crobb@bmt.net