A chilly morning in early October at the bequest of my pal, Al Lefor, I hauled two guest to Divide Bridge, empty for once because of the late date I remember saying, "Boy, you guys really no how to pick 'em, looks like we got the whole damn river to our ownselves." If they only knew...A few minutes later I backed down the ramp dropped the boat and...The friggin' truck would not start, indeed would not even turn over...Panicked--because I knew Al would leaving shortly for Butte on business and Roger was done for the season meant no one would be there to answer the phone, no one to come to the rescue and tow the truck off the ramp--I trotted to highway, the only possible place to get cell service and...no dice. So told the guests to go ahead and fish, meanwhile I would hitch a ride to the shop and catch Al before he left. (fat chance I thought but kept it to myself). As luck would have it a cement truck soon came by, stopped and wonder of wonders did catch Al in time. No problem, pull the truck across the parking lot, get it started, move it to the shop, hook trailer to Al's jeep...and go from there. Naturally this did not work so...To make a long story short we never did get the truck started or out the parking lot either, the engine seemed to somehow seized...And after making arrangements with a Dillon towing service we finally launched not at 8:30 as planned but shortly after 1 p.m. The guests of course were somewhat miffed but to their credit pouted way less than maybe I would have...
Last season, I met two guys at Al shop, picked out a bunch of flies, made arrangements for the shuttle and headed upriver to Squaw Creek (highest launch on the river, half hour or so from the shop). Not until I reached Squaw did I realize I'd placed the fly box and outfitter tags on rear bumper and...Hang in their boys I'll be back afore ya know it...Sure I'd find them beside the highway I drove slow the last 10 miles or so...No but surely will be waiting in the shop the act of a good samaritan...No, some bastard heisted 'em only probably a hundred bucks or so worth a flies...Damn and double damn....An hour and a half or so later we finally launched and to say the guests were not happy campers would be an understatement...fact is hardly spoke a word until well after lunch...some guys you know just ain't got much sense a humor. Anyway this one turned out OK seems Al's neighbor found the box and tags, but had to run an errand first before turning them in at the shop...Tip was kinda light I thought even considering but...who knows maybe...well as I say who knows....
Twice or was it three times? in one season I forgot to put the truck key in the secret spot and could not get hold of George Goody on the cell phone to make other shuttle arrangements...nothing like after a long hot day on the river getting to take out and no truck, eh?
Another time I drove guests all the way from Dillon to Wise River, only about 50 miles, mind you, and, Yikes fellas, you will not believe this but I plumb forgot the outfitter tags...Probably best we leave the ensuing conversation to your imagination...Right.
I'm not naive enough to even think many guests over the years have not cussed me in private or under their breath but only one ever threw down his rod in disgust and yelled (quite loudly I might add), "You sonofabitch, if you put on the right fly I'd catch those fish!" Right. The guest in question had been flailing away at a string of trout sipping spent trico spinners for the better part of an hour and not one, not one cast mind, had come even close to the sort of proper drag free, on the money, cast needed to git er done. I, meanwhile, had done my diplomatic best to cajole the bastard to give it up as a bad job and move on but no...he insisted my several fly choices were to blame and thus the blow up...Pissed, instinctively (I guess) I grabbed the rod, false cast for distance and...considering state of mind and all, laid out what had to be the luckiest cast ever, the fly dropped perfectly, a foot or so above the target, surrounded by naturals floated down and disappeared...A few moments later I scooped up one very fat brown...nifty as hell doesn't begin to describe the feeling but the best thing was the silence suddenly engulfed the river...you...could...have...heard... the...goddamn... proverbial...pin...loud...and...clear...Really. By the way, should you have doubts as to this reporter's veracity, just ask Al...over and out...PS the brookie has nothing whatsoever to do with this rant, more a feel good thing...
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