And Underground Guest Essay: The Martin Luther King Day Road Trip

As further proof that the Underground’s friends are an odd and scary bunch, we offer up a guest essay/remembrance* of a Martin Luther King Day road trip courtesy [Name Redacted].

“Montana is not the most white state. It is the least black” – The Missoulian, January 20, 2008.

The apparent paradox is revealed once you recognize that Montana is home to the Assiniboine & Sioux Tribes of the Fort Peck Reservation; Northern Cheyenne Tribe; Crow Tribe and Gros Ventre & Assiniboine of the Fort Belknap Reservation; the Chippewa Cree of the Rocky Boy’s Reservation; the Confederated Salish and Kootenai Tribe of the Flathead Reservation, and the Blackfeet Tribe (who can boast their own reservation).

During the 2000 census only 2,692 Montanans identified themselves as Black or African American. Here in Missoula we like to think that demographics rather than racism explains why our state took until 1991 to recognize the third Monday of every January as Martin Luther King, Jr./Human Rights Day.

Could be.

Back in the 80′s, Terry Guptil – fellow federal employee and thus another MLK Day celebrant – Paul Redfern (who closes FishOn Fly and Tackle every Monday anyway) and I initiated the MLK Fishing Road Trip.

Late January in Montana is an icicle to the heart. If it weren’t for televised sports and alcohol no one would spend a winter in this state. And Butte, where the three of us lived, is always just about the coldest spot in Montana.

Those wintry Simms magazine spreads are aesthetically appealing, but that’s only because they don’t show the frozen snot. (It turns out metabolism applies to man and trout alike.)

Simply put, we didn’t go on the MLK Road Trip because January is a locals-only window to fabulous fishing.

We went just because other people couldn’t.

Here’s what I remember about one of our MLK Road Trips.

Gups always had the best vehicle and would always drive. His new Jeep Waggoner sported the first on-board thermometer that we’d ever seen. Nifty but disheartening as it reports temperatures in the mid-teens on way though Elk Park headed north to the Missouri.

Somewhere near Bernice Gups starts pointing out wildlife. His blue eyes discern more detail while driving at 70 miles an hour than most people can tease out of a “Where’s Wrong With This Picture?”

Comfortably riding shotgun you can’t help but concentrate your vision and be drawn into the game.

A proud “There’s a little buck, Terry!” elicits “Yeah, and a nice four-point behind that Doug fir.” A quick glance over your shoulder reveals a minuscule tan pixel an eighth-of-a-mile up the rapidly retreating hill slope; undoubtedly a four-point buck.

Terry spent some of his formative years in a small place on Wegner Creek below Craig, very near where we begin fishing. His time there helped him became lethally adept at spotting deer throughout the year in all their color phases.

He no longer hunts, but is blessed with those Terminator eyes.

Soon after we pile out of the wagon, wader-up (pre-neoprene), disperse and begin fishing I notice that the water seems especially cold, even considering the circumstances. The reason is soon revealed; a one-inch barb-wire slash in the left ankle of my Redball Flyweight waders.

The barely liquid waters of the Missouri have happily flowed up to mid-thigh.

At the time, it didn’t seem that uncomfortable; the water IS warmer than the air. Still, I retreat to the bank, slip off the waders and whine to Paul and Terry that it’s time to heat up the rig and move on.

Back in the wagon we feast on jerky and assorted cheesy, salty and sugary snacks provided by Terry. Included in the spread are the obligatory Werther’s Originals.

As always, these emanate from the “jockey box”, Montana Speak for what you might know as the glove compartment.

(We’re really not that far removed from the stage coach days out here.)

We wander down to Paul Updike’s Shop in Townsend. There I purchase an amber-colored, triangular piece of flame-actuated patching material.

In the breathable wader era these things have disappeared, replaced by Aqua-Seal. Not sure which leaky wader solution is the more carcinogenic, but the patch stick worked immediately!

We took a look-see trip down to the Missouri above Canyon Ferry. By now the day has turned warm and inviting, or was it my body core finally responding to the heat in the Jeep?

In any case, commonsense is abandoned as temperatures rise: “Hey, we’re close. They might be midging on Darlington. “

Darlington Spring Creek, nee Ditch, is a little tributary of the lower Madison.

Being as it was only 50 miles away (and I wasn’t driving), we set off.

Once there we discovered Darlington had been transformed from a cow-burnt pasture creek into a meandering series of linked sine waves. In plan view it resembles ribbon candy: a robotic version of trout habitat.

Up the ditch we found a farm bridge that was concentrating flows and fish. I forget precisely what we threw at them, but they ate. We may have even caught a few on top that I – in my newly patched, now-waterproof-again waders – enjoyed immensely.

Then again, I could be wrong about the dry fly detail. The mind plays tricks on long road trips.

Redfern’s memory is much better at details like that. For instance, he recollects we drove a 388 mile loop that MLK Day.

*All facts, snacks and mileages are purely the opinion of the author [Name Redacted] – and do not reflect the official policies, beliefs our outright fantasies of the Trout Underground.