Rock Creek – and its flying squadrons of stone flies – disappeared in the rear view mirror last Tuesday, and [name redacted] began the in-car briefing for what could happen at the Underground’s next Montana destination.
Georgetown Lake, Montana. Not a lonely place.
Because we found 27 boats bobbing on a single arm of the lake when we arrived, I’m going to assume Georgetown Lake isn’t exactly a secret either.
Why were we there?
In fairness, [name redacted] warned in advance it wasn’t exactly a pristine fishery.
In fact, he said we’d see a lake carpeted with other fishermen.
But when a fishing buddy says “we could hit the damsels, the callibaetis, and even the giant lake caddis – and maybe catch a 20†brook trout,†you tend to forget the parts about crowds.
Montana features a lot of sky. I’m calling it “Lotta Sky Country.” Catchy, eh?
After all, fly fishermen are largely about potential – reality runs a poor second in our fevered brains – and selective memory is a key part of the package.
Where was I?
Oh yeah. Back to Georgetown Lake, where the Stuart Mill arm opened the day we arrived.
Ignoring the hordes of other fly fishermen, we slid [name redacted]‘s little drift boat in the water, and… started catching trout.
A lot of trout.
My damsel-esque streamer made it exactly 1/3 of the way through my first retrieve before something grabbed it.
That something turned out to be your standard 12†rainbow trout, though fishing slowed dramatically after our fish fish; it took nearly 2/3 of the next cast to hook up with a nice 16†specimen that ran me all around the boat.
A Georgetown Lake rainbow (apparently one of many).
Crowds? What crowds?
I’d love to mold this report in words that highlighted my considerable skill at fly fishing, but in truth, of the 27 boats in the Stuart Mill arm, a good 1/8 of them seemed to be hooked up at any one time.
The fishing was good enough that [name redacted] and I started casting our attentions about in a search for bigger trout, and “stupid easy†was a phrase I later used to describe the fishing to the L&T. (Yeah, we had cell phone coverage, and yeah, I miss the L&T. What of it?)
[Name redacted] and I aren’t exactly body counters, and we can’t tell you how many trout we caught, though we can say one was a brookie, though instead of the fabled 20†brookie, he was a 12†fish who twisted off before we got the net under him.
I do know this (and I’m putting it in writing for the first time): it got a little boring.
A Georgetown Lake Callibaetis, courtesy’ someone’s shirt.
You may have read the short story about the fly fisherman who dies and finds himself on a beautiful stream where he catches big fish on every cast.
Eventually, he discovers he’s not in heaven, but in hell, and while nobody would confuse Georgetown Lake with the fiery pit, there is an element of truth to the idea that good fishing is good, great fishing is great, but too-much, too-easy fishing is neither.
Fortunately, the next day’s fishing was tougher, and the days after were tougher still.
We managed to catch plenty of trout – including a 17†Brookie and a fair number of similarly sized rainbows – doing all the usual lake things (speed-stripping a streamer seemed to always work, and the grabs were good, clean, vicious fun).
A 17″ brook trout — the Official Char of the Trout Underground.
Spicing the trip were the daily electrical storms, which lit up the Pintar Range like no fireworks display ever could, and a side trip down a culinary back alley where trip leader [name redacted] almost met his maker.
The prior day we’d rolled into nearby Anaconda for lunch, and made the mistake of ordering the “special†at a restaurant that I won’t name for fear of reprisals.
It sounded good on paper, though in truth, we’d have been better off if we’d eaten the paper instead of the sandwich.
That was bad, but it lead to what can only be described as a Huge Culinary Advance in the State of the Hot Dog.
The Slaw Dog’s Younger, More Dangerous Brother
My reader’s know of the Underground’s affection for the slaw dog – that heart-stopping collection of dog, bun, mustard, onions, chili and cole slaw.
Lacking almost all those ingredients – but craving the rich, tasty goodness of a slaw dog – [name redacted] and I hit upon a substitute.
In retrospect, it wasn’t the best decision we ever made, especially as [name redacted] foundered on a man-sized helping of our new creation, hovering for several hours in the twilight zone between life and death. Eventually, his gastronomical shock troops gained the upper hand and order was restored, but even a near visit from the Grim Reaper leaves its mark on you.
What could cause so much suffering? What simple lunch could push a human being to the brink, there to stare into the never-ending abyss?
Undergrounders, we introduce the Bacon-Wrapped Hot Dog:
The Bacon Wrapped Hot Dog – like nuclear weapons – should never have been developed.
It’s a harmless, friendly appearing snack, but like those fruity-smelling South American plants that lure you in, then bite your fingers off (I read about them in the checkout line), the Bacon-Wrapped Hot Dog looks gentle, but bites hard.
You’ve been warned.
The Fishing Stuff
This being a fly fishing blog and all, I suppose a quick (yet detailed) rundown of – you know – fly fishing gear is in order.
First, we caught trout at Georgetown on:
- Many different Damsel nymphs
- Many different Callibaetis nymphs
- Many different streamers
- A couple different dry flies
- Many different other assorted flies
Now that we’ve established the technical nature of the fishing, all that’s left is to comment on the gear, which included:
- Clear Camo sinking lines
- Floating lines
- Lines that were supposed to do either, but didn’t
The Underground’s rod preference ran to the Raine 8.5′ Hollowbuilt Quad prototype, though what turned out to be the real star of the show – the 9′ 6wt Orvis Zero Gravity fly rod I reviewed a long time ago.
Everyone who cast the Zero G loved its feel, responsiveness and ability to cover serious quantities of water (without assuming the identity of a broomstick), but derided the too-small grip (“I’ll buy it when they make it an adult model†quipped one).
In an age where you find people trying to fling streamers into the wind with 3wts, the oft-forgotten 6wt fly rod deserves a little overdue fly rod love (and some day, I may write that essay).
My word processor tells me I’ve gone beyond 1000 words, and anyway, [name redacted]‘s standing by the door, rod tubes in hand,
I haven’t yet written up our side-trip to a small tributary stream, where we caught three Westslope Cutthroat trout in the 14â€-16†class (astonishing size for the small river), but I will.
You’ll hear more as soon as I get back, which is looking like late Tuesday.
See you somewhere in Montana, Tom Chandler.
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