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Part of the allure of angling is the unexpected. We are offended by cheating in sports because it is an attempt to make sports predictable. At the same time, not all surprises are welcome. At streamside, I strung up my rod while watching a couple of bank feeders pick off drowned mayfly spinners. When the time came to make my first cast, I slid down the bank and broke my ankle. Instead of stalking big, wild trout in pristine surroundings, I lay in a bed of thistles trying to reach the ranch manager on my cell phone.
There are better unexpected outcomes, and the annoying first-love-while-angling stories are all too abundant, but they are unexpected and positive, at least at first, before the love object becomes devious or loco. As I reminisced about a lifetime of angling, my thoughts turned to the surprises. Here are a few. Early season is all impatience. You scrutinize the USGS streamflow data for your home fishery. At length, you think you know when it will be, barring unexpected heat or rain on snowfields.
Perhaps low country runoff is finished—a long wait: Montana is a snow-based ecosystem. You come to know the patterns of melt to which your passion is beholden, the ones where you live and the ones on rivers a hundred miles away. When big Western rivers blow out, experienced locals know by color which headwater is guilty and how long that color takes to clear.
But then it happens: the cliff-face runs gather familiar luminous green light. Golden Stones are just starting their clumsy flights, the Yellow Sallies vivid as they rise against the pale stone of the cliff. But the river is marginal, flying past. The redtails, our most companionable hawks, beseech one another in screeches and build nests. The ringing calls and drumming of northern flickers say that everything implied by summer at the 45th parallel is still ahead.
