Idaho

This past weekend I ran off to northern Idaho to join old friend Jake Gates for a bit of rainy-day spring fishing. Jake and I first met six years ago while working the season at Headhunters Fly Shop on Montana’s Missouri River. Mid-way through the season, Marley the stray Border Collie showed up, and she and Jake rather adopted each other, sleeping nights in Jake’s old Jeep at various fishing access points and days working around the shop. Over the years, we’ve all put a few miles on, but have found time to get together here and there to hit the water and catch up.

Here’s an excerpt from Chi Wulff when Marley first came around. I was writing a weekly series entitled “Dispatches from Craig” for the fishing blog, and it’s now an interesting diary of what was a whirlwind of a summer:

The undoubted highlight of the week has been the unexpected arrival of Marley the Border Collie. Marley showed up one morning, hanging around the shop and eventually crashing on the shop floor most of the day. Bearing no collar, it quickly became apparent she had wandered far from home or perhaps been left behind. We posted signs all over town and called contacts in the area, but no one seemed to know where she belonged.

As the days moved on, I showed up to work each day expecting someone to have come and claimed the perky dog. She remained, herding both the vacuum and the lawn mowers diligently, and seeming pretty content to watch as we washed boats and attack the hose whenever it stepped out of line.

One day I could not find her and eventually discovered her in the back of the building, hard at work guarding the two lawnmowers, making sure they didn’t start moving and ransack the shop.

Long story short, shop rat Jake has adopted Marley and she’s currently on a short road trip with him to Idaho visiting family.

So when Jake reached out a few weeks ago with the idea to meet up in Idaho and chase cutthroat, the answer was easy. And despite cold, rainy weather we fished hard, moving through the greenness of a new spring, talking about old times, dreaming about new adventures and—as tends to happen with certain people when on the river—discussing the serious points of life: philosophy, the “why’s” and the state of current events.

Marley remains more of a serious angler than most “fishermen” I know; she carefully watches the line, waiting for the tell-tale movement of a take, and continues to display an intensity on the river that rivals the most hardened angler. She has, however, finally learned what “fetch” is, happily bringing random sticks to play with; her amber eyes watching for the slightest inclination I might want to play her game.

Sitting around a damp, smoky fire, listening to the sound of the river echoing off the cliff behind our campsite, and Markey stalking around in the shadows, I reflected how incredible fishing is. Some of my best friends have been met in the strangest of circumstances; we’ve been united by a common love of the water and the fish that we spend our days chasing. It’s a funny thing when you think about it, but kind of beautiful in its strangeness.