It’s spring in Montana. Two weekends ago, I couldn’t get my car out of the driveway because of a blizzard that dumped close to two feet of snow in Missoula. Then, in a matter of days, warm temperatures melted most of the snow and bumped up local rivers to what the fishing guides call “chocolate milk.” Thankfully, the water started going down only a few days later, coinciding with a spate of days in the upper 50s.
When the weather gets a bit warm, the rivers around here start to beckon me, like they’re whispering my name. It hasn’t always been this way. When I first moved to Montana 10 years ago, I was mystified by the mania of fly-fishing and the way it drove my friends to wake up at 6 AM to hit a morning hatch...
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