Homesteaders...a Love Story

Taking the first right across from the Frostop on Highway 20 is a road that bisects a commercial district containing turn of the century buildings that include a hardware store, insurance company, flea market, Ott's Place, Mexican & pizza joints, auto repair and a senior center, that make up the central business district of Ashton.

An eclectic cluster of smallish log cabins painted yellow, reminiscent of the 1940’s auto courts that provided accommodations for travelers on their way to Yellowstone National Park, is situated on the left passing out of town.

The road beelines past the cemetery, where a tombstone rests with the full image of a 1957 Chevy etched into granite. A man in love with his car. But just up the road a bit, hidden in a tall stand of trees, rests the small white frame house built on a small homestead granted in the mid 1800’s to Miguel’s family. Miguel, a mortgage exec, is tall guy of Danish extraction, possessing high energy and always good for a bit of mischief. This small white frame house was the epicenter of our fly fishing world for nigh on to a couple of decades.

His grandfather came to the area to work in the saw mill on the Warm River section of the Henry’s Fork. Grandma cooked for the men working on crews laboring to provide lumber for the area during a time of robust settlement. Imagine a cute little thing reaching over the shoulder of these working men to place a bowl of potatoes in the middle of a table stretching the length of a long dining hall. She brushes the shoulder of young gramps as he turns to look up at this vision of loveliness, and at that moment, BOOM, lightning strikes. You can just imagine the look in grandfather’s eyes as he senses the light touch of this beautiful young girl. Soon after, they, along with their families, loaded on horseback and wagons, make their way on a week’s journey about 200 miles south to be married in the Logan Mormon Temple. Miguel’s mother was a product of that union and she, in turn brought four daughters and Miguel into the world.

The house, sitting on a couple of acres, is the only remnant of old sixty-acre homestead standing pretty much intact as originally constructed, served as the center of the universe, focal point and point of beginning from which all adventures and activities were launched. Can’t count the number of afternoons or evenings we’d pull in between pines towering on each side of the driveway to enter the portal to the Ashton house after a day’s fly fishing. It was warm, unpretentious, most comfortable and always a symbol of a simpler time.

Wet waders hung over wire clothes lines, boots lined up on the small concrete pad on the side of the screen door at the back of the house. Miguel would flip on the lights and the place lit up with a warm glow that always touched the heart in a different deeper place that evoked a sense of comfort and care. This place had seen much love in its storied history. One could guess that our times, there, added to that, a bit.

Sleeping in one of the two upstairs bedrooms, I’d hear the toilet flush, water from the shower head raining down against the bathroom wall above the bath and the clank and bong of clatter coming from the kitchen as Miguel did his morning thing. I, on the other hand, always considered fly fishing to be a gentlemen’s sport, and therefore a more leisurely pace was in order.

While overriding his innate need to get on with things, Miguel was typically patient and cheerful these mornings. True to form, he made a trip to the store for provisions, made his bed, cleaned the place, organized the pots and pans in the cupboards, chopped a cord of wood, hoed a few rows of beets in the garden, showered and blow dried his full head of hair before I came downstairs in my underwear squinting and scratching as I looked at this perfectly coiffed and dressed tall Danish lad who was more than ready get on with things. I later learned that my pace was less than OK with my good friend. I will always be grateful for his patience and forbearance.

Miguel and I had spent many a mile dashing from home to distant places in search for the perfect day of fly fishing, and we had many. Obsession, manic, possessed, deranged, single-minded, insatiable were a few adjectives used when describing the impulse to cast and fish and try to make peace with our respective worlds.

To illustrate, there was "that" fall beginning in late September “that” year.  We made the sojourn 300 miles each way to fish the Madison, Falls, Henry’s Fork or head up to the Park for a day and a half of fly fishing mania. One could say, a lot of guys do that. Well, we lapped the route 12 of 13 consecutive weekends, taking a break to be with our families for Christmas, then spent New Year’s day snowshoeing from the Raynolds Pass Bridge up the Madison past Slide Inn.

From time to time, an image of one of the thousands of impressions experienced then, nudges out the many thoughts of any given day, to rest for a small moment in my consciousness, leaving a profound sense of well being and satisfaction, and perhaps a bit of nostalgia. I think, at least for me, those experiences will always serve as a reminder of how one ought to embrace this mortality, full on, insatiable and with a bit of healthy obsession, as a buffer against complacency, disinterest, decay and the loss of le joie de vie.

Miguel, we'll always have Ashton...