The Time Of Their Lives

The iPhone lights up and twitches, reading, “Let’s float”. I reply, “Thought you’d never ask”. He texted, “See you shortly”.

A little over an hour later, the F250 crawls along the dike road toward us, as Taylor and Addy make their way to the tent site. It’s been awhile since we took the inaugural float from the Ranch and now it was high time to give it another go.

Lounging on the deck, while I picked Taylor’s brain for South Fork info, we noticed another white Ford 4X4 slowly rolling our way. I continued to mine his fertile mind for more G2, logging it for future reference, when two loud blasts sounded from the direction of the second truck. I thought, “What the hell”? Taylor mumbled, “Sounds like Tanner and Henry are having a little fun”.

The truck pulled up behind Taylors rig and Tanner climbs down from the bed of the truck toting a 20 gauge shot gun in one hand and the object of the two blasts in the other. Positioned across his open palm, lay a rather dead Mourning Dove. The season opened that day.

Addy and Lola scampered about in a frenzy at the scent of the lifeless specimen. Tanner beamed with pride and Henry scanned the Ranch for more birds. I told Tanner, “You look like a real Redneck packing that bird killer around”. He just grinned back with a faux deranged crossed eyed expression reminiscent of one of those characters in the “Deliverance” flick.

While Tanner continued to goon the Ozark look, Henry stepped forward and enjoined me with. “Hope you don’t mind if we hunt on your Ranch”? In reality he was asking for forgiveness, since they failed to ask permission. It’s tough to come down too hard on these boys. I recall something about, “He who is without sin…”

Henry backed his truck with boat and trailer into the launch site as Taylor flipped the lock latch on the winch, releasing the boat into the river. His Clacka was a beauty as the four of us, along with Lola and Addy, piled in for an afternoon float down the lower half of the ranch and beyond.

A few fish here and there, a couple of nice ones, too. Tanner continued to dominate, but this afternoon was laid back. It had more to do with just being there. It couldn’t have been a more perfect day. The banter was focused on subtle insults and jibes at first until Henry started in on Taylor’s first born. Taylor then volleyed back something about Henry’s cute wife, and then Tanner piled on about Henry’s girth. At each thrust we’d all let out snickers, at first, until things amped with all four of us howling as the jibes came near to drawing crimson. But just at the edge of no return, and like, young stags testing one another, they withdrew as the boat was engulfed in good natured brotherly laughter, knowing that their camaraderie and friendship was deep and abiding and enough was enough.

At that point things quickly took a turn toward probing the minds of their respective mates. The deep mysteries of women, the things they do and say and the ways in which they behave. All young and married for relatively short time, they had yet to even know what questions to ask, let alone how to ascertain the answers. Their whole life lay before them. They, still basking in that glow of young love, a couple of babies between them and young pretty wives beginning new lives full and expectant with hope and bright futures.

We rounded the bend and in the distance spied that structure which earlier held so much trepidation, as we approach the large check where the river split. On the maiden voyage, a month or so back, we nervously lined our way down the drop filling the X-13 partially full as it’s bow buried itself deep into the boiling water on the other side. What a rush as Tanner held the bowline taught while the skiff swung around at the tail end of the run. We cheered and pumped our fists into the air as it came to a rest against the boulders placed to hold the river bank from eroding during high water.

This time, Henry and I disembarked, scrambled up the steep river bank and hauled rods and a couple of bags to the other side, as Tanner rowed back into the current with Taylor at the bow. He pushed hard and fast toward the check with the idea that they could run it. Pushing against the oars, Tanner gained as much speed as his stout guns could muster. The bow crossed the drop and drove deep as water rushed in as Tanner simultaneously pulled in the oars through the locks so they didn’t catch the blades against the concrete and steel supports of the check. Henry’s Clacka beauty glided over and dropped into the foamy water below. They did it, safe and sound on the other side, no worse for wear, grinning all the way.

Below the check, the river narrows, trees overhang forming excellent habitat for skittish fish. A well placed cast deep beneath overhanging brush can produce numerous strikes and big fish. It’s becoming my experience that the larger fish inhabit the lower half of this section. Due to inaccessibility, this section is rarely fished. The fish are not well schooled in the ways of the fly fisher and therefore will strike patterns that have fallen out of favor on other waters within the region. While they remain mostly Yellowstone Cutthroat, and maintain the distinct characteristic of a leisurely take, once hooked, they act like a bow or a brown. In fact, as has been commented on previously, they are truly psychotic when being handled by humans. Just try holding eighteen inch cutty boated in this river for a photo op and see if you can get a clean shot. You’ll either be a better man than most or just lucky. These fish are insane.

The cutty released, Henry at the oars, things settled as we drifted through the cool shadows of taller trees and brush on the west bank. Rods lay against the inside of the gunnels. No one attempted to cast. I sat on the shelf on the bow with legs dangling through the knee locks looking through the three and on up stream. It was calm and cool, the talk was more subdued as they opened up to each other about guys stuff, occasionally revealing their concerns and I could sense a bit of undefined fear. It was as if for a brief moment in that quite water, they began to reveal concerns of  men who have recently taken on the tasks as providers for young wives and the innocents they helped bring into this world. The weight of it all resting heavy for that brief moment as these thoughts pierced the veil of boyish fun and adventure.

The take out was in site and the dance of the retrieval was about to begin as Henry began to work out the process of putting things away. I watched as he began to shift into his own unique process. It was his boat.

I thought a lot about that day. They came to be friends based upon mutual interest. Students first, ski buddies, then sealed together by that communal affection for rivers and the creatures that inhabit them. They bonded out of common passion for the bounty the area provided and they grew as men, young and coming to the end of one thing and the beginning of another. Their women, too, had forged friendships and a common bond like young women and mothers do. What they lacked or little understood was that they were about to see this time of their lives, living in this place full of adventure, discovery, accomplishment, brotherhood and friendship was about to reach its zenith. The winds of change were about to blow in their direction. Sure they'll keep in touch and always be pals, but they will look back at some distant time and realize that this was the time of their lives.

It was my distinct pleasure to be there that day.