Steve Wagner of Missoula, Montana casts for brown trout in one of this state's fabled trout streams.
Late August is prime time to fish hopper imitations, since grasshoppers are now a
main menu item for these fish.

Nevertheless, here I was, thigh deep in the Clark Fork River in west-central Montana, flailing a grasshopper imitation back and forth over my head.  The chill of the morning would soon give way to a hot day.  The mountains to the west provided a gorgeous backdrop to the valley.  The river water was cool; the air, calm.  Montana is truly a soul-lifting place for a sportsman in late August.

Contrasting my efforts, my host Steve Wagoner of Missoula waved his rod like a magician, shooting delicate casts to undercut banks and current seams.  While I fought with my casts, Steve waltzed with his.  Watching him fish was a treat even for my novice eye.

I was in Missoula to put finishing touches on the 2008 series of Ducks Unlimited TV, which I host.  The show's producer, Barrett Productions, is headquartered in this Montana town.  Each mid-summer I come here to tape show openings, closings and voiceovers - the parts that tie the action segments together.

Steve is a fellow outdoor writer and long-time friend, and we'd crossed paths back in June.  "When you come to Missoula this summer, why don't you add an extra day to your schedule, and I'll take you trout fishing?" he asked.

Should I tell him?  Taking me trout fishing would be tantamount to taking a St. Benard on a tour of a crystal factory.  I lumber and bump into things.  And again, my skill with a flyrod is - shall we say - lacking.  But anglers come from all over the world to fish Montana in August.  This is "A River Runs Through It" country.  What sportsman in his right mind would pass up this chance?  "Love to!" I responded with only a slight tinge of guilt.  And that's how I came to be on the Clark Fork.

We'd seen only a couple of fish rising as we'd hiked along the river and waded into the current.  I'd brought my own waders but was using one of Steve's fly rods.  "I caught several nice browns here last week on a hopper-dropper," he said (grasshopper fly with a nymph trailing on a yard-long leader).  His rod had this combo tied on.  Mine had only a hopper.

I'd had some experience with a fly rod back home fishing popping bugs for bream, so I had some vague idea how to cast.  After a few tips from Steve, I began hammering the rod back and forth, then flopping the hopper onto the water.  "Strip your excess line as the hopper floats back with the current," Steve coached.  "Mend your line to reduce drag so the fly floats the same speed as the current."

Just upstream from us a trout dimpled the surface.  "Cast just ahead of him and let the hopper float right over his head," Steve directed. 

Somehow I managed to do this, and as the fly passed over its head, the little brown trout inhaled it.  I lifted the rod and felt the line tighten.  The panic-stricken fish rocketed out of the water and tail walked across the surface.  Soon I led it into Steve's net.  This little brownie measured only 7 inches, but to me it was a whale!  I was a trout fisherman!

The next couple of hours were very slow.  Steve landed 3 more browns, but none over 10 inches.  I quickly fulfilled my neophyte status - knots in my leader, bugs tangled in bushes, clumsy wading.  I got only a couple of rises, but I had too much slack out to catch them.  Finally, Steve suggested, "Let's move," and we headed to another stream that will remain unnamed under his threat of execution if I divulge it.

This stream was red hot!  A large trout savaged my hopper on the first cast.  I missed.  As I waded upstream, several small trout attacked my fly.  I missed again, and again.  Finally I caught one, about 8 inches.  Now I was getting the hang of it.

Then we came to THE SPOT, where a riffle emptied into a deep pool with a shaded undercut bank.  This hole had trout written all over it.  "Cast to the base of the riffle as close to the bank as you can," Steve coached.

I made a decent cast, then I took one more step onto a sandbar at water's edge.

And I sunk up to my knees!  It was like quicksand, and I realized I was stuck.  I tried to lift a leg, to no avail.  Steve was right behind me and came to my rescue.  I turned to extend my left arm for help.  I held the fly rod in my right hand, pointed back over my shoulder.

Suddenly there was life on the end of my line, hard throbbing life!  "Steve, I've got a fish!" I blurted.  "It's a good one!"  I turned to play the trout, but all I could do was hold onto the rod and hope he stayed buttoned.

The trout ran up current, then he turned and rocketed back down.  He pulsed the end of my rod like a strong heartbeat.  The fight probably lasted no longer than a minute, but it seemed like an hour.  Finally I led the gleaming brown trout into Steve's net.  We measured it - 17 inches, took a quick picture, then released the fish back into the water.

I was still mired up in the sandbar.  I twisted around to Steve.  "How'd you like my technique?" I asked.

He pursed his lips and shook his head in disbelief.  Then he grabbed me by the elbow and hauled me out of the muck.

We went on to catch several more fish before heading back to Missoula, including a 16-incher that I caught legitimately with a good cast. 

On the ride home I was "feeling it".  "Maybe I should work more to develop that technique," I told Steve.  "It's my nonchalant approach.  You act disinterested, and the fish think they can snatch your fly and humiliate you.  But they don't know that I'm always ready, that my reaction time is like a lightning bolt and my instincts are as keen as a knife's edge.  I could start a whole new trend in trout fishing - sort of a ‘look the other way' movement.  What do you think?"

Steve didn't answer me.  He kept driving, looking straight down the road.

"What do you think?" I repeated.  "This could be something big."

"Yeah, big.  Really big," he mumbled as Missoula came into view.