By Tom Puchlerz, Montana Wildlife Federation Board Member
We all have special places in the sporting world where memories are made and friendships are cemented. My place is the Stump.
My closest friends know the Stump, some better than others, but all have made memories there. For some, it was seeing hordes of trout moving into the riffle, gorging on flies—from the lumbering skwalas and early drakes of spring to the minute tricos of summer. For others, it was getting a look from the wise old brown sipping mayflies under the branch on the far bank where only the finest cast and drag-free drift can get him to take. We all know the spot, just downstream from that light-colored rock by the clump of grass.
I fish the Stump often as it is part of my home water, just out the door and a pleasant wade upstream. The Killdeer are always there to greet me with their raucous call, and my friends, the Quail, speak to me from the tangles of willow under the towering pines and cottonwood.
I fish that stretch of river that holds the Stump every Father’s Day, and this year was no different than the many that have flowed by over the years. As I walked up the river, I thought of my friends that I had taken up to the Stump. Yes, there have been many great fish caught at the Stump, but it is the other things that I hold dear. It’s a friend’s first trout in Big Sky country. It’s the day you just couldn’t figure it out, and the walk home is one of wonder and appreciation for the quarry. It’s those earthy cigars shared with your friends on the bank across from the Stump as you talk about flies and fish, the wonderful place they call home, and how fortunate we are here on my home water.
My Father’s Day at the Stump this year was one that will be etched in my memory for the remainder of my time on the water. I arrived mid-afternoon with the sky as blue as blue can be, the mountains still holding on to the remnants of last winter’s storms, and the river as clear as the gin I will partake in at the end of the day with family and friends. The water was visually still as I approached the pool beneath the Stump, and the first indication of fish was the sounds, not the sight, of feeding fish.
This was not the subtle sip I often hear, but gorging, slurping, surging sounds coming from water less than knee-deep, just above the Stump. Once my visual senses kicked in, I could see rise after rise across the riffle. Delicate mayflies hidden amongst the snowy seeds of the cottonwood were on the menu for the trout that call the Stump home. Today would not be a day of precise presentation and the perfect imitation; it was one of getting the fly on the water and being hair-triggered for the take. And so, it was. The first take launched a heavy, broad-shouldered brown as long as my forearm into the air and onto my leader. I never touched him, but he touched my heart and will remain as another memory at the Stump. There was the beautifully colored brown with crimson spots and golden belly and the rainbows that lit up the already beautiful western sky.
I stopped after a handful of truly grand trout and watched my son-in-law, the father of my grandchildren, try his hand at making memories at the Stump on this glorious day for the fathers.
There are memories, and there are memories yet to be made with friends and family. I can hardly wait to introduce my grandchildren to the Stump and the special things that happen at such places. They might even catch a trout.
