Days 16-17: Fish and Birds in Missoula

After dropping Erin and the kids off at the Billings airport I began my westward trek back across Montana.  I chased the sun out of Billings through Bozeman and Butte until I finally arrived very late on the eastern side of Missoula.  Not wanting to spend much money on an accommodation for such a short sleep, I found an AirBNB host who allowed folks to sleep in their yard.  The cost was only $12.  Though my budget thanked me, my back would later rebel.  Our 2006 Dodge Grand Caravan is great for many things, sleeping is not one of them.  

After a spectacular breakfast at the Catalyst Cafe in downtown Missoula I headed over to the Kingfisher Fly Shop for some advice.  They affirmed what I'd assumed about fishing in May.  It wasn't the best time, however, off season in paradise is hard to complain about. Rock Creek was my best bet for success, if not for fish than for the scenery.  I bought a few flies and leaders then headed to the river.

Driving up the river I saw these guys.  Phone camera's are the best for zooming so you may have to squint to see these mountain goats.

I fished for several hours without much luck.  Just when I started to shift into, "well at least it's pretty out here" mode, I felt that familiar tug which keeps anglers everywhere returning to the river like grandmas to slot machines.  After a little fight I landed the nice bow below.  

 Feeling buoyed by my good fortune I continued fishing into the afternoon.  I felt particularly optimistic when I came upon a promising stretch of water.  Unfortunately, the San Juan worm with which I was having luck chose to get snagged on a log.  As it was my last fly of that pattern I wadded into retrieve it.  The water was too deep, so I shed my fleece and shirt to return to the water robed only in a tank-top and waders.  Looking like the 5th member of the Village people, I reached for the fly but it was jut a few inches out of reach...just a little more...Ahh! Fly fishermen have many rules, don't be late, cast 10-2 and never let the top of your waders go below the water line.  Man that water was cold.  Abandoning my fly retrieval quest I left the river and disrobed to my boxers.  Fortunately the only audience for this show were a couple of deer.  Unfortunately, while bending to pull off my waders, my back threw its version of tea overboard and rebelled against ambulation without mattressification.  The shooting pain caused me to crumple upon the shore where I lay, cold, wet and partially disrobed.  Somewhere in the middle of my plight I heard a familiar tap-tap-tap.  I began to follow the sound until my eyes were caught by a red flash.

From childhood I've had a fascination with woodpeckers.  This interest was mostly due to my grandmother's love for birds.  Usually the first of my siblings to rise in the morning, I had breakfast and her attention to myself.  After fixing me breakfast she would bring her coffee to the table where we would chat and watch the bird show.  Out her kitchen window were several feeders which brought dozens of birds to dine.  During these breakfast conversations I learned about Chickadees, Robins, Goldfinch, Cardinals, Bluejays and the abundantly frustrating Starlings.  Of all the birds my grandmother enjoyed it was the woodpeckers who seemed her favorite. Often, to her joy, we would  spot a Downy or Red Cockaded Woodpecker at one of her feeders.  These sightings led her to wax poetically about the rare times she'd witnessed one of the grand daddy's of woodpeckers, the Red Pileated woodpecker.  These creatures are larger, louder and rarer than most birds.  Hearing my Gran Gran's enthusiasm created a desire to see one of these creatures for myself.  We continued our breakfasts as well as walks until years later my grandmother passed away.  Though always looking, we never saw the elusive bird.  I mostly forgot about the creatures in the following decades until I heard that familiar tap-tap-tap.   Expecting to see a downy, a cockaded or other small variety I scanned the trees until the beautiful red-head hopped up on the log.  There he was less than forty feet away.

Though my camera failed to capture the beauty of this creature or even that it is a creature, I included the picture as evidence that this was not just another fishing (birding) tall tale.  I'll let you see the work of other photographers to see what these beautiful birds look like.

Wet, cold and half-naked with a throbbing back I pulled out a granola bar and laid down upon the rocks. For the next twenty minutes I sat with my late breakfast and once again enjoyed a wonderful bird show.