A few times a year I get out and hike above the parking lot at Bear Trap Canyon for evening caddis hatches. Sometimes the fish are on. Sometimes there are few people. Those times are epic. I live in Ennis, Montana. It is a small town along one of the most productive trout streams in the world, the Madison River. I moved to Ennis after getting a job as a math teacher at Ennis High School. Late summer through spring I would teach and fly fish, and late spring through early summer I would just fly fish. A dream come true, most would say. However, it was just part of the dream I lived in Ennis, teaching and fishing. There were other things I liked to do, but few knew about these things, and those few were part of that dream.
This particular evening, I park at the Bear Trap Canyon trailhead. As I string my rod, I can't help but notice the clouds of caddis over the water and an occasional dimple of a rising trout. I also noticed two other rigs parked here. It isn't unusual for there to be up to a dozen rigs with 2-3 fisherpersons for each rig, so it could get busy. Two rigs mean more solace on the river.
I passed one guy who was making short casts against the bank to some rising fish. He misses one as I walk by, staying as far from the river as possible to not spoil his water. About 100 yards later I see another guy who is standing on the bank looking through his fly box.
"Hey," he says, nodding and smiling my way.
"Howdy," I return, my typical greeting to strangers when fishing.
"Could I bother you for a moment?" the fisherman asks, looking me in the eye for an extra beat and then down at the fly box in his hand.
"Sure." I knew what was coming.
"What's the best caddis pattern here in the evening? My family is staying overnight in Bozeman, and I wanted to get away once to do some fishing. A fly shop directed me here. They told me to use caddis,
but there's so many patterns." He smiles with a humility that is disarming. There is something else in addition to this that makes me want to help him out. He looks pretty good in his breathable waders.
"Well," I say, pulling out a fly box and opening it, "I like to use an X-caddis. It floats well. It's simple, and it catches fish." I pull a #14 tan X-caddis out and hold it out for him to see.
"Okay, I think I might have something like that." He is looking into his fly box again. I take the opportunity to look him over more closely. A nice looking, polite man all along with fly fishing on my favorite river. Who would have thought? Of course, nothing will come of it, but I am used to existing on fantasies--some of which strangely come true.
"Here," I say, handing him the X-caddis, "tie this on and work the bank. You may actually see some fish rising. Take your time on the set."
"Smiling at me with genuine joy, he says, "Wow, that's awesome. Thank you so much. My name is Brian."
"I'm Carl. Nice to meet you. Have fun." I always say have fun to fishermen I met while fishing. Having fun is what it's all about--not the catching. He keeps smiling at me as I turn and walk up the trail. I figure I can walk another 100 yards to be out of Brian's way. I notice that my cock is rock-hard as I start walking.
It takes a few minutes for it to soften up, but thinking about Brian's smile and him in those waders hardens me up again.
I must admit, it is difficult to concentrate on fishing at first, but after landing two respectable browns, my thoughts turn solely to fishing. I find a nice pod of browns and work them into the growing darkness. The high walls of the canyon make it even darker. It is getting difficult to match rises with where I think my fly is, so I decide to call it a night.
The cool, early summer evening makes for a pleasant stroll back to my rig. Brain is gone. Just as well. The other fisherman is gone as well. Most fisherman leave before it gets totally dark. As I get closer to the
trailhead, I once again think of Brian in those waders and picture him not wearing them. It gets me hard again. I figure I'll rub one out when I got home.
It is pretty dark when I get to the parking area, but I notice another rig--a small pickup--there along with mine. Wow, someone still out there fishing. I admire that. As I get closer, I hear what sounds like someone quietly sobbing. It is coming from the only other rig parked there. Curious, I slowly walk around toward the driver's side. The driver side door is open. The sound is coming from inside the truck. It now
sounds less like sobbing and more like moaning. That has me interested, so I move even farther so I can see inside the vehicle. Even though it is pretty dark, my eyes are accustomed and I can make out a bare left leg outside the open door and in the driver seat, wearing only a tee shirt, is a dude stroking himself for all it is worth.
He either hears me, sees me or senses me, but he stops suddenly and leans out to get a better look. "Who are you?" he asks, fear and little anger in his voice. It was then I recognized the voice. I recognize his
shape in the darkness. It is Brian. I am shocked.
"Sorry, dude," I thought I heard someone who needed help. Partially true, but mostly a lie.
