1/9/17: Accidental Yurting

With each celebrated bass we pull from the water, I step back toward this river. With every cast, she reminds me of how much we have saved and also, how much we have to lose.

In either self-fulfillment or self-prophecy, I do blow it. The steelhead runs me 100 yards across the river and then shakes my fly.

We pushed through the beargrass and blooming purple lupine to find the best, fishiest spot.  I gave her the top of the run because you only fish six months pregnant once or twice in your life.


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I’ve been working on finally collecting some of the stories from this summer and fall. It’s good to get ‘em down, bad because the fishing itch is coming back.

“I miss trouuuuuttt,” I wail as we sail up the Bitterroot Valley.

“But skiing, Emerald,” he replies.

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Winter in Montana can be like a punch in the face. Last week it dropped down into the negatives and even the local ski hill closed their lifts. As the temperatures climbed back into the weekend I promised myself to stay in town this weekend, relax, get some work done.

Then late on Friday night a longtime family friend texted, “Stateline Yurt? Tomorrow?”

It’s only Lost Trail, we reasoned.

Yurt trips are the river trips of the winter months. Friends, a warm fire, good food, gravity and water – just frozen water, that’s all.

It was worth the wintry drive.

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Loving (to hate) Winter,

EL

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