I was 13 years old the first time I visited Montana. The whole family drove from Reno, Nevada to Butte, Montana for a wrestling tournament.

I remember crossing the Idaho/Montana border and watching the speedometer quickly rise above 100 mph as we drove I-15 between Lima and Dillon. My dad said, “There’s no speed limit in Montana and I’ve never hit 100." The newer Dodge pickup had no problem hitting the mark. Always the safe driver, dad eventually slowed down and we kept cruising. It was early summer and everything was green and beautiful.

I remember thinking “this is where I will eventually live" as we crossed the Divide exit on our way to Butte. I drove to that same exit from my Missoula home last week to fish the Big Hole. I guess some things in life do work out.

I had learned to fly fish the previous year and was obsessed (I still am). I would read every fly fishing magazine on the grocery shelf while still in the store. I even had a 4 am alarm clock set on weekends to watch the fishing shows. I’d start prodding my dad around 6 am to get out of bed and drop me off to fish the Truckee River on the outskirts of Reno. Fishing in Montana was only a dream until the Western Regionals were schedule for Butte that year.

The tournament went well but I was thinking about fishing every spare second, plotting a way to get out of the gym and on the water. I was standing matside and overheard Travis Johnson talking about how he caught a nice brown on the Big Hole. Travis is now a world champion spey caster and one of the best guides in the Northwest. His conversation fueled the fire and I started pushing my parents to get us outside. We stopped at a fly shop in Butte and the shop worker gave us the bad news that runoff was blowing out the rivers. I practically begged him to point us towards fishable water. He eventually broke down and shared a secret spot on the condition that we keep our mouths shut.

We drove to the creek which was running high but clear. I strapped on my old neoprene waders and went out chest high to make my rookie dry fly presentations to the far bank. Dad put on a nightcrawler with a weight and plunked it into a side channel. I looked back and he was tight to a nice brown. Overcome with excitement and jealousy, I jetted back to his position as he beached the fish. In all the books, magazines and tv shows, I couldn’t remember anything about releasing a fish safely. Dad wanted to eat it and I demanded we catch and release.

I was gifted a Leatherman for Christmas from my Grandparents and had the multi-tool attached to my hip at all times. I pulled it from the sheath and use the pliers to remove the hook. We pushed the trout back into the creek together and watched him swim away.

At 13 years old, I wasn’t paying attention to the road signs. 20 years later and I’m still trying to find that creek. The fly shop employee’s secret is safe for now.